A colleague and I recently stopped at a restaurant in Minneapolis for breakfast. As we sat down, an older Midwestern blonde woman approached us with a big smile and two hot cups of coffee. With a wink, she said: “I always like mine piping hot.” In those very first moments, she established herself as our co-conspirator. It felt like we were in her kitchen, rather than a diner. With that opening salvo, she established the terms for the rest of our interactions: By comparing our experiences, she temporarily equalized server and patron, reminding us that we were all just playing (temporary) roles. 

She understood what artful gatherers know: the first five minutes of a gathering — the opening — are an opportunity to shape the rest of the experience. 

Here are five elements of an artful opening.

When I first moved to New York, I would take the Q train from Brooklyn to West 57th Street to attend dance classes at a studio in the theater district. Most of the students were literally training to be on Broadway, and I often felt intimidated. I couldn’t keep up and students didn’t seem to talk to each other. But Robert’s class was different. 

At the beginning of the first class, Robert stepped into the front of the room with a huge smile on his face and started making a pot-stirring motion. “I want you to think of my class like a family barbecue,” he said. “I grew up with family barbecues, and the secret to a good barbeque is the marination. You got to marinate and marinate and marinate.” He moved his hips and arms in a circle as if marinating a massive pot, and invited us to do the same. People started grinning, moving their hips in a circle, mirroring him. “Each of you is going to be a really important part of this family barbecue.” This wasn’t a dance class. This was a barbecue. And we were all integral parts of the marinating. 

In less than three minutes, he shifted our understanding of what the class was. The “family barbecue” gave us an authentic metaphor to inhabit, permission to acknowledge each other, and set a completely different tone for the next 57 minutes of our time together.

An organization hosted a two-day, 80-person conference to discuss solutions for unhoused people in their city. The new Executive Director stood up in front of everybody, and opened the first day like this: 

“I am here today because of you all. More than 15 years ago, when I experienced homelessness, it was X nonprofit who first took me in, and Y agency whose incredible programs helped me get back on my feet.” (He pointed out each of these organizations in the room as he spoke.) “Over the years, A and B groups consistently checked in on me (points out more people) and formed trusting relationships with my family over the last 12 years. It's because of the coordination in this room that I not only no longer experience homelessness, but I'm the new executive director of this organization. Thank you. And welcome.”  

Within five minutes, he honored the different players in the room, explained their relevance, and showed how institutions – who can sometimes feel like they’re at odds with one another – all play important (if different) roles within an ecosystem of shared values.

When you enter G&W Bavarian Style Sausage Company in St. Louis, you’re greeted by a cooler of free Busch beer and a sign to grab one while you wait. The line often winds out the door, as people squeeze into the small, beloved shop to make their summer BBQ selections. The free beer shows that the staff are thinking about you — even inviting you into their proverbial living room — while you stand in line. And the cooler of Busch (not the fancy craft stuff!) matches their unpretentious vibe. The butcher understands that even a line can be a gathering.

I recently attended a "friend-raiser" for a pal who's starting a nonprofit to make it more accessible for diverse voices to sing on Broadway. As I walked into the room, there was a black felt board with white plastic letters: WRITE YOUR NAME AND FIRST BROADWAY MUSICAL with name tags and pens on the side.

Through this simple move, he created a threshold moment: he gave us a moment to reflect, oriented us to why we were there, and provided a conversational doorknob to everyone else in the room.

A chief of staff I know at a democracy organization, Jamila Headley, would start and end the weekly all-staff Zoom by playing a song. Every week, she’d spend time thinking about the track choice for the week. It was an important and intentional part of the experience to her. When the meeting fell on the wake of the Atlanta shootings that put a spotlight on the pervasiveness of AAPI hate and violence, she started the staff call by playing "Somos Asiáticos/We Are Asians" by Chris Iijima, Nobuko Miyamoto, and “Charlie” Chin. In the song, the Asian-American folk band sing in Spanish: "We speak the same language because we struggle for the same cause. The language of liberty, lyrics of love, songs of the struggle, music of the people…" In three minutes and 15 seconds, Jamila created an opening that acknowledged the moment, embodied the complexity of what it means to be American, and reminded the 110 people on that call why they do what they do.  

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To be sure, a gathering with a strong opening can still go off the rails. But here’s the thing about openings: They matter because they change your guests’ future behavior.

As always, our gatherings are invented. We literally make them up. And the way we shape these very first moments affects all the next moments, too.

As always, 
Priya