If you serve up maggots anywhere during a conversation, like during a meal, it’ll be all your guests remember later.
I recently started a temporary day job as an instructional designer. On my first day, I was granted a cubicle. As someone who has spent most of her life self-employed or, for a short while, in an office*, a cubicle is a novel experience indeed.
I’m still learning the rules of cubicle life. I’ve already learned that whenever anyone in an adjacent cubicle begins a conversation, it’s commonly understood that everyone in the vicinity must drop everything he or she is doing to eavesdrop. It’s also my understanding that it is proper to later pretend that these conversations were completely inaudible to all but the intended parties. Through our mutual pretending, we maintain the illusion that we all have “real” offices and “real” privacy.
Apparently, this tenet of cubicle etiquette doesn’t always apply.
A few days ago, I was sitting in my cubicle, merrily designing instruction**, when I heard the Ira Glass-esque voice of a coworker sitting in a neighboring cubicle drawl, “you know Kelly***, there is no afterlife.” At this, my ears perked up. While I personally might try to not introduce rationalism with death, I’m always interested identifying fellow rationalists. He sounded like a good candidate. “There is no heaven, no hell, no god,” Ira-sound-alike continued. A fellow atheist too! I continued to listen, not even pretending to type anymore. “When you die, your body will rot and be eaten by maggots. Life really has no point.” Oh, I thought. He’s a maggot guy.
The conversation continued, intermixed with a lesson in Adobe Illustrator. I was less interested in listening at this point. I’m a realist. I’m okay with the fact that, were I to be buried****, my body would indeed decay, possibly with the assistance of some friendly maggots. However, I’m not so into unnecessarily dwelling on the gruesome. “Hi! I’m an atheist! Want some maggots?” is possibly not the best pick-up line ever invented.
Later that afternoon, Kelly wandered over to my cubicle and grumbled, “Oh, I’m just having a great day—Ira told me I’m going to be eaten by maggots and that there isn’t any point to life. Did you hear?” Apparently, this was a case when I was supposed to ignore cubicle tenet number two and acknowledge that I had, indeed, been eavesdropping. I nodded. “My mother raised me as a Catholic,” Kelly continued, “she’d just be so upset to hear something like that.” I nodded again. “Why would he believe something like that?” she asked.
I took a deep breath as I prepared to out myself. “Well, actually, I’m also an atheist. However, I think Ira’s being a bit of a nihilist.” I explained how the lack of an afterlife just makes life sweeter—since we only get to try once, we should do as much with our lives as possible. I explained that, while I didn’t believe there was a prescribed “meaning” of life, we make our own meaning through social compacts and personal values. “Oh,” Kelly said, blinking a few times as she absorbed this. Then she smiled, “That’s really so much nicer. I’m so glad I met you, Amanda,” and wandered off singing***** a random show-tune I’d never heard before.
Really, I don’t know the background or circumstances of Ira and Kelly’s conversation and could be grossly misrepresenting them both. Such is the danger of blogging about those you’ve only known for three days. However, either way, I shall make a suggestion for introducing atheism to others: good conversations, like good recipes, call for absolutely no maggots.
Cross posted at The Atheist Mama.
* with REAL walls!
** after all, that is what we instructional designers design
*** not her real name
**** I don’t plan on it—I might as well donate it to science and let someone get some use out of it.
**** this is not an exaggeration for literary purposes—she really does sing while wandering around the office. It’s her thing.
