Ah, the Glorious Awkwardness!

As a human being on Planet Earth, I’ve experienced my fair share of awkwardness. (Maybe more than most). I have learned to love these moments for in discomfort, valuable epiphanies are often found. Also, in retrospect, they can generate great laughter. Ah, the Glorious Awkwardness!

– Jon Batiste

Prompt:

Reflect on a particular moment in your past when you felt most in touch with your “Glorious Awkwardness.” It could be a cringe-worthy moment you’ve replayed a thousand times in your mind. Or something essential about who you are, something unchangeable. Go back there.

What did you learn from it? Can you laugh about it? And if not, why?

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Jon Batiste

Caitlin Elizabeth Sammons

Location: Carlsbad, California
About: I’m a writer who has written as a ghostwriter for other writers until I finally got the courage to publish a book with my own voice. I moved across the country on my own, just in time for the global pandemic. Awkwardness has been baked into my existence, from growing up between two parents who couldn’t be around each other to dealing with massive social anxiety. This prompt felt the most awkward (ironically), but revealed the most for me.
Age: 35

The most awkward I’ve ever felt in my life is with my mom and dad together. It’s like I could feel this pulse of hate, of tension, of words unsaid, of all the things they couldn’t figure out, and I had to live in that space as the oldest child in between them.

It’s hard for me to laugh at it because it’s caused me so much suffering.

With general awkwardness, I’m awkward everyday. I say the wrong things, I misread situations, I pull the wrong door handle, I can’t get things to work and I stutter my way through social interactions, saying blatantly weird things.

Like when I got a gyno exam and she asked me if I hurt and I said, not it’s okay I feel good and she said it’s not supposed to. Terribly awkward.

Or when I picked up the actual second base during my brother’s baseball practice because my dad told me to—but the practice was still happening and the whole team laughed at me.

Or when I couldn’t finish a speech in 8th grade and just froze and stumbled and locked up and had to sit down while shaking.

Or when I was on a date and just felt so out of my skin uncomfortable.

There’s a kinetic energy in awkwardness that brings anxiety—but it also sparks and brings joy, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

The weird thing with my parents is that it actually is quite comical. They couldn’t be more different. And they couldn’t be more the same. And it’s been laughable to watch their encounters, even though they’re the most awkward moments of my life. Add my stepmom to the mix, and it takes the awkward level up, exponentially.

Like the time when she took the mic at my grandmother’s funeral luncheon and tried to get everyone to “turn up” and sing the Notre Dame fight song or something—and I took one look at my sister and we both knew it was time for us to go.

There’s so many more. Awkwardness is what makes me laugh the most. I guess I thrive in the space of awkward. And I should own that and not be afraid of it. In a way, I was built to exist in it.

Josie Colt

Location: Portland, ME
About: With this piece I wanted to remind myself and anyone else who needed to hear it that feeling weird is not proof of an internal flaw. Rather, simply being human is enough to feel weird sometimes (or all the time). Pandemic or no pandemic, raging hormones or no raging hormones, feeling weird is okay.
Age: 27

Patrick McDonnell

Location: Montreal, Quebec, Canada
Age: 68

Awkwardness in Tunisia

I was a student in Paris, and for the spring vacation I decided to pay for a cheap vacation in Tunisia. I booked a flight and a holiday package through Nouvelle Frontiers Travel agency, and when I arrived at the airport at what I thought was the right time in the afternoon, I found the plane had departed. In military time it was zero 10 minutes, only to find out I had missed the flight which had left 10 minutes after midnight. Luckily I wasn't the only one who had been mistaken, another woman was also there at the time with me. Consequently we both went up to the counter and asked what could be done - forfeit the trip - or not. Fortunately they had another flight to Tunisia that day and we flew to Tunis and then drove all night to the ‘village vacances’ at Cap Bon.

Because the other people had arrived before us, they were all sharing rooms, but they put me by myself in a cabin on the beach. The next day I woke to a wonderful sight, an empty beach and a fortress overlooking the town of Cap Bon, a real Arabian fairy tale. We met the others at breakfast and so commenced my Tunisian adventure full of embarrassing moments. Another French couple took a shine to me; he taught English at the Sorbonne and she taught art in high school. He taught me how to sail on the Mediterranean, being from Normandy and a born sailor. I went horseback riding with her. We became lifelong friends, they adopted me as their American student. Years later they separated and I found out that while they lived outside of Paris, his wife told me that he would stay over in town with his Vietnamese lover. Vive la France. Awkward for an American but usual for the French.

I had learned how to horseback ride during a previous spring break, taught by a student at the Cadre Noir - the French horse riding school, so I was ready for anything in Tunis. There was a young horse instructor and his friend who proposed we ride on the beach and then go up to the fortress. The only thing was that these two very macho Tunisian guys didn't like that I rode as well as them. And especially I didn't like following them on the beach because I got a face full of sand from their galloping horses. We ended up at the fort, and it was a glorious day for me because I had bested them (awkward male bravissimo moment).

