When it comes to a long dining table — you know, the kind that Oxford is famed for in our dining halls, and the ones in “Harry Potter” that are designated for each House — as an introvert, I often find myself in one of three situations:
One: I come to the long table with a friend. We’re able to sit together. This is great, particularly so when the people sitting next to you are all strangers or are already all engrossed in their own conversations. We chatter away, oblivious to the conversations of those around us. This is the best case scenario.
Two: I’m vaguely familiar with the people around me, but when I sit down, it’s difficult to make conversation. Everyone is already in their own circles to both the right and the left. I could be annoying and try to insert myself in one of those conversations, on the side that’s discussing a topic I have more thoughts on; this, I usually do when I’m feeling particularly desperate to just appear not awkward.
More often than not, this fails. My hearing isn’t the best, and most of the time, after I’ve said my piece, I’ll end up smiling blankly as the others converse, simply because I can’t make out what they’re saying and feel too shy to disrupt the flow by asking them to repeat what was said. The format and bustling noise of the long table makes it so that it’s extremely difficult to hear people if they’re not sitting right beside you.
There are times where one person notices my gradual disengagement, and takes pity on me, asking me a question and bringing me back into the conversation. That’s very much appreciated. Thank you to that one person. There are also times when one person chooses to completely disengage from the conversation they’re in to make conversation with me, which I have to say is my social love language, if such a thing exists. As someone who craves external affirmation, such a gesture makes me feel valued, appreciated, and much better about myself as a conversation partner. Of course, this isn’t the most comfortable scenario for me compared to the first, but it’s a solid middle ground.
Three: Three is an extension of what happens in scenario two, without a savior or a group willing to bring in an outsider. This is when I try to engage with others and am implicitly brushed aside or ignored, often denoted with the “why did she suddenly speak to us” looks that I hope most people have not had to deal with in their lives. Sometimes, I’ll try and ask a question to the person closest to me, but they’ll immediately rejoin the conversation occurring across from them. Spiraling because of the rejection, I end up spending the entire meal scrolling through my phone and pretending to look busy while those around me converse happily. This is the worst case scenario.
For people who have not had to deal with the awkwardness of dining at a long table with relative strangers — or for people who are simply too vivacious and charismatic and capable of being the center of attention to even comprehend this problem — I confess that I envy you. Deeply. I wonder what it would be like to be you. I think my life would be much easier if I could just sit down and say something at a long dining table, witness just two strangers laugh, and have them continue the conversation, because that would mean I wasn’t metaphorically eating alone at a long table.
And I acknowledge that my invisibility is also my fault; me being socially awkward with strangers, combined with my general sensitivity in interactions. For the latter, I choose to frame it in a more positive light: I’ve become more aware of social cues with increased exposure to social experiences. Yet, I still often operate on the default that, as part of the ever-lauded practice of “networking,” everyone at the long dining table is open to welcoming everyone else, regardless of prior acquaintance. I’ve come to learn that this is rarely ever the case.
I want to stress that these scenarios don’t apply when around me at the long table are family members, or friends that I’m close with. However, in the majority of long dining table situations I’ve found myself in, the people around me have not been familiar. This is especially true at Oxford, where we’re often at long table dinner parties or hall dinners or group lunches with strangers. It’s difficult knowing that the people around you are lovely and intelligent and talented, but there are just more engaging conversations they would rather be in than the ones you’re trying to start. Or, sometimes, they already have their own friends there with them, and so why would they even attempt to talk with you beyond the brief courtesy required as part of table etiquette?
In my first column here at The Oxford Blue, I stated that I appreciated eating alone. I still do. At the same time, I think there’s a difference between physically eating alone and metaphorically eating alone, the latter being eating surrounded by people who don’t feel like you’re worth talking to. I’m not ashamed to admit that multiple dining hall experiences here at Oxford have made me a bit emotional afterwards. After a recent experience, I stayed up until 4 AM, teary-eyed and unable to sleep, reflecting back on all the things I could have said better to keep the conversation going. Could I have said something about my accomplishments to make me more worthy of conversation? But that would have come across as boastful. Such a move would probably backfire.
Oxford dining halls often feature the potential for intellectual debate, as I’ve written. I’ve encountered that here, where casual attempts at small talk are consistently challenged in a more combative way than I expect. It’s not an Oxford-specific thing, of course. I’ve experienced it before in Los Angeles, amongst other settings. Yet, every time, it’s come across as a bit shocking. I think it’s because I’ve always respected the dining table as a space for enjoyment of one’s meal and one’s company.
To try and reach out to people and then to find yourself embroiled in interrogations about your own thoughts and beliefs — that’s the kind of dinner party that I can symbolically appreciate, but that I’d never actively choose to be a part of. Personally, I’d say those kinds of conversations are better suited for the classroom. Still, when those dining table conversations end up petering out because of how terrible they make me feel, I tell myself that it’s a me problem. Maybe arguing at the dinner table is good, because at least people would be talking to me.
I confided in a friend once about my insecurities as a conversation partner. If I were a Very Important Person, a celebrity, people would actually find me worthy of speaking to. At a long dining table, I’d no longer be sidelined, left to scroll on my phone. She told me that yeah, maybe. But everyone around you likely wouldn’t be talking to you because they genuinely enjoyed your company, but instead because they thought you could give them something. Conversations would be inauthentic, transactional.
It made me reflect more. Because right after she said that, I thought, yes. I’d be okay with inauthentic and transactional conversations as long as it meant that people would look at me with enthusiasm, however fake, when I was still trying to make conversation with them. They wouldn’t look at me with the politeness that masks boredom I’ve come to recognise. Every minute of conversation with me, a celebrity, would be precious; it certainly wouldn’t be something you’d actively disengage from. Then I laughed at myself. How narcissistic, and how pathetic.
Truth be told, as someone who’s faced invisibility at long dining tables all my life, I’d probably love it for a while. In the long run, though, my insecurities stem from my lack of confidence as a conversation partner that’s built up over time. Being a celebrity, where the focus isn’t on my words, but my social status, won’t help that fact. I’m an introvert, after all, who loves eating alone. Would I be willing to exchange the silence of scrolling on my phone by myself for a buffet of noise aimed at extracting something from me? It’s definitely not the kind of buffet I would envision for myself.
Of course, deep down I still strive to be vivacious and charismatic and someone who can easily be the center of attention at any dining table, long table or otherwise. But I’m not there yet.
For now, I’m still not sure when to join in conversations and when I’m not welcome or when it’s better to pull out my phone and scroll at the risk of looking antisocial. I’ll continue to work on my skills as a conversation partner; I’ll read articles and watch videos, but mostly, keep talking to everyone I meet.
The next time at a long dining table, I’ll treat it like it’s an Oxford exam I’ve studied for: I’ll eat, ask questions about others that stem from genuine curiosity, and take peace in the fact that I’ve already done all the preparation I can and that it’s time to put it into practice. If it fails, that’s alright. I’ve never been the best at exams, but I’ve always been great at the cherished activity of eating alone.