Paul Ford - How to Be Polite
Most people don’t notice I’m polite, which is sort of the
point. I don’t look polite. I am big and droopy and need a haircut. No soul
would associate me with watercress sandwiches. Still, every year or so someone
takes me aside and says, you actually are weirdly polite, aren’t you? And
I always thrill. They noticed.
The complimenters don’t always formulate it so gently. For
example, after two years ago at the end of an arduous corporate project, slowly
turning a thousand red squares in a spreadsheet to yellow, then green, my
officemate turned to me and said: “I thought you were a terrible ass-kisser
when we started working together.”
She paused and frowned. “But it actually helped get things
done. It was a strategy.” (That is how an impolite person gives a compliment.
Which I gladly accepted.) She was surprised to see the stubborn power of politeness
over time. Over time. That’s the thing. Mostly we talk about
politeness in the moment. Please, thank you, no go ahead, I like your hat, cool
shoes, you look nice today, please take my seat, sir, ma’am, etc. All good, but
fleeting.
Etiquette Manuals
When I was in high school I used to read etiquette manuals.
Emily Post and so forth. I found the manuals interesting and pretty funny.
There was good stuff about how to write a note of condolence, and ridiculous
stuff about how to behave on boats or at the White House.
I didn’t expect to apply my findings to my daily adolescent
life. I was peripheral in high school — uncool but also untortured, voted
“most scholarly” of my class, roughly equivalent to “least likely to have sex.”
In high school no one noticed my politeness except for one
kid. He yelled at me about it. “Why you always so polite, man?” he
asked. “It’s weird.” I took it as praise and made a note to hide it further, to
be more profane. Real politeness, I reasoned, was invisible. It adapted itself
to the situation. Later, that same kid stole my cassette copy of Aqualung.
But no matter. What I found most appealing was the way that
the practice of etiquette let you draw a protective circle around yourself and
your emotions. By following the strictures in the book, you could drag yourself
through a terrible situation and when it was all over, you could throw your
white gloves in the dirty laundry hamper and move on with your life. I figured
there was a big world out there and etiquette was going to come in handy along
the way.
It didn’t at first. No one needs visiting
cards in college (although I’m surprised that they haven’t made a
comeback among drama students). And in my twenties I found that I could score
points with my elders by showing up and speaking respectfully. But then,
suddenly — it
mattered. My ability to go to a party and speak to anyone about anything, to
natter and ask questions, to turn the conversation relentlessly towards the
speaker, meant that I was gathering huge amounts of information about other
people.
Here’s a polite person’s trick, one that has never failed
me. I will share it with you because I like and respect you, and it is clear to
me that you’ll know how to apply it wisely: When you are at a party and are
thrust into conversation with someone, see how long you can hold off before
talking about what they do for a living. And when that painful lull arrives, be
the master of it. I have come to revel in that agonizing first pause, because I
know that I can push a conversation through. Just ask the other person what
they do, and right after they tell you, say: “Wow. That sounds hard.”
Because nearly everyone in the world believes their job to
be difficult. I once went to a party and met a very beautiful woman whose job
was to help celebrities wear Harry Winston jewelry. I could tell that she was
disappointed to be introduced to this rumpled giant in an off-brand shirt, but
when I told her that her job sounded difficult to me she brightened and spoke
for 30 straight minutes about sapphires and Jessica Simpson. She kept touching
me as she talked. I forgave her for that. I didn’t reveal a single detail about
myself, including my name. Eventually someone pulled me back into the party.
The celebrity jewelry coordinator smiled and grabbed my hand and said, “I like
you!” She seemed so relieved to have unburdened herself. I counted it as a
great accomplishment. Maybe a hundred times since I’ve said, “wow, that sounds
hard” to a stranger, always to great effect. I stay home with my kids and have
no life left to me, so take this party trick, my gift to you.
A friend and I came up with a game called Raconteur. You
pair up with another Raconteur at a party and talk to everyone you can. You
score points by getting people to disclose something about their lives. If you
dominate the conversation, you lose a point. The two raconteurs communicate
using hand signals and keep a tally on a sheet of paper or in their minds.
You’d think people would notice but they are so amused by the attention that
the fact you’re playing Raconteur escapes their attention.
Hair Touching
One way to be polite is by not touching people unless they
specifically invite it. You’d be amazed at how often people screw this up; just
search the Internet for “touch black woman hair” and marvel at the number of
articles, posts, and guides. Here’s the New York
I realize that it might sound like an overstatement to
some people, but having someone touch me without my permission just fucks with
my day and sense of privacy and personal space and sends me into a k-hole
spiral of wondering what unconscious signal I may have given to indicate that
it would be OK, even though I know there isn’t one.
I’ve read many narratives about white people just touching
black hair and I read them with my mouth open. Not because of the racism, even.
Just because as a polite person the idea of just reaching out and touching
anyone’s hair makes my eye twitch. When would it be
appropriate? If there was a very large poisonous spider in their hair. If I was
doing a magic trick. Or after six or more years of marriage.
