Mary Monoky speaks
Writer • Speaker • Exploring the Long Middle
The Wizard of Memphis
A professional leadership training classroom in the 1990s, a confident young female manager standing to ask a question among a room of seated corporate trainees, the founder of a major company turning toward her from the front of the room, subtle tension in the air, realistic business setting, natural lighting, expressions of anticipation and uncertainty, cinematic but believable, emphasis on power, confidence, and the moment certainty begins to crack.
COMPASS POINTSMEANING AFTER LIFE CHANGESTHE LONG MIDDLEWHAT HAPPENDED?
Mary Monoky
5/30/20262 min read
The Wizard of Memphis
The Wizard of Memphis
When I became an Operations Manager at FedEx, I felt like I had won the lottery.
I didn't have a college degree.
I had earned my way there through years of work, training programs, leadership assessments, interviews, and milestones that many employees never attempted.
FedEx believed that if you were willing to do the work, you could grow into leadership.
I did the work.
And when I was finally promoted, I was proud.
Proud of the title.
Proud of the accomplishment.
Proud to have a seat at the table.
A few months later, I was sent to Memphis for leadership training.
To me, Memphis wasn't just headquarters.
It was the center of the universe.
FedEx had a process for everything.
A manual thick enough to stop a door.
Policies.
Procedures.
Systems.
Answers.
I loved that.
I liked knowing there was a right way to do things.
I liked structure.
I liked certainty.
And at the center of all of it stood Fred Smith.
Founder.
CEO.
The man who built the company.
The man whose ideas had created the system I admired.
The wizard behind the curtain.
When word spread that Fred would be visiting our training class, the room buzzed with excitement.
Other managers encouraged me to ask him a question.
A real question.
One they were facing back home.
Union organizing efforts were increasing in some districts.
People wanted guidance.
People wanted answers.
I wanted answers.
So when Fred opened the floor to questions, I raised my hand.
I stood.
Six feet tall.
Six foot two in heels.
Confident.
Proud.
Certain.
I asked the question.
Fred turned toward me.
And he answered.
Or at least, he spoke.
The words came.
The explanation came.
But the answer I was looking for never arrived.
His response felt broad.
Careful.
Political.
Not the clear guidance I expected.
Not the practical answer I had hoped to carry home.
Fred started to move on.
And before I had time to think better of it, I heard myself speak.
"Yes, sir, I understand."
He nodded.
Then I added:
"But you didn't really answer my question."
The room disappeared.
Not literally.
But that's how it felt.
One second I was standing in a classroom.
The next, I was standing alone with the founder of FedEx.
Fred stopped.
Turned.
And walked back toward me.
I remember leaning back slightly.
Not intentionally.
Just instinctively.
He seemed larger.
I seemed smaller.
The weight of the room shifted.
Then he answered again.
At length.
Forcefully.
Thoroughly.
I listened.
I nodded.
I thanked him.
And eventually the session ended.
But that isn't the part I remember most.
What I remember is what happened afterward.
For years, I had believed that every important question had an answer.
If I worked hard enough.
If I studied hard enough.
If I found the right person.
The answer would be there.
That day, I met the person I thought had all the answers.
And for the first time, I left wondering what happened when there wasn't one.
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Writing about identity, uncertainty, emotional endurance, and learning to live inside changed realities.