A few weeks ago I decided to go to an AA meeting just to see what it was like. I’ve read a lot about AA, and listened to a lot of people talk about AA, and the way people write and talk about it has been intriguing to me. I was a bit worried about the social aspect, both because I’m always anxious when meeting new people or attending any kind of new meeting, and also because of an indoor meeting with strangers during the pandemic. But, I felt confident that these meetings would be filled with all kinds of people, and that they would be accepting. I chose a Sunday morning meeting in the basement of an old mansion that is owned by a local non-profit and used just for AA. The mansion is historic and at one time it was beautiful. That beauty is still there, but it is hiding behind years of low budget updates, conversions, and makeshift repairs. Inside, it met all the expectations I had for an AA meeting. Worn carpet, cheap drop ceilings from the 70s, faded wood paneling on the walls, bright awful fluorescent lights, lots of folding chairs, a bit chilly, and a big urn of the requisite bad coffee (at least, I assume it was bad coffee, I didn’t have any).
I was worried about COVID, and I was wearing a mask, just like I wear a mask when I go anywhere. I noticed right away that others were not wearing masks. I sat in the last row of folding chairs and was hoping I’d be able to keep some distance. About 10 people were in the room five minutes before the meeting was to start. Quickly, at the last minute, many others started to arrive. Soon every chair was taken and people were pulling out additional chairs that were leaning against the wall. Nobody else was wearing a mask - I was literally the only person. Why? Is there a reason for that? Nobody made any mention of my mask, which was nice, but I was increasingly uncomfortable as I observed everyone behaving completely normally - as if there was no global pandemic and as if cases weren’t surging in our city at the moment. People hugged each other. A few people came up to me to introduce themselves and held out their hands for shaking. Everyone was nice, friendly, and welcoming, which was wonderful - but my anxiety about the lack of COVID protocols was intense.
I had an uneasy feeling. I was uncomfortable. This is normal for me. It wasn’t just the lack of masks. Everyone else seemed to know each other. I wondered who these people were, what they were like. They seemed different from me, not people I would normally cross paths with. If I ask myself why I say that, it’s probably socioeconomic class. This crowd reminded me of the people I hung out with when I was working as a barista, or a busser, or as a direct care worker in a day program for disabled people. They all seemed very comfortable. And they were all smiling. They all looked happy. I felt completely opposite of what they looked like. But I was curious.
The meeting started at exactly 8:30 AM, and everyone immediately silenced themselves and sat down. It was formal in the sense that there was a protocol. People had roles. There was an order to things. People spoke fast, as if they had said the words coming from their mouths many, many times before. I appreciated the structure. I felt as if the whole first few minutes were just for people like me; first time people who had no idea what to expect. Things were explained. They asked if anyone was here for the first time. I thought I’d be the only one, but many hands shot up. People started introducing themselves. “David, alcoholic, first time here”, and then an instant chorus, “Hi David”; “Frank, alcoholic, first time here”, “Hi Frank”; “Trevor, addict, alcoholic, first time here”, “Hi Trevor”. They all spoke quickly, and none used complete sentences. It was formulaic to them. I realized it was their first time here at this specific meeting in this specific place and time, but it was definitely not their first AA meeting ever. It happened so fast I missed my chance to even raise my hand and assert my voice. None of the other first timers were alone - they each came with someone. They all knew the routine.
After several people read introductory statements from the Big Book, it came time for everyone to introduce themselves. There were more than 30 people. When I’m in a meeting at work this size, if everyone introduced themselves it would take the entire hour. I looked at the clock. It was 8:35. The meeting was only five minutes in. They started going around the room. “John, alcoholic”, and then a chorus, “Hi John”; “Bob, alcoholic”, “Hi Bob,”; “Joyce, alcoholic,” “Hi Joyce”. This took mere seconds. The wave of the roll call came to me in the back rapidly, and then suddenly it was my turn. I hesitated. Am I an alcoholic? Am I like these folks? I don’t really know. I’m not sure. I said my name, tentatively. My voice cracked a bit. And then I said it: “alcoholic”. I didn’t say “I am an alcoholic”, just the adjective by itself, detached from the noun it describes, copying what everyone else had done. Instantly the chorus echoed my name back to me and moved on. I looked at the clock. It was 8:39. These people are efficient, I thought.
This was what they call a “Big Book meeting”. When I looked at meetings online, there were many different kinds. I didn’t really understand the difference between them. The point of this meeting was to discuss the Big Book, which I hadn’t read, but which I was holding in my hand because every chair had a copy placed on it. The leader of the meeting explained they would pick up where they left off last time, and we’d go around the room so everyone got a chance to read. I read along to the story of a man who visits his doctor and is told he has an “alcoholic mind”, for which there is no cure, and no hope. The language felt antiquated and quaint. It was parable-like in its simplicity and bluntness. I tried to silence the snobby English major in my head, who was rolling his eyes. As people read, it seemed clear they had all read this text many times before. They knew it. They believed in it. It was important to them. It felt kind of silly to me.
