What We Do

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve gotten to the point where I almost dread when someone outside of the industry asks what I do for a living. I actually hesitate now and try to gauge the level of comprehension I’m dealing with and usually come out with something like, “I manage conventions.” Once in a while you catch a break and someone dials into the complexity of our jobs and you’re able to have a pretty good conversation without questions like, “So…do you get to go to a lot of fun places?” or comments like, “I wish I had a job like yours.”

Let’s be honest. Even our families don’t really understand. My mother-in-law didn’t have a clue what I did; still doesn’t; but she’s been proud of me ever since the one time I comped her valet parking. My father never did get it. I bet he asked me twenty times exactly what it was I did. He finally gave up on that and started just trying to remember which company I worked for…with mixed results. He never came right out and said it, but I think he secretly hung his hat on the fact that I’d never been convicted of a felony and wasn’t presently serving time. That was enough for him.

It didn’t always used to be this way; before I figured out most people wouldn’t understand, I’d blurt out with pride, “I’m a Convention Manager!” One such occurrence, many years ago, happened when the family gathered for my Grandmother’s funeral. Mom proudly announced to her three brothers, Uncle Sonny, Uncle Timmy, and Uncle White Shoes that I worked at a large and somewhat famous hotel.

Please permit me a digression to explain about the man known only to me as Uncle White Shoes. This ex-used car salesman had worn nothing but white shoes since sometime in the sixties when he was an aspiring nightclub singer. My brother and I once asked our cousin Beth if Uncle ever wore anything but white shoes. She embarrassingly replied, “No”. We pondered this for a minute and then my brother inquired, “What does he mow the lawn in?” She averted her eyes and stated, “Old white shoes.” To this day, I swear I can’t recall his given name.

Well, when Mom proudly stated that I worked at the famous hotel, these erstwhile, blue collar champions were on me like a tick on a hound dog. Uncle Sonny started with the obligatory, “What do you do there?”

“I’m a Convention Manager”

This didn’t trip any breakers which I think upset them a little. It bothered them enough that they stopped carping about the terms of the will and forced one of them, I think it was Uncle Timmy, to ask, “What the hell is that?”

“Well, I act as the liaison between an organization and the hotel to ensure that their event happens as they envision it. I plan and oversee the actualization of conventions at the hotel.”

I’m not sure if it was “liaison” or “actualization”, but something I said sent them chasing down a rabbit hole. Uncle Sonny asked with a mixture of scorn and smugness that reminds me now of a Congressman questioning the Big Three Automakers , “So you have a desk job, huh?”

A little explanation here; Uncle Sonny was a factory worker in Massachusetts and had more than a little anger stored up inside against anyone who sat behind a desk and told people what to do.

Sensing his animosity, I quickly replied, “Well, I work at a desk some of the time, but I spend most of my time on the floor when a group is in-house.”

This caused another round of suspicious stares. The smell of fried chicken drifted through from the kitchen where my aggressive and hungry family members congregated, and I felt for the first time the feeling that would return over and over again in the years to come whenever someone asked me what it was that I did. I was also more than a little hungry and realized if I didn’t wrap this conversation up pretty quick there wouldn’t be anything left of the chicken but wingtips.

Unfortunately, Uncles Three smelled something funny about my career choice and decided they needed to know more.

White Shoes chimed in insightfully with, “I don’t get it.”

I frowned at my Mom for getting this line of conversation started, even though I realized it was simply pride on her part that prompted it. I prayed for a distraction. My prayer was answered when Aunt Catherine got some kind of chicken juju stuck in her windpipe and started coughing uncontrollably. In the rush to attend to her, and as Uncle Sonny pounded on her back with way too much enthusiasm, I faded into the buffet.

As I left the kitchen with my plate piled high, I heard my Mom say, “I don’t care what you guys say. He has a good job.”

Uncle Timmy asked, “Well…what does he do?”

My Mom replied, “I’m not sure.”

I’ve long given up worrying whether or not anyone in my family understands what I do, much less strangers I meet on a plane. It’s enough that I understand it. Hopefully, that’ll happen before too long.