There are exceptions. I pat the heads of toddlers I’ve known
for more than six months. If tiny children volunteer to sit on my lap or ask to
ride around on my back while I make horse noises, I make eye contact with their
parents first and then comply. Afterwards I might skritch their toddler heads a
little. I am not opposed to tousling in certain defined and appropriate
circumstances.
But a whole class of problems goes away from my life because
I see people as having around them a two or three foot invisible buffer. If
there is a stray hair on their jacket I ask them if I can pluck it from them.
If they don’t want that, they’ll do it themselves. If their name is now Susan, it’s Susan. Whatever happens inside that buffer is entirely
up to them. It has nothing to do with me.
Now, even though I prepped and studied etiquette books, I learned all
this the regular way, by screwing it up terribly and having to send emails of
apology the next day. The apology emails are pretty embarrassing to mention.
They are excruciating to send. I get too drunk and hold forth in a stream of
vulgarity. Or say something stupid. And then I wake up and sigh. “I realized,”
I’ll write, “that I might have been a truly insufferable person last night.”
I’ve never touched anyone’s hair, I don’t think. But of course I could.
One thing about being polite is that you know that within you there lurks an
incredibly impolite person.
Maybe twenty years ago I read a ’zine interview with a
prostitute in which she put down her rules for her johns. Most of the rules
were common sense about condoms, showing up on time, and so forth, but the one
rule that stuck with me was, “don’t take a shit in my toilet!” It was in bold
and underlined with exclamation points (it was a ’zine, remember).
Whenever I read about sex workers—which is often, because
our culture is obsessed—this rule pops into my mind. I’ve never had reason to
test it. But I like to think that, if my circumstances ever aligned so that I
hired a sex worker, I would know how to handle myself in regards to this rule.
For example, if it was necessary I’d make a quick stop at Starbucks before
heading up to her apartment. And since I was already at Starbucks I should
offer to bring coffee. “At Starbucks,” I’d text. “Want anything?” Per her
request I’d buy a Caramel Flan Frappuccino® Light Blended Beverage and maybe a
Chonga bagel. And yes, I know, it’s immoral for a woman in New
York City to want a bagel from Starbucks. But who am I
to judge?
That’s where the fantasy ends. It’s just a little rule
nestled in my brain, filed under Prostitutes. There are thousands, maybe tens
of thousands, of similar just-in-case rules. What if I had to meet the mayor
tomorrow? What if I had to go to an expensive restaurant? What if I needed to
interview a homeless person for a story? Emily Post couldn’t cover everything,
so I have to make do. I am, admittedly, a deeply anxious person. But also a
polite one.
Conclusion
Politeness buys you time. It leaves doors open. I’ve met so
many people whom, if I had trusted my first impressions, I would never have
wanted to meet again. And yet — many of them are now great friends. I have only very
rarely touched their hair.
One of those people is my wife. On our first date, we went
to a nice bar with blue tables and, in the regular course of conversation she
told me at length about the removal of a dermoid teratoma from her ovaries.
This is a cyst with teeth (not a metaphor). I had gone in expecting to flirt
but instead I learned about the surgical removal of a fist-sized mutant mass of
hair and teeth from her sexual parts. This killed the chemistry. I walked her
home, told her I had a great time, and went home and looked up cysts on the
Internet, always a nice end to an evening. We talked a little after that. I
kept everything pleasant and brief. A year later I ran into her on the train
and we got another drink. Much later I learned that she’d been having a very
bad day in a very bad year.
Sometimes I’ll get a call or email from someone five years
after the last contact and I’ll think, oh right, I hated that person. But
they would never have known, of course. Let’s see if I still hate them. Very
often I find that I don’t. Or that I hated them for a dumb reason. Or that they
were having a bad day. Or much more likely, that I had been having a bad day.
People silently struggle from all kinds of terrible things.
They suffer from depression, ambition, substance abuse, and pretension. They
suffer from family tragedy, Ivy-League educations, and self-loathing. They
suffer from failing marriages, physical pain, and publishing. The good thing
about politeness is that you can treat these people exactly the same. And then
wait to see what happens. You don’t have to have an opinion. You don’t need to
make a judgment. I know that doesn’t sound like liberation, because we live and
work in an opinion-based economy. But it is. Not having an opinion means not
having an obligation. And not being obligated is one of the sweetest of life’s
riches.
There is one other aspect of my politeness that I am
reluctant to mention. But I will. I am often consumed with a sense of
overwhelming love and empathy. I look at the other person and am overwhelmed
with joy. For all of my irony I really do want to know about the process of
hanging jewelry from celebrities. What does the jewelry feel like in your hand?
What do the celebrities feel like in your hand? Which one is more smooth?
This is not a world where you can simply express love for
other people, where you can praise them. Perhaps it should be. But it’s not.
I’ve found that people will fear your enthusiasm and warmth, and wait to hear
the price. Which is fair. We’ve all been drawn into someone’s love only to find
out that we couldn’t afford it. A little distance buys everyone time.
Last week my wife came back from the playground. She told me
that my two-year-old, three-foot-tall son, Abraham, walked up to a woman in
hijab and asked “What’s your name?” The woman told him her name. Then he put
out his little hand and said, “Nice to meet you!” Everyone laughed, and he
smiled. He shared with her his firmest handshake, like I taught him.
