Last week a friend and I made a two and a half hour drive to Austin to attended a book lecture at the University of Texas. The lecturer was Richard Dawkins, author of The God Delusion and arguably the world’s most predominant atheist.
We left Houston an hour later than expected and had the misfortune of ending up in Austin smack in the middle of rush hour. By the time we reached the auditorium, the line had become so long that it was literally snaking back in on itself.
Once we had finally located the end of the line, I found myself thinking that there is no way all of these people are atheist, agnostic, and the like. At the same time, the possibility that the vast majority of these people were non-believers made me feel a sense of pride, hope even.
Through word of mouth I became aware that the auditorium had a maximum capacity of just 1200, and standing where I was, I suddenly realized the immense odds against actually getting in. Those who were lucky enough to arrive early received tickets, but for the rest of us it was for all intents and purposes a free-for-all. Slowly the line became smaller, and eventually the much dreaded words were announced, “We are at maximum capacity! Absolutely no more!”
I’d estimate that at least five-hundred of us didn’t make it in. That’s a lot of disappointed people, and needless to say I was very disappointed. I tried to not let it show, but my prolonged silence over the next hour was a giveaway.
Feeling somewhat hungry, we decided to go get some dinner at Potbelly. I distinctly remember thinking that I’m making a 5-hour round trip just for a 5-dollar Potbelly sandwich. How lame.
Fortunately, I wasn’t going to quit that easily. After dinner we went back to see if people would start leaving once the lecture had ended, perhaps then we’d be allowed inside. A small group of ten or so diligent hopefuls remained outside by the doors, carrying on a debate with a very uprepared Christian and his Bible, which he constantly gestured towards “palm-to-cover,” in a way so stereotypical that I imagine I had only seen it in movies up until now. I chimed in on the debate for a short while to entertain myself, but I have little patience for discussions that will ultimately go nowhere.
Standing with a few others, I politely asked the event usher if we could be allowed into the auditorium now that some of the crowd was beginning to leave. He said, in a tone I could only label as condescending, “No. It would be very rude to interrupt Richard Dawkins’ Q&A session.” I responded as calmly and as civily as possible, explaining to the usher that we had not spoken to him in a condescending manner, so he should treat us with the same respect. He apologized, and the moment he turned his back, we dashed inside!
It was in that moment that the evening went from being a total train wreck to a complete success. The three of us who ran inside found a batch of empty seats and exchanged hive-fives. I remember having the biggest grin on my face–I felt so accomplished. Dawkins was walking freely about the stage, taking questions from people in small lines that had formed down the auditorium’s two main isles and answering with his usual charm and wit. I got to listen to him speak for at least a good fifteen minutes, and that was all I needed.
After the Q&A session a line formed for the book signing, which no one was sure would follow. Thankfully, I had brought along for the trip my copy of Dawkins’ first book The Selfish Gene.
The guy immediately in front of me was a biology major at UT, specifically neurology. We struck up conversation and when he heard I was an art student of all things his expression changed. He was shocked. He asked me if I clearly understood the concepts of The Selfish Gene. I said “yes,” and he seemed shocked doubly-so. I was proud that I could maintain an intelligent conversation with a neurology major and continued talking to him right up until it was his turn to approach to Richard Dawkins. He was a nice fellow.
Then came my turn. I approached nervously, extended my hand and said “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” I almost expected for Dawkins to shake his head “no” to my extended hand after having signed some eight-hundred autographs and perhaps not wanting to release his clutch from the pen. To my relief, he graciously shook my hand, looked me square in the eye, and smiled. I handed him my book, he signed, I thanked him, and that was that.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever been starstruck, but if I have, that was it.