Since I had a Tunisian friend in Tunis, Mohamed ben Mefta, with whom I was attending art school with in Paris, I decided to visit him. I took the public transportation into Tunis and we spent the day at Sidi Bou Said and visited the ruins of Carthage. Returning to the city he invited me to dinner at his house (an honour for a foreigner) where we were served by his mother and sister (who didn't eat with us). One dish was special as he told me that you had to get some on you (I didn't as a fussy easter and that end up as an awkward moment). Later we went out with his friends on the town, which meant we sat at a cafe and looked at the women walking by. It was getting late and I had missed my bus. So he took me to a 2nd class hotel, which I turned my nose up at, then he took me to a 3rd class hotel, which I took, and regretted as I was bitten by bed bugs or fleas all night. Awkward moment.

The next morning I witnessed a very unusual moment in Tunisian history. The day the female cops went to work. Tunisia was one of the more advanced Magrebian countries, with a president who was very progressive - President Habib Bourguiba. He had declared that women were equal to men, and proceeded to implement policies to prove it. I stood watching at a traffic circle as a very sharp looking police woman was directing traffic and people. Except she wasn't. The men and women pedestrians weren't obeying her signals, it was if a dog was talking to them. (I had a friend who lived in Japan for years and spoke fluent Japanese and he had told me some Japanese couldn't get their heads around a foreigner speaking Japanese, and they would just look at him slack jawed). Cognitive dissonance. Awkward moment.

Back at the vacation village they put on a night of entertainment with belly dancers. The food and the drink flowed and at the end I was so intoxicated that I decided to put on my fire dance show. I poured hot wax on some dishes, stuck the candles in the middle, and then proceeded to put on my weaving dance. I don't remember if I was bare chested or not. To say the least, the belly dancer was not impressed as I had outshone her. Awkward moment.

At the end of the vacation, a group of us were tired of the bland food they were serving us in the hotel so we went into the village to have couscous with harisa sauce. Hot and spicy. One of the women took my fancy and it was going to be a hot night until she discovered my age; too young for her. Awkward moment. SO I spent my hours alone in my cabin by the sea, listening to the waves crash on the beach. Sigh.

Tunis has no doubt changed a lot since my visit in the 70s. Today we have a Tunisian bank manager who is a liberated modern woman. I doubt she has the same experiences as her mother had. Though I sometimes remember my Tunisian women friend who was doing research at the Pasteur institute. We spoke of many things, as I was interested in Arab culture. Once she admitted that she was afraid of getting married in Tunisia. I asked why, and she told me that in Arabic culture, the written word is not enough, that the oral tradition is more important. At the wedding, you have to invite as many people as possible and the sheet must be shown after the 'act'. I came to understand that she was referring to the wedding night, and the blood stained sheet had to be shown to the wedding guests to prove that she was a virgin and that the wedding had been consummated. Awkward moment.

I don't think this is done anymore (at least not in the city) but I thought of how awkward that must be for a woman. Thank goodness Tunisia is a modern and progress country.

Aug 13, 1956, Habib Bourguiba declared;

The abolition of polygamy and veil.

The establishment of legal equality between men and women in the case of divorce.

The ban of minors from marrying against their will.

The abolition of the right of a father to force his daughter to marry against her will.

Change in the legal age for marriage of a man to 20, and for a woman to 17.

The right of being a principal guardian of minor children regardless of gender.

Renovations of the inheritance laws to improve protection of the rights of women.

The right of Muslim women to marry non-Muslim men.

Free education for both sexes.

Saneia Norton

I think of myself as a pretty good dancer. But realistic - I’ll never be a professional. From a young age I could see how narrow the path to artistic excellence was and had enough self-knowledge to know the discipline would not suit me. But with a knack for rhythm, I was a better dancer than most of my friends and developed an inflated idea of my abilities. At school I was part of dance teams and performances - never the star but fairly capable. As an adult, dance classes remain my favourite form of exercise - working the mind as much as the body, the joy of moving to my favourite music. So when Sydney Dance Company started offering public classes I was all in. I signed up for ‘Intermediate Jazz’ (no way was I ‘Beginner’) and turned up on the day, confidently taking a spot in the front row, the better to see the teacher. Holy fuck. I was way out of my depth. Even the warmup was impossible. In all my years of dance I’d never learnt how to spot, so whenever I twirled I got dizzy. When I realised we all had to pirouette across the floor, corner to corner, I nearly vomited. The class formed up in lines of three and the teacher counted in the first graceful trio, ‘Five, six, seven, eight-and-TWIRL, and TWIRL, and TWIRL-two-three-four, and TWIRL, and TWIRL, and TWIRL, NEXT GROUP!’ In the last group with heart pounding, I finally lurched off desperately, my face burning as I lost my balance and fell repeatedly. I was, by far, the worst in the class. For everyone else it was a familiar and easy exercise - a basic. Finally the humiliation was over, or so I thought. We began learning a routine (to Toni Braxton’s ‘Unbreak My Heart’ - I still can’t listen to it) and again it was way beyond my reach. Why hadn’t I hidden in the back row? Why oh why hadn’t I chosen Beginner? Why couldn’t I laugh it off? The final straw was that I had to leave the class early. Shamefaced, I approached the teacher and apologised for not staying the full class. Her reply (along with a concerned expression) was, ‘I’m sorry too.’

