Early on the Monday after Thanksgiving, while the city climbs out of its turkey and Black Friday haze, approximately 40 people congregate in a building not far from Centennial Park. Some are fidgety, eager for the meeting to start — or perhaps finish. Others look barely awake. Most have coffee, and need it. It's a tough time of year for many people, fraught with stressful family relations and money problems.
For those here, it's tougher still.
At 9 a.m. on the dot, the Monday-morning open meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous begins at Friendship House, the oldest meeting place of its kind in Nashville. The walls are covered with posters bearing phrases like "Think ... Think ... Think," while large plaques detail 12 steps that most of the room's occupants could recite verbatim. The Serenity Prayer hangs nearby.
A woman in the corner welcomes the group. Though the mix leans toward 30-something and 40-something white men, it's varied in terms of age, gender and race. As the greeter speaks, a few latecomers tiptoe in. A middle-aged woman in posh pearls and a twinset selects a white plastic chair next to a scruffy young guy. A tattoo-sleeved man slinks into the row of battered theater-style seats pushed against the wall.
Turn to page 100 of Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, the greeter says — a book second only to AA founder Bill W.'s "Big Book" in terms of explaining the steps. A young brunette in workout clothes and a baseball cap volunteers to read.
"Hi, I'm Blair, and I'm an alcoholic," she says.
"Hey, Blair," everyone present responds on cue, then listens intently.
For the remainder of the hour, a virtual mic is passed around the room. People share how they made it through the recent holiday, how they coped with visiting family or overwhelming commitments. The kind of problems that everyone faces during the holidays. The kind of problems that invite a dangerously easy painkiller.
For one girl in her mid-20s, it is her first sober Thanksgiving in years. Before, she says, she would have muddled through the holiday in a drunken haze. This time she helped in the kitchen, she says, and she beams as she says it. A father of two, left carless at home while his wife was out, says his children drove him crazy. This year, though, he didn't walk three miles to the nearest gas station to buy beer.
Nothing is permanent, of course. Nothing is fixed. But these small steps are milestones to the people who pass through these doors. In AA, sharing these moments is an essential part of recovery. And for 50 years, Friendship House — known to those in the recovery community as "202" for its address, 202 23rd Ave. N. — has provided a safe, welcoming space for members to congregate.
202 is the oldest AA clubhouse in the city. Through its doors have passed judges and dishwashers, lawmakers and lawbreakers, honky-tonk heroes and homeless people, many of whom have maintained their connections in an unspoken bond. It was chartered by a group of Nashville businessmen in 1963, when gathering openly could have ended their careers and social lives. Today, more than 100,000 people pass through 202's doors each year to one of the 50 meetings offered every week, including book studies, women's meetings, men's meetings, closed discussions for alcoholics only, and open meetings — which anyone can attend, as long as they respect the AA sanction of anonymity.
Like Al-Anon, which provides meetings for friends and family of alcoholics, the open meetings also welcome medical professionals and those seeking a greater understanding of alcoholism. And like all AA clubhouses, 202 operates independently, existing solely to provide a meeting space for those who identify as members of AA.
"The clubhouse itself is not part of AA," explains writer Rob S., who first attended 202 in 1983. "AA doesn't have any buildings. It's sort of like when two Christians gather together, it becomes a church. An AA meeting is whenever a couple of alcoholics get together."
Fifty years ago, finding a public meeting place was a challenge for AA members. Though Alcoholics Anonymous was founded in 1935, the American Medical Association did not recognize alcoholism as a chronic, progressive disease until 1956.
"Society did not accept this disease ... it was very shame-based," explains Susan B., a former 202 board member who runs an extended-care facility for women in recovery. When she first came to 202, in the late '70s, she walked from West Meade because she didn't have a car. Even in the era of second-wave feminism, the notion of a female alcoholic was still somewhat taboo, especially for a mother of two young children like Susan.
"Women [who were alcoholics] were kept at home, hidden," Susan says.
By purchasing the property at 202 23rd Ave., the founding members created a safe haven. The house provided a judgment-free zone for alcoholics to find fellowship with people who knew and shared their struggles — including women, though they were in the minority in those days.
