The Guinea Pig Diaries (15 page)

I wouldn’t be a king-loving Loyalist, mind you. I’d be somewhere in the middle. John Adams estimated that a third of the country was patriots, a third loyalist, and a third neutral. That’d be me: neutral.

I don’t have a revolutionary nature. I’m not confrontational enough. I’d probably grumble about the tax on tea, but in the end, I’d cough up the money rather than putting on a feathered headdress and storming a ship. I mean, I’ve shelled out $3.45 for a tall pumpkin latte without declaring war on Starbucks. That’s truly intolerable.

I knew that the Founding Fathers took a risk. But it didn’t sink in quite how breathtaking their leap of faith was. They
had to realize that their odds of failure were staggeringly high, like Rob-Schneider-winning-the-Oscar high. And if they did fail, they wouldn’t go back to their farms and lick their wounds and play cribbage; they’d all end up swinging from the gallows.

If I’d been alive, I would have sided with Pennsylvania lawyer John Dickinson, who wanted to keep negotiating with Britain, telling the Continental Congress they “should exhaust all peaceful approaches.”

“Precisely,” I’d say. “If we can get electricity from a kite, we can work out this tax dispute . . .”

So I’m thankful I wasn’t born in the eighteenth century.

The second realization was that I wanted to know more about George Washington. In the past, I’d found him the least interesting of the Founding Fathers. Undeniably great, but kind of bland. He was the market leader, sure, but he lacked pizzazz, sort of like Wal-Mart. Give me Ben Franklin and his wry, sometimes randy wisdom. Or Jefferson and his political poetry. Or cantankerous old John Adams, and his
strange obsession with his compost pile
(see note in back).

But in the miniseries, there was a moment that crystallized Washington’s greatness for me in a new way: John Adams had come up with a list of highfalutin titles for the new president (“His Majesty the President” and “His High Mightiness”). Washington scolded him: “Mr. President. That is all.”

What restraint! This was a man who could have crowned himself Czar Washington if he’d wanted to. He could have occupied a throne for life. He could have had a harem of big-bustled women. Instead, restraint. This humble act of heroism—which helped assure our democracy didn’t become a monarchy—is as impressive to me as Washington’s battles. We need more restraint, more civility. I’m writing this as the Dow continues its
free fall. And what got us into this? You could argue it was a lack of restraint. Unbridled hunger for power by some rogue emperors of Wall Street.

The next week, while reading Joseph Ellis’s biography of George Washington, I stumbled across something extraordinary. Namely, a list Washington wrote called “Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation.” It’s exactly what it says: an easy-to-read rundown of how to behave while talking, eating, doing business, courting, you name it. There are 110 of them.

Providence—as Washington used to say—has provided me with my next experiment.

First, it’s a list of rules. I love those. Frankly, I miss living by the Bible’s laws. I miss the stable architecture, the paradoxical freedom from choice. This will be like living biblically, but with a Colonial flavor—less stoning adulterers, more bowing. Second, I’ll get a crash course in this remarkable man, the Founding Father in Chief.

And, most important, I’ll get to mainline the ideals of a long-ago, seemingly more civil time. I may never become a revolutionary, but maybe I can become a better leader and more dignified human being.

THE LIST

Washington wrote the Rules in his notebook when he was a young man. Rumors to the contrary, he didn’t actually come up with the 110 Rules in the first place—they were originally from the pen of a French Jesuit in the late sixteenth century. But he copied them painstakingly by hand. And the list had a deep impact on him. Many historians say it shaped his character throughout his life.

The list itself is an early version of Emily Post mixed with
GQ,
with a dash of Ten Commandments thrown in to give it heft.

The first rule is this:

Every action done in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those that are present.

In other words, be aware of the consequences of your actions on others. An elegant notion that’s often ignored in our era of unabashed individualism.

Rule 2 is this:

When in company, put not your hands to any part of the body not usually discovered.

That’s right. The second rule that formed the character of our first president? Do not touch your pecker in public.

Turns out this advice is so important, and the habit so rampant among eighteenth-century men, it merits repeating just a few rules later.

