When I first arrived at Northwestern, I mistakenly believed that Wildcat Welcome Week was a fairly accurate representation of my impending college experience. Life seemed to be defined by perpetual friendliness, qualm-free introductions and somewhat seamless (although slightly scripted) conversations. Sans the name games, the Freshman Freeze and the mind-numbing Essential NUs, school seemed fairly straightforward. Meeting people was easy, the “where are you from?” query never got old, and — most refreshingly of all — amid the chaos and the novelty, awkwardness was limited. I lapped up the Welcome Week Kool-Aid and, momentarily, everything was simple.
But this environment of artificial effortlessness was short-lived. By the time classes began, I realized that Northwestern was in no way immune to the phenomenon that has come to personify an era. With its cherished familiarity and guaranteed laughs, “awkward” has effectively described everything from interactions to individuals — and yet, in all its ubiquity, has grown a little stale. However, as ardently as we attempt to criticize this word’s blatant overuse, we can’t seem to escape it. There simply has never been anything that so readily and succinctly encapsulates our daily happenings or, quite frankly, us. We are an inevitably awkward generation.
Stumbling upon several of my parents’ old photo albums over the summer, I remember confronting images of the carefree nonconformity and laid-back comfort so romanticized by the 1960s and ’70s. My parents — hair wind-bound, a beat-up Buick their frequent backdrop — seemed to smirk at me from their vantage point of free-spirited, unruffled coolness. So what went awry? What prompted this transition from communal van rides and thinning inhibitions to feigning interest in something inside your bag when passing a lesser-known acquaintance, or tainting a perfectly decent conversation with an uncomfortable silence? How did James Dean become Michael Cera?
Technology, however much me may adore it, carries much of the blame. Thanks to the pervasiveness of texting and of course, the beloved societal monopoly that is Facebook, we continue to drift further away from genuine communication. I once talked to someone at a party who, after the standard introductions, proceeded to inform me, “I think I’ve seen you in someone’s profile picture.” I have also prematurely mentioned a person’s obsession with a particular band within seconds of meeting — only later to realize that this knowledge was acquired solely thanks to the wonders of “Info”… and that I probably sounded incredibly sketchy.
As human contact dissolves into commitment-free abbreviations or witty wall posts that you have ages to concoct, it’s no wonder that face-to-face encounters are riddled with awkwardness. Referring to Facebook in real life? Awkward. Spotting a former hook-up and exchanging forced head nods? Awkward. Waving to someone who was actually greeting the person behind you? Awkward.
Not to say that everything we do is marred by social incompetence. We have all experienced the drunken, “You’re in my Euro History discussion!” moment and the fleeting bond that soon forms. A phone number trade may ultimately occur or, more likely, a Facebook friendship will be spawned the following morning. But often, from that point on the link either fades or cedes to the realm of virtual event invitations and Facebook messages. It becomes something of a desperate cycle: We seek the snug confines of these hassle-free social institutions in order to mask our own insecurities, and yet our reliance on these means causes actual personal contact to be anything but graceful.
The truth is, this isn’t necessarily a problem. It makes sense that shows like The Office and Arrested Development (R.I.P) have attracted hordes of devoted viewers. It’s no coincidence that John Hamburg’s I Love You, Man, a film that primarily capitalizes on Paul Rudd’s cringeworthy faux pas and blunders, grossed $17.8 million in its first weekend of release. Awkward is endearing. Awkward is, in some ways, the one thing that all of our divergent, disparate lives may share.
So we are an awkward generation and in turn, Northwestern is an awkward school. The question is, who cares? There is something almost charming about these gawky leanings. In our collective bouts of foolishness, we can willingly laugh at ourselves and in turn, unite. After all, what would this school be without those frantic, miscalculated sprints at the crosswalk by the Arch, or the overzealous Keg encounters that dissolve to mere mumblings the following Tuesday on Sheridan? Leave the prim, pompous self-assurance to the Ivies. Northwestern is awkward, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.