"202 gave you a place to be yourself safely," explains Hugh B., who also started coming to Friendship House in the late '70s. "I had to go from there back into the bars, because that's where I worked. And that wasn't safe — you couldn't let too much out in the bar."
That was crucial. Clubhouses like 202 gave recovering alcoholics a place to socialize without the temptations found in a bar or restaurant.
"A clubhouse ideally is sort of like this big social group, a low-rent country club with the highest price of admission in the world," Hugh says. "Because for most of the people who 'get in,' you usually have to lose a career, a marriage, your money, your dignity, your self-respect."
Anyone who sits in an open meeting will discover that alcoholism is an equal-opportunity disease, obliterating all boundaries of socioeconomic status, political or religious affiliation, gender, age and race. As Hugh says, AA is for everyone from "Yale to jail." At any given meeting, you might see a country superstar sitting next to a man who lives under a bridge, or a priest next to a prostitute. What everyone has in common is the desire not to take another drink. That desire binds alcoholics together in an extraordinary way.
"In my years of recovery, I've had many a minister say, 'How do you all get so much unity?' " Susan says. "The goal for us is to stay sober. We're talking about saving our lives. I know that if I don't connect with another alcoholic, I'm in trouble. A primary symptom of alcoholism is the inability to stay connected to another human being, so we have these meetings where we do that."
That sense of connection, and community, is one of the most striking things you'll witness during a meeting at 202. Especially in the Bible Belt, it's impressive to see unity among such a diverse group, and such open, honest discussion in which people really listen to each other. While AA does not affiliate with any one religious organization, its literature states "the majority of AA members believe that we have found the solution to our drinking problem not through individual willpower, but through a power greater than ourselves. However, everyone defines this power as he or she wishes."
Much has changed in the 50 years since 202 opened its doors. Today there are many other AA clubhouses in the Nashville area. Where cigarettes once provided a comforting prop, 202 is now a nonsmoking facility — though you'll find a smoking section on the covered back porch.
The demographics have also shifted. Susan estimates that women now constitute approximately one-third of 202's members. Increasing numbers of people are now required to go to AA meetings after a DUI or other alcohol-related charges, as opposed to attending by their own choice.
Some may argue that the stigma of alcoholism has diminished over the past five decades, due to a better general understanding of the disease and the fact that many celebrities and other public figures have openly discussed their struggles in the media. We're becoming a society in which everyone admits to having issues. But if an issue still tends to involve shame — like addiction, sexual abuse or mental illness — many people are still hesitant to publicly address it. And as five decades of 202 visitors know, shame can be a crippling emotion.
That said, participants stress that AA's anonymity clause was not born out of shame. Rather, it's because AA wants to the public to know about their program of recovery, not the individuals who join in it.
Additionally, AA operates on a theory of attraction rather than promotion, which is why you don't see fancy advertising campaigns or massive fundraising drives. That makes raising money a constant challenge. Anonymous members can't be solicited, and meetings are free (though donations are accepted). As a 501c3, Friendship House has always depended upon dues, donations, fundraisers and special events to cover operating expenses, the purchase of AA-approved literature, and maintaining the house and service staff.
Fom 1 to 6 p.m. Saturday, Friendship House will hold a 50th anniversary party where Susan says they will "celebrate that the building is still there, and that we're still in it." In addition to serving as a family reunion for 202 members from the past 50 years, the gathering will allow the public to gain a better understanding of what AA and 202 offer to those in recovery.
But at this party, when people talk about cake, it might be in reference to a particular sober birthday they're celebrating. If you hear the word "chips," it will likely refer to mile markers of sobriety, measured in days, months and years. If you hang out on the back porch, among the clouds of cigarette and vapor smoke, you might meet a Magdalene House resident in recovery, or a man who just lost his job but isn't going to use that as an excuse to hit the bottle.
At Friendship House, everyone looks out for each other. That's what friends do. So if you spend any time there at all, you'll meet someone who wants to help you — or someone you know — if you have a desire to stop drinking. At this club, that's the only requirement for membership. If you cross the threshold of 202 23rd Ave. N., everyone knows the dues you paid to get there.
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