Rule 11: Shift not yourself in the sight of others.

Okay? No pocket pool, as we called it in eighth grade. And ladies, no adjusting the bra straps.

This much is clear: the list has quite a range.

Some rules are general, some wildly specific. Some reflect the era, some could have been written this morning. And they will affect every part of my existence:

• The way I talk (“mock not at anything important,” “speak not of doleful things in a time of mirth or at the table”)

• The way I think (“in all causes of passion, let reason govern”)

• The way I laugh (not “too much at any public spectacle”)

• The way I squash bugs (“kill no vermin, or fleas, lice, ticks, etc., in the sight of others”)

• The way I sit (“keep your feet firm and even”)

• The way I eat (don’t complain about the food, don’t “gaze about while you are drinking”)

• The way I treat my friends (“Show nothing to your friend that may affright him”)

• The way I treat my bosses (“In company of those of higher quality than yourself, speak not ’til you are asked a question”)

Oh, and by the way, I will not be spitting for the next few weeks. Washington’s Rules were very opposed to spitting. And if I see spittle on the ground, I should “dexterously cover it up” with my foot. (For the full list of 110 Rules, see Appendix A.)

BASIC TRAINING

Before I try to spend a few weeks behaving like George Washington, I figure I’ll consult a man whose full-time job is to behave like Washington. His name is Dean Malissa. He’s the Sean Penn of George Washington impersonators. Or interpreters, I found out later. That’s the preferred term.

Malissa agrees to meet me and invites me to see him in action at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. So on a late September day, I join a group tour at Valley Forge. I’m standing next to Phineas Folger, a Quaker merchant who is wearing a Huskies baseball cap and is getting sunscreen applied to his face by his mom.

We’ve all been assigned a Colonial character to portray—
it’s part of the tour’s living-history shtick. I’m Charles Carter, a “gentleman of the highest honor.”

On my other side is a seamstress named Abigail (aka Irene, a nurse from Seattle). She looks like a naturally aged Diane Keaton—and she’s a Washington groupie. She spends her vacations visiting places where Washington has slept. I tell her about my project on the rules of civility.

“That’s what I love about George Washington,” she says. “He embodies those rules. He was virtuous. He did things for the right reasons—out of service.”

She pauses.

“Not like that Jefferson. He liked to stir things up. He’d do something awful, then say ’it wasn’t me!’”

Irene throws up her hands in mock “What? I’m innocent!” pose.

We stop for a Colonial-themed dinner (the dessert includes Martha Washington’s coconut balls, which caused some snickering among the teenage congressional delegates). And then we walk to Washington’s headquarters. The door swings open and out strides George dressed in smart yellow pants and a blue waistcoat. It’s kind of startling how much Dean looks like our first president. He breaks six feet, has the president’s substantial nose, and a mane of white hair tied behind his head. (Later, I’ll learn that his Achilles heel is eye color—Washington had blue, Dean has brown. For close-up film work, Dean puts in blue contact lenses.)

“What I am about to share is of the utmost sensitivity and I need to be certain that all of you will keep this confidence,” says Dean-as-Washington.

He tells us that his spies inform him that the British plan to evacuate Philadelphia imminently. They’ve ordered all their laundry to be returned immediately.

“My friends, we entreat your fervent prayers.”

And now, he’ll take questions.

On the back of our name badges, the Valley Forge folks have suggested questions for our characters to ask General Washington.

The delegate from New York asks the old chestnut: “Are your teeth made out of wood?”

“No, they are not,” replies Washington. “I have problems with my teeth because my father had very bad teeth. I also like to crack Brazil nuts with my teeth and that’s not a very smart thing to do. I do have false teeth and they are made of animal bone.”

This I knew from my days reading the encyclopedia: they’re actually a mixture of human teeth and ivory from elephants and hippos.

“General,” I call out. I figure I should get in the spirit and read the question on my name badge. “I mean no disrespect, General, but I have heard rumors you married for money. Is that true?”

Washington looks at me sternly.

