Thought Leaders

I love the New Yorker cartoon depicting a man crawling through a desert, parched, shirtless, looking ahead at what may be his answer, his oasis, his salvation: four well-dressed people, one woman and three men wearing hats, one of whom is smoking a pipe — behind a table draped with a white tablecloth. Looking up, parched yet hopeful, the desperate man utters: “Thank God! “A panel of experts!”

I love conversation and conferences of colleagues, but I get all Mark Twain when asked to be on a panel as a “thought leader,” usually an opportunity to provide a unique perspective on the field of education and international development or, increasingly, how to keep an NGO alive in brooding economic times, ready for questions about sustainability, transparent accounting (especially in light of the Greg Mortenson scandals with the Central Asia Institute and his apparent disregard of paperwork), and business acumen.

Then, of course, the panel is followed by the Q&A session, often truncated because of lack of time due either in large part because the moderator is too meek to cut someone off and has to use the excuse, “Well, that was so fascinating we don’t have much time for questions,” or the simple reality that Q&A is the necessary evil designed to give the appearance of interactivity and openness, but often an irritation for the moderator or an annoyance for the panelists who might be caught off-guard, though if they have been doing this long enough, their answers are glib and rehearsed enough to dodge the bullet.

It is more often the case that the audience is as well educated and experienced as we, the panelists, and have themselves dashed through airports to make their own connecting flight or fumbled with the lapel microphone.

Yet I’ll admit that not that all questions are perspicacious or sincerely inquisitive. Some town hall settings set up microphones in the aisle, can often devolve into speeches disguised as questions, very Hugo Chavez, often intended to impress the audience as much as to curry favor or challenge the thought or the leader. Those tend to be my favorite because the social dynamics are often more fascinating than the hidden question itself. The speaker beating his or her wings wildly and furiously, but somehow failing to get lift; the audience squirming, the moderator leaning forward — straining to catch the runaway train of thought.

At one thought leader panel about current challenges of long-term development in light of flash social networks and sudden change, we perched ourselves on stools under piercing halogens giving us all a kind of marionette look. The questions were reasonable and, in many cases, insightful, and I was surprised at how crisp they were. It was going well. There we were, having given our individual presentations representing our unique perspectives: higher education, United Nations, business, the think-tank, and the local and international NGO. One additional panelist from the State Department displayed an impressive command of the facts and challenges in his field work and, in my opinion, showed great humility and grace as he navigated the issues of perception. He was quite well aware of who he was and whom he represented and I found myself intrigued by points of view I had not considered.

It didn’t matter. This was, after all, a panel in a large, Ivy League university hall where “critical thinking” is often synonymous with an axe to grind. “This question is directed to Mr. X.” The speaker paused for dramatic effect. “How can you sleep at night?” The answer came quickly, a version of Colin Powell’s answer to a similar inquiry: “Like a baby. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and scream.”

The method of using index cards for questions, gathered by attentive interns stationed at the ends of each row, is always hit or miss, but I like the suspense. In this format, the audience enjoys the democracy of voice without exposure, fair enough, though still subject to the whim of the moderator who, depending upon mood, could go obnoxious or innocuous.The moderator frantically shuffles and censors the cards, then groups and prioritizes them. The roles change. The moderator moves from key-grip and camera operator to director, and the stakes get a bit higher, especially as this portion of the session is the last and, therefore, memorable, usually concluded by a rehearsed statement subject to last-minute change.

Conferences

Let’s put aside, for a moment, that many of us travel far and wide to attend face-to-face conferences about digital and distance education. The apparent contradiction, however, falls flat because we learn more when we see each other and eat together, but it is worth mentioning anyway.

But these conferences are, indeed, technology and bandwidth dependent, and rather than discuss the message (“We can reach more people with technology; technology must be easier to use; teachers have no time; we must utilize new, innovative 21st century technicals that allow young people to compete or participate in a global economy; transparency is essential for governments; we must collaborate and create more effectively and share our resources; copyright law should be upended; here’s a new mobile-phone tool or well-funded initiative that has worked wonders in Tanzania”), I would rather discuss the medium.

First, format. Big hotel or conference center. Affable people behind tables with shoe-boxes labeled A-F, G-L, M-R, S-Z. The canvas bag including program, thumb-drive from the sponsor, and a few discount coupons for the exhibitors. We check the spelling, then fumble with our name-tags, especially the reverse, non-intuitive clip-on ones with plastic slip-covers. We’re all savvy enough to remember to slip our meal ticket behind the name-tag.

We file into the hall and settle into comfortable chairs. IMAX-sized double screens flanking the stage scroll through the list of corporate sponsors. We stuff our laptop and shopping bags under our chairs so that no one trips sidling through. We introduce ourselves to our neighbors and exchange cards, surprised that we happen to be sitting next to each other, and promising to speak more at the break.

Conference organizers welcome us and thank the corporate sponsors and legions of volunteers, then acknowledge our jet-lag.

Such conferences usually begin with a short film or cultural celebration. I prefer to discuss the latter. 97% are indigenous dance performances in native costume, intended to distinguish the country’s rich cultural traditions. Most include drumming. Two groups enter from each side of the stage, shadows against the screens. It is as if the country were frozen in time by some missionary field worker enamored at communication that does not require a written language.

No one explains the dance or if it still exists. The dancers themselves may be deeply connected to its origins (as is my father, who is an international folk-dance teacher and immersed himself in dance as deep cultural connector). Or they’re simply graduate students needing to make tuition. It is as if the dance is one nationally represented story, yet I can’t help but contrast the performance itself — often a beautiful communal movement — with the diverse, contradictory, gritty, and non air-conditioned life outside the hall, the traffic jams and honking horns or gleaming skyscrapers or animals and tin roofs. Either scenario does not include drums or colorful beads.

The keynote speaker is introduced by a dignitary reading from a prepared bio citing awards and publications, along with special attention to a seminal event or achievement around which the speaker has played a catalytic, evangelical role. Software pioneers are especially popular, these days, their spectacular TED-like slides. I am partial, however, to one speaker, whose only slide was a noose, in which he talked about new enslavements, self-enslavements, and the colonial side of global liberation movements. In that presentation, I left inspired, paralyzed, motivated, and devastated.

I reflected then, and today, about what I am doing that is real news or simply a new noose, and it has become a lens through which I think about what I read and experience. When I think of the world’s challenges affecting education: 75–120 million kids out of school, 250,000 child soldiers, 2 million children caught in emergencies, 40 million children living in fragile states, and the issue of 33 million refugees, I have to ask myself if my attempts address fundamental questions or exacerbate crisis. One may begin such an endeavor with a full heart, but it can easily become a faint heart if you’re really looking carefully.

Most keynotes don’t strike that deep. They usually eschew technology for its own sake, yet depend upon the Powerpoint, the remote-control slide advancer, a good microphone and mood-lighting. I wonder how the form of a conference might change if electricity were not allowed, not so much to mirror any actual conditions, but more to challenge organizers to create intimacy at scale.

We stream out into the foyer for coffee and cookies. Some find friends or gather with groups. Others wander aimlessly or fire up their Blackberrys. I tend to take the escalator upstairs and swing by the break-out rooms to gather up the handouts before the hordes come or go outside and look for the guy selling pirated DVDs. They’re always good for a laugh, especially the ones filmed by hand-held camera from someone whose microphone also picks up side conversation or a fellow moviegoer with a bad cold.

I have been the panelist and the keynote speaker. Believe me, I worry about this all the time.