Sherri Battaglia

Location: Pennsylvania
About: Healing from cancer, mentally, physically
Age: 40

I wish I could say my awkward stage was like I imagine most people's. Taller than all my 5th grade peers, or perhaps a dreaded pimple on prom night.

I feel awkward now. I'm in a body I don't even recognize. Trying to wade my way through feelings as they change with the tide. Most days I'm sure I can be the hero of my story; sometimes I just want to pull the covers up and pretend none of this is real.

There's that space in between patient and survivor. Land of limbo. Where you know you should be grateful. You lived to tell the tale. But all these feelings won't just kindly reconcile to all that is expected.

Mainly that unspoken expectation to put it all behind you, to be the person that you were before. Even if I wanted to, that person doesn't exist anymore. And the friends she had have scattered. The only ones that are still here have committed to loving someone new. Someone still broken.

Today was a hard day, tomorrow will be better. And that's the hope, really, even of the awkward, pimply, lanky teen. That I will grow out of this. The caterpillar becomes a butterfly. With patience, with time.

Stephanie Taylor

Location: Sacramento, CA
About: Jon forced me to address an awkward moment that exposed something unattractive, just to me: my ego.
Age: 72

A response to you, Jon Batiste, a man I so admire. Your cheerfulness, your enthusiasm, your grace and style.

Attending a gathering of strangers is always awkward, standing against a wall with a glass of wine, with nothing to do but observe. I grew up in a family that spared me excessive shyness, or rather, I figured that introducing myself to a total stranger is worth a risk. Even on those times when my efforts were met with a polite rejection, I figured I wouldn’t want to know those people anyway. I’ve always rather prided myself in not caring what people think of me.

The most egregious example of awkwardness happened at an event for a bunch of muralists who had participated in a citywide festival last August. I started painting murals in 1977, long before it was a “thing,” and since, interest has exploded all over the world in a way that I couldn’t have imaged then. It’s now an industry, full of exceptionally talented and brave artists, and not at all an easy or lucrative way to make a living.

In my town and for that festival, I was the oldest muralist, the one with the longest and most persistent career, with more than 40 publicly placed paintings and sculptures just in Sacramento. For the event, we’d just painted over one that I’d created 29 years ago. Meeting newbies, kids young enough to my a grandchild is fun. So when one of the younger, very talented artists walked up to the group I was talking to, I turned to her, saying my name and how pleased I was to meet her.

She literally and completely ignored me, looked right past me to the people I was talking to, her friends. I admit I was stunned. That she hadn’t known me by name was not a possibility. She was so overtly rude that I was speechless. Awkwardly embarrassed, my ego flared and I wanted to confront her. After all, I’d have said, I’ve met presidential candidates, painted for Michael Eisner, and so on.

It was however, not even one of those times when later you think of that brilliant declaration you could have said, to put her in her place, to remind her who in fact was top dog.
She’d exposed her fragile ego, after all, while mine, a bit bruised, didn’t need her approval. Cut off from the conversation, I said goodbye to the person on my left, and walked away.

My annoyance did reveal my ego to myself, and not in a way that was flattering. In truth, as I write this, I think I might have felt like slapping her. Right across her arrogant face. No wait, I’m not a violent person. Or maybe it was her outfit that I found offensive, tight everywhere, deep cleavage like we need to see that? I don’t want to see anyone’s cleavage. Was it her youth? No, I’m in good shape for my age and silently challenged her to have the career I’ve had, raising three kids, and still be up on scaffolding at 72. Her talent? Maybe. She’s a terrific designer, but like a lot of murals now, her work though bold, is purely decorative. Not that there’s anything wrong with decorating.

No, it’s my ego, and since I’m writing about this extremely awkward moment, it meant something. Did I care what she thought? No. Did I care what her friends thought? No, I don’t even know them. What I do care about is acknowledging my own shortcomings and laughing about it. If I didn’t have an ego, after all, I’d never have lasted this long as a working artist.

4. Glorious Awkwardness – Jon Batiste