Experiences of an (Actually) Awkward Atheist.

(That's me on the left, creeping.)

26 February 2010

It’s Think Week at Oxford: a collection of events – talks, writing workshops, stand-up routines – centering around atheism, skepticism and humanism. How cool is that? In regards to religion, England aligns with me much more than America. I like any country that puts Charles Darwin on their money. There are still areas in the States in which the teaching of evolution is still a debate; in England you see his face every time you buy groceries.

Unfortunately, Think Week coincides with my busiest week. I have so much reading and writing to do that any free time I have must be spent working. So, tonight – Friday night – is the only night I get to go to any of the events.

The first is a lecture on the subject “Public Perceptions of Atheism,” a potentially fascinating topic. In the last few years, with the popularity of books by Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, atheism has been discussed much more than it was when I was growing up, which is a great thing: the idea has become more normal, more pronounced. But with its newfound exposure comes a litany of stereotypes and misconceptions. The media – mindful of the faithful – tend to depict them as bullying old men and treat them as almost a novelty, as if they’d written books about a conspiracy theory. And women are completely underrepresented in regards to atheism. I know women that are atheists. Plenty, in fact.

Anyway, it’s a fertile subject. The lecture, however, is not as interesting as I’d hoped. The woman (see!) giving the talk is young and smart – no question – and she runs a wonderful organization called Camp Quest UK, which is an off-shoot of an American organization that is, to quote the website, “the first residential summer camp for the children of atheists, agnostics, humanists, freethinkers and all those who embrace a naturalistic rather than supernatural world view.” She is, by all accounts, an awesome woman.

But she barely covers any of the issues she brings up, which, to be fair, are the exact ones I just mentioned two paragraphs ago, so it’s not as if she doesn’t mention those issues. It is a short, un-thorough talk, during which she constantly checks her notes in order to not say very much.

Next, I head to a bar called Copa to see a comedian named Iszi Lawrence. Her act was advertised under the title “Experiences of an Awkward Atheist,” but awkward she is anything but. With messy, dyed-white hair and a fucking cool (no other word, sorry) outfit, she holds herself very assuredly on stage, handling the silences and the missed jokes like a pro. Not that there are too many of those, but a good test of someone’s stage presence is their ability to tolerate a miss. Iszi passes.

Oh and she’s also funny. Did I mention that?

We talk afterwards, and she’s charming. She obviously practiced at conversation from having performed all around and talking to people at her shows. She’s the kind of person who will never let the interaction get awkward, a trait I often find in performers.  I mention this because this demeanor, when detected, often makes it difficult to tell whether or not the person views you in a way that is particular to you. Is she interested in what I’m saying, or is she just tolerating me? Or, more probably, is she viewing me in a way that isn’t rapt or bored, but as just another nice person who liked her act?

Do not take this as a criticism of Iszi. It is about my neurosis. You see, eventually, these questions are answered in my head in a negative way. I think to myself: Oh, so who do you think you are? A charming, good-looking comedian, who does a lot of shows and meets a lot of people, in all probability, does not take too much notice of me. Now, this doesn’t make me feel shitty or anything; I do not base that very legitimate fact that she meets a ton of people as a means to feel bad about myself. That would be dramatic.

She and some people involved in Think Week head to another bar. After I finish my beer, Tim –one of my roommates – and Mark – a guy we met at the bar – head out to follow them. When we arrive at the bar Iszi had mentioned, we find it closed, with Iszi nowhere to be found.

So I separate and go to a club alone.

* * *

The club is called the Bridge. There isn’t a very long line, but I am kept outside because I don’t have a girl with me.

“We’re only taking mixed groups right now,” the bouncer says to me.

“Okay.”

So I stand there with one other guy as many groups are allowed in ahead of us. The guy in front of me is eventually joined by a friend, who convinces him to leave. Now I am the only standing there being kept out.

Then, suddenly, after a huge group plows past me, I realize now that I am the only person in line. There is not a single other person standing with me. At this point, it can’t even be accurately called a line. One person is not a fucking line. It is exclusion.

I stand defiantly in line for ten minutes by myself before the bouncers let me in on pity. The image of me standing there is probably pathetic. Not only am I alone and outside, but I’m pretty underdressed. I did not intended to go to a club tonight; it was a drunken caprice that began with the stimulation of Iszi.

Finally, I get in, but now I am in a low mood, as the prolonged humiliation of the line didn’t exactly give me a confidence boost before entering the club. Also, the delay (and the sadness) sobered me a bit. I therefore get a shot and a beer as soon as I get inside.

The Bridge has three floors. Ostensibly, each floor has a different theme. This claim is dubious. I imagine that this was true at one point, but that eventually the various themes merged into one.

Standing in the club, I realize that I’m not cut out for this kind of thing. I think about my first night in London, about an incident that I forgot to report in my first blog. I can’t believe I didn’t; it was a very prescient moment for me.

So, after all the logistics with my flight over here (which, you’ll recall, was diverted to Scotland where we stayed the night in a hotel, and then I stayed a night in London because we got in so late), Adam and I went to a bar. After I’m sufficiently inebriated, I start ruminating on this trip. I think, I’m going to be different in England. I’m going to use this time as a way to get over my insecurities. I’m going to start approaching women in bars and clubs, risk getting rejected, as I’ll never make friends in England otherwise.

I look around and see a beautiful girl sitting alone at a table. I take a deep breath, make sure no one is watching, and walk over to her.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask.

She looks me up and down and says, “No."

As I walk back to our table, I think, Nope. I’m not going to be different. I’ll probably be the same as I’ve always been.

I do not have a strong will.

Now, standing in the Bridge, I again become certain that I will probably be the same as I’ve always been.

I order another beer and wonder whether or not I should just go home. A girl approaches the bar next to me and orders a drink. While she waits, she glances over at me, which, in England, is a lot more significant than in America. I lean over and say “Hello,” but she doesn’t hear me. So, I’m about to repeat myself when the bartender comes back with her drink, and she pays and walks away.

By this point, it’s late and I’m tired. And when you’re alone in club and not dancing, there is nowhere for you to stand without seeming weird and nowhere to sit that doesn’t take up more space than necessary (like a table or booth). It emphasizes my loneliness. 

So I finish my beer and leave. As I do, the bouncer from earlier gives me a look that says, “Yeah, I know how it goes. Sorry.”

I go home and sleep, as alone in my bed as we are in the universe.