“That is inappropriate, sir.”

“Sorry. I’m just reading what’s on the card.”

“The truth is that Mrs. Washington was an exceptionally wealthy widow . . . But sir, it was something very magical that transpired between us and I will leave it at that.”

Dean’s right. The Valley Forge folks set me up. The question is a very uncivil invasion of privacy. In fact, I’ve been thinking that just researching the life of Washington is an un-Washingtonian invasion of his privacy. Rule 18 warns us, for instance, not to read other people’s letters.

The problem is, much of what we know about George Washington is based on his private letters, released to the public
after his death. How would Washington feel about this? You think he’d be happy that we all know he apparently had a crush on Sally Fairfax, his married neighbor? He wrote her a letter saying, “The World has no business to know the object of my Love, declared in this manner to you when I want to conceal it.”

And what about the receipt for cantharides that was found among his letters? The other name for cantharides is Spanish fly. Biographer Paul Johnson argues that Washington might have needed the Spanish fly as a very primitive form of Viagra. (If Johnson is right, which I’m not sure he is, then the Washington Monument is the single most ironic tribute on planet Earth.)

With Washington, the dilemma we face is between a respect for his privacy and the importance of understanding history. And it seems history generally trumps privacy. Thank God I’m not going to be a great man. Poor Obama. In a hundred years, historians will be combing through his Google searches and pharmacy receipts.

By the way, Washington probably did marry partly for money.

The next morning, I meet Dean at his home, which sits on the border of a woody park in suburban Philadelphia. He greets me at the door wearing white shorts and a mustard-colored “Don’t Tread on Me” T-shirt, his long white hair freed from its ponytail.

“I hate the long hair,” he tells me. “But it’s all about accuracy. Men in Washington’s day wore wigs but Washington never did. He would powder his hair for formal events, but he would consider himself a soldier and a farmer. He did not wear a wig.”

We enter the house, and I’m met with an explosion of George Washington memorabilia. George Washington paintings on the wall. George Washington books on the shelves. George Washington
waistcoats and breeches in the closet. George Washington booze in the kitchen—Madeira was his drink of choice.

We sit down, and Dean tells me about life as Washington’s doppelganger. He’s quite busy, working at both Valley Forge and Mount Vernon, the latter gig coming to him after another Washington interpreter retired.

“They were actually considering a nationwide search,” Dean says.

“Really?” I say. “That could have been a good reality show.
America’s Next George Washington.”

“I hate reality television,” he says. “I actually have great distaste for most television. Portraying Washington has sensitized me with regard to the devolution of our world and our country. The lack of courtesy, the lack of civility, the lack of a self-starting populace. The whole idea of virtue and honor is becoming more and more difficult to find. So your comment about reality television strikes a nerve because it is the pus at the top of the pimple. It is everything that I hate.”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I don’t watch it much, either.”

I think I just got schooled. Hoping to redeem myself, I shift gears quickly. I ask him if he thinks I can learn from the 110 Rules.

“Yes. Just remember Washington’s personal credo: Deeds, not words. He may not have been the greatest thinker of his day, but he took the greatest ideas of his day and translated them into action.

“He tended to be very reticent and take in a lot without responding,” says Dean. “I cannot portray him that way. Or else I’d lose my audience.”

So was our first president really different from us? Was he really more civil and decent? Yes, says Dean. Just look at politicians today. “If George Washington knew that politicians in
America
run
for the presidency, he would be appalled. A gentleman does not run for president. He
stands
for the presidency. Running might make him less able to govern for the good of the people, and dispense justice.”

He also would have kept us from this economic mess we’re descending into. “In Washington’s Farewell Address, he warns us against mortgaging the future of our children and grandchildren. And that’s exactly what we’ve done.”

Dean’s so passionate about Washington, I feel guilty that I overlooked G.W. all these years. He says he thinks of Washington as the American Moses—the right man at the right time. And, like the seamstress/nurse from Seattle, Dean very civilly, very politely disses Jefferson: “The more one reads about Jefferson, the more one becomes aware of the great difference between his actions and his words.”