What if, after fumbling the first few lines of the inauguration oath, Justice Roberts or President Obama had blurted, "Awk-wuuuurd!" Surely, an already uncomfortable situation would be rendered far more embarrassing for the nation and it would have humiliated both of them. Given that the pronouncement of "awkward" almost always intensifies the discomfort in an interaction, why does our generation remain addicted to this term?
I suspected at a young age that this would subside after puberty. I thought for sure it would be abandoned after high school. But here we are as young adults and the term continues to spread like an epidemic. In fact, I would nominate "the awkward" as the 21st century successor to the experience of "the absurd" during the 20th century.
In the beginning, it was used sparingly and prudently. But slowly, people started using it as a kind of filler, like the word 'like.' I watched, half amused, half revolted, as it slowly spread to almost every sphere of human life. With declining confidence in inherited traditions, the experience of the awkward is most likely to strike events where seemingly frivolous formalities cannot be taken seriously. During situations like weddings, changing in the locker room, greeting the parents of a prom date, or deciding who will pay for a meal, the scene is usurped by a gaggle of insecure awkwardizers eager to make all situations as uncomfortable as possible.
Awkwardness, or rather, giving into the temptation to awkwardize a mildly uncomfortable situation, has become a social disease restricting creativity, risk-taking, and adventurousness. What we witnessed as high school students was the birth of awkwardiphobia—the tendency of students to confine themselves to a tiny, circumscribed sphere of behavior within which they knew they would never be accused of awkwardness.
Naturally, this makes you wonder: What can be done to ameliorate this wretched situation? To answer our query, we should turn to those who most consistently refrain from awkwardizing situations—theatre kids, especially those with a background in improvisation.
They do not realize it, but those with a background in the dramatic arts are absolutely inoculated to the awkwardizing disease. Around these people, you can make the most outlandish statements, commit the greatest social blunders, and they resist the temptation to awkwardize. Their secret: the "yes, and..." rule. The improvisers are taught to make the best out of uncomfortable situations, to make those who screw up look good, and to keep the scene alive. They feel an ethical obligation to build upon the statements of others; they know that nothing destroys the scene like negating the opening suggestions.
When someone begins a scene with, "It sure is cold in this airplane," the improviser responds with an enthusiastic, "You're right. Perhaps the life jackets can warm us up." The awkwardizer, opportunist that he is, would exchange a glance of awkwardness with his buddies to deliberately make the initiator feel foolish while creating an artificial sense of solidarity with the fellow awkwardizers. Theatre people show us that the awkwardizer lacks the virtue of improvisation.
What can be done to remedy this situation? We need an improvisational vanguard that can wrest Bowdoin from the awkwardizer's stranglehold on social mores. They can educate our generation in gestures that genuinely encourage bold projects, unusual thinking, and diverse encounters. Maybe, with their help, we will be able to think of "the awkward" as a bridge, a bridge between the highly scripted lives of past generations and the improvisational freedom that future generations will enjoy.