Last night I went to the
826 Chicago Open House. I'm volunteering there as soon as they get their programs up and running, which should be soon. It's pretty exciting, actually. I'll get the opportunity to run workshops with kids, help out with events, and sell spy supplies at the Boring Store. And it's something I can actually feel good about spending time and energy on, as opposed to the soul-vaporizing life-hammer that is my day job. Dave Eggers was actually supposed to be there last night, but as projections for the birth of his child were off (it's due any minute, apparently), he couldn't attend. They brought in
This American Life host Ira Glass instead, which is one reason among many that I had a horribly awkward, introverted experience last night. I don't usually like to do this kind of post, but here goes . . .
Really, the awkwardness is all my fault. 826CHI Directors Mara and Leah did a very nice job, transforming what was basically a concrete box into a bonafide (albeit rough-around-the-edges) workspace over the course of four days. New floors, painted walls, furniture, the whole deal. And there was plenty of beer, wine, champagne, and delightful cheeses and vegetables.
Now that I think about it, I don't know exactly what I was expecting. I had to rush to get home from work, change clothes, and hop on the trusty Western Bus in order to make it there on time. (I have this obsession with being on time or early to events that hinge on the laxity of their start times - concerts, open houses, parties, etc. It brings me no end of pain.) On the way there, I realized that it probably would have been appropriate to bring a friend. "I'll be fine," I figured. As soon as I walked up to the facade of the Boring Store (still covered over in butcher paper), I realized I probably would not be fine. I peeked in and somebody waved me over to a table, slapped a name tag on me, and shuttled me into what will eventually be the tutoring area of the space. There, a group of twenty-thirty-something hipsters milled about, picking at various 826 anthologies, reading the announcements to upcoming events . . . and talking to each other.
So here's the weird thing about 826: yes, it's a non-profit, and yes, it's staffed almost entirely by unpaid volunteers. But it's a fucking wasp's nest for hipsters. As
Jessica pointed out to me, 826 is a charity, but you sometimes get the feeling that it doesn't quite count. This is purely because of its association with
McSweeney's, and on one level it's totally irrational. It does everything good charities do: it doesn't make money, it helps to remedy a social quandry (the decline or stagnation of great - not good - reading and writing skills and enthusiasm about literature), and it does all of this with complete sincerity, not even the slightest hint of cynicism, at least that I can detect. On another level, though, it's utterly true. Looking around the room, the hipster to non-hipster ratio was at least 5-to-1 (staggering, even in Wicker Park). And they all looked like nice people, but you can't help feeling that they're there because McSweeney's is cool, and it's not like those lame, gritty charities where you have to deal with hungry, desperate people. Basically, sometimes it can feel like this is all for those absurd and oh-so-chimeric Scene Points. I can say, sort of embarassingly, that the hipness (
declining or not) of McSweeney's played a role in my decision. That said, I am genuinely excited about working with kids who want to read and write.
So this problem is echoing in my head, even as I'm standing there in my tight jeans, my tight black sweater, and my black Asics (which are just tight enough). I wandered in, said hello to Mara, who I interviewed with last weekend, and then realized that I would have to actually
do something. I poured some wine, perused some literature, and flitted my eyes around, realizing that every single other person was smart enough to bring somebody else. Anybody I saw standing alone was soon joined by a friend who had arrived a little late. So I sat and kind of waited, staring at the side of someone's head who looked familiar. His nametag read "Ira" and then the big, horn-rimmed glasses and good jeans locked into place.
That was when things started to go kind of bad, internally. I got tired of sitting awkwardly, and decided to mill, which soon deteriorated into a slight, stationary swaying. The whole time I couldn't quite decide if it was more awkward to sway near the wall or away from it. On the one hand, I didn't want to feel like a wallflower at a middle school dance, standing, waiting to be asked to put my hands on the hips of some Lolita and couple my swaying to hers (all at arm's length, of course). On the other hand, being stationary and awkward closer to the middle of the room seems almost like an exhibitionist gesture, like I'm trying to force you to confront my awkwardness, which only compounds said awkwardness to the point of an aggressive meta-awkwardness. That just does not seem like a good way to make friends. (Which [making friends] is
another non-charitable, although benign, reason I decided to volunteer with 826.)
And the whole time Ira Glass is like a black hole. Towards the end of my first glass of wine, I wondered if I should just go up to him and say something like, "I don't know you, but you know me. Check the name tag. You rejected my internship application, dude." Then I mulled that line over in my head and tried to think of a way to articulate it so as to seem funny and ballsy, rather than creepy and angry. I decided there was no such way, and dropped it. A line like that would probably reassure him that rejecting my lovingly crafted, eloquent, and expansive application was the best possible call. And, I realized, he probably doesn't even see the applications that get rejection letters without an interview. (I'll thank the HR department I work in for making that abundantly clear.) This is when I realized that, if I reapply, I'm writing about this night. And, Ira Glass, I remember what you were wearing.
So I milled some more, deciding that swaying made me look either drunk or like I was humming a spiritual to myself, which is not a good way to celebrate Yom Kippur. At some point I briefly talked to somebody else who showed up alone, but he ran into the people who had interviewed with him, and started chatting with them. This was fine, as we didn't have anything in particular to talk about, and we were mostly talking, I believe, so that other people would know that we were no completely incapable of social exchange, and would then perhaps, these more outgoing, more attractive, witty people would, consider us as interesting, viable conversation partners. We were basically using each other to maneuver more deftly through the mini-socio-ecosystem that develops at functions like these, like animals that wear the scent of the pack as identification. Without it, you're cast out to mercy of the Veldt. It worked for him, not me, and I remained unscented and packless, scavenging what tidbits of conversation I could.
I had nothing to do but think about my situation, my enthusiasm for the entire affair having evaporated upon impact. I looked at the other partnerless volunteers dotting the walls, thinking about what social maladies they bore that disabled them from having a conversation, and realized that I had no desire to talk to any of them. Because there must be a reason they're here alone, I figured. And therein lies the paradox: all of us alone, thinking about how we don't want to, or can't, start a conversation with somebody else because that person must be awkward, or a bad conversationalist, or mean. So we go it alone, our own aloneness solidified by our misrecognition of another's aloneness as something alien to ours. Which it must be, necessarily, but it differs only in its particulars, in its shades and hues; not in its effects or, once you stop thinking about it, in how it looks, acts, in its half-smile.
After that last thought crossed my mind, I decided to leave. It was too contextless for me to get a foothold, and I could either try to unstick myself from my own headspace, or start waiting for the Damen Bus, which was bound to take a while. So I left. I'll probably never have to do that again, which is good. I'm still looking forward to the whole 826 thing, to working with the kids, to actually getting to meet people in a context that isn't completely overwhelming.
There. I promise I won't write something like that again unless it's really good. As a reward for making it through that indulgence, here's this piece of awesome:
I know it's old, but it never ceases to brighten my day.
Walruses are so stupid. Everybody always talks about how ugly manatees are, but seriously, walruses look even worse. I would hunt them if I could; not for their skin and oil, mind you. Just to make the world a more aesthetically pleasing place. Because when the aliens come, they're not going to speak our language, they're not going to know about our environment. All they're going to see is "pretty" and "not pretty." All the uglies of the planet earth will see is the business end of high powered organic vaporizer.