The reading went quickly and soon was with the woman next to me. There was a footnote in her paragraph and she turned to the appendix to read it. There was no indication of what page the footnote was on, but she found it instantly. It was a two page explanation of what the founders of AA meant by the term “spiritual experience”. The footnote ended with a quote that describes the principle of “contempt prior to investigation.”1 As in, you can prevent yourself from learning anything if you convince yourself that it’s stupid before you check it out. I thought for a moment - that resonates. That’s exactly what I was doing - looking for the flaws and poking holes before giving it a chance. And then it was my turn to read. I had lost the page looking for the footnote, but didn’t realize it. I started reading, trying to project my uncertain voice to fill the large room. Soon, people were mummering I looked up. The woman next to me explained I was on the wrong page and told me where to go. I found it, and resumed.
At exactly 9:00 AM the leader cut off the reading and explained we would use the rest of the time to discuss what we had read, and we would break into smaller groups so that everyone would have a chance to participate. “We’re going to count off by numbers - one through four. One stays here, two, three, and four go upstairs. I’ll start. One.” Instantly the person next to him said, “Two” and the counting spread through the room.
I was a two. I got up and started to walk toward the door that would lead me upstairs, unsure of what exactly that meant. Everyone else stood around and mingled. They were talking, shaking hands, laughing, standing right next to one another with no masks. I was disturbed by the complete lack of acknowledgement of the pandemic and headed to the lobby. I stood there looking a bit confused. A guy in a green construction vest asked me what number I was. “We’ll go up here,” he said. He asked my name and introduced himself, shaking my hand. I looked around for hand sanitizer. He pointed me to the correct room and I walked in. At some point in time, this was probably a nice bedroom. Now it was stuffy and crowded with furniture, the walls lined with old couches - at least five large couches - cheap, stained carpet, falling apart drop ceiling. The windows were nice, lots of sun. I sat on a couch, wishing for a firm chair, and it swallowed me. I scooted awkwardly to the edge of the cushion to avoid sinking into the soft vastness of the couch. Everyone else slumped back and relaxed. When the room filled everyone sat silently for a moment, then one man started in. “Stew, alcoholic” he began, “Hi Stew” replied everyone. Stew was skinny, dressed in black, with a lot of tattoos. He reminded me of someone I might see at a rock concert in a small club, breaking down or setting up the stage between bands. He seemed nice, approachable. He started talking about what the passage we had read meant to him, and how he understood it. He was thoughtful, and vulnerable, sharing things about himself that I might only share with a therapist. When he stopped everyone said, “Thank you” and the person next to him began. I decided right away I would pass when it came to me. I had heard that it’s OK to pass. “I’ll pass” is what I would say. As the others spoke, several of them focused on the quote in the appendix about contempt prior to investigation. That struck a chord with everyone. But they weren’t reading it for the first time, they had internalized it and knew the words by heart.
In the opening of the meeting, as part of the initial readings about the program, there was some mention of limiting your comments to things about your alcoholism. This was not the place to talk about other issues in your life, other aspects of your identity. I got the feeling “intersectionality” was not a word people here would be familiar with. If it wasn’t about alcohol, don’t mention it. I kept that in mind as I listened to everyone talking about the text. If I were to talk, I would want to mention that I had been diagnosed autistic a few months ago. But would that be OK? I wasn’t sure. They all seemed to eloquently stay within the lines. I wasn’t comfortable the way they were all comfortable. This is a normal feeling for me. Other people described coming to AA meetings and feeling at home, feeling like they found their people. I didn’t feel that way at all. I didn’t feel unwelcome, but I didn’t feel I was in the right place. It was my turn. I said my name, and then I said that word again, “alcoholic”, and then “I’ll pass.” People nodded and smiled. “Thank you,” said Stew. What was he thanking me for? For just being here? It was nice to be thanked.
When the meeting ended I was eager to leave. I found a bathroom down the hall, which was clean and spare. It was the kind of bathroom you’d expect in an old building - not part of the original plan (this house probably predated inside bathrooms). It was a walled off nook, the water pipes outside the walls, the room awkwardly shaped with a toilet at one far end and a sink at the other. I felt relieved to wash my hands. My mind was reeling a bit from the experience. Why did I come? I left the bathroom and headed quickly down the once-grand spiral staircase, hoping to make an exit without anyone approaching me to mingle (there was a lot of mingling happening). I reached the door and went outside into the cool morning. I felt relieved by the fresh air. I was happy to be free.
Since that meeting I’ve been reading the Big Book and listening to some podcasts of people speaking at AA meetings. A lot of things I’m reading and listening to resonate with me, but just as many things do not. The stories people share are of hopeless tragedy and despair, and then miraculous redemption after a spiritual awakening. Moving stories of people hitting the bottom. Of lives destroyed. Of people realizing they were powerless over their addiction and turning their lives over to God. Some of the stories are like Gospels, and the way AA members study the Big Book feels like the way people study the Bible; reading the same words over and over again, discussing each sentence in depth, sharing reflections on the meaning of the text in their lives. I find it fascinating, and moving, but as much as I admire the strength of the community that they have created, I don’t see myself as a part of it.
Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous, Fourth Edition (p. 307). Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc..