The Guinea Pig Diaries (16 page)

As I leave, we bump into Dean’s wife, Debby, who works in Jewish education in Philly. I ask her how she likes being married to George Washington. She hates the hair, but overall it’s a pretty fun life.

“Just don’t call her Martha or she’ll sock you in the jaw,” Dean says.

“What’s wrong with Martha?”

“She was old and chubby and was about this high,” says Debbie.

I promise not to call her Martha.

“Remember,” Dean says, as he bids me good-bye. “Deeds. Not words.”

WALK LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON

My meeting with Dean made me realize one huge secret to Washington’s success: his appearance. He just looked dignified.
He strode the earth like a great man. Even before our CNN-saturated era, appearances counted.

Washington had a born advantage in the dignity department: he was tall, about six foot two, which was gargantuan back then. A cranky John Adams (who was five feet seven) once whined that Washington’s height won him the presidency. Adams grumbled that, like King Saul, Washington was “chosen because he was taller by the head than the other Jews.”

But Washington carried that towering frame with aplomb. “There is not a monarch in Europe who would not look like a
valet de chambre
by his side,” said Benjamin Rush, a Founding Father and doctor.

I’ve decided deportment is an appropriate place to start the Washington Project. I’ll begin with the exterior and move on to the mind. It’s in the spirit of the Rules. An impressive 47 of the 110 Rules focus on exteriors: how to walk, how to sit, how to smile.

Namely:

No fidgeting or bouncing of the legs

No shaking the head

Sit with your feet firmly planted on the floor, not crossed

And the face! The gentleman in Colonial times wore a Botox-like visage.

Rule 12: “Roll not the eyes; lift not one eyebrow higher than the other, wry not the mouth.”

It’s the first day of my experiment, and
I’m doing my best to walk around New York like George Washington
. It’s not easy. I feel like my body is a colt, and I’m a cowboy trying to break it.

I’m standing up straight. More than straight. Dean instructed
me on the proper posture in Washington’s day: chest thrust out, shoulders back, very Dudley Do-Right.

In my regular life, I amble around looking like Hominid No. 3 in those evolution charts. Partly, it’s out of laziness. But partly, it feels odd to me to thrust out my chest, almost presumptuous. During my biblical year, I learned that the Talmud suggests that we
not
walk in a jaunty, upright manner. Be humble in your posture, it says. Stooped shoulders were a sign of respect.

No more of that. I shall stand tall. And it’s strange—a rigid posture does make me feel more decisive, more confident. I feel like issuing some executive orders.

“I’ll have four C batteries, please,” I intone to the pharmacy guy, my delivery crisp.

“Yes, sir.”

Has he ever called me “sir”? I don’t think so.

I keep my face still. Washington was the original stone face. Some historians say Washington’s elaborate dentures—a contraption involving metal springs—were so uncomfortable, they forced his mouth into the dour position you see on the front of the dollar bill. But he was also just following the Rules.

“The idea of these etiquette laws were to set themselves apart from the common people,” says C. Dallett Hemphill, author of a history of American manners,
Bowing to Necessities,
whom I’d called to get some perspective. “You wanted to have self-mastery, so you could demonstrate to the uncouth that you had self-control. And controlling the body and face was part of this self-mastery. Washington was famous for his self-mastery.”

Julie didn’t notice my new controlled face—at least not consciously—until the weekend. It was my niece’s bat mitzvah. There was a photo booth. Julie asked me to join her, so I went in with her and she pulled the curtain. The camera flashed four times.

The photos came back with her sticking out her tongue à la Gene Simmons and crossing her eyes, while I stared ahead serenely, not smiling, not frowning, like a department store mannequin.

She looked at me, disbelieving.

“I am trying not to loll the tongue or wry the mouth,” I said.

At which she violated Rule 12 and rolled her eyes.

STAY ALOOF LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON

It’s been a week. I’m being as civil as I can—lots of pleases and thank-yous, standing up when people return to the table, no spitting in the sink when I wash my hands. But I’m already having second thoughts about this experiment.

I want to be more civil, yes. But do I want to be like George Washington? Here are the adjectives his biographers use:
aloof, reserved,
even
arctic.

He’d happily sit in silence at the dinner table. He didn’t often toss back ale with his soldiers because he thought it’d erode his dignity. After the meal, he’d sometimes read the newspaper aloud to guests, which doesn’t sound like a fun Friday night. And let me tell you, if you hung out with him, you weren’t going to be spewing a lot of milk through your nose. The man wasn’t much for jokes. (George Washington’s biographers always point out a couple of gags he made during his life, just to show he’s human. My favorite is in a letter he wrote to a just-married friend. Washington advised him to “make the first onset upon his fair Del Toboso with vigor, that the impression may be deep, if it cannot be lasting or frequently renewed.” That’s the closest G.W. got to working blue.)

I like the idea of being civil. But does it require me to be an ice king? How closely aligned are dignity and keeping your distance?
Because, as the professor points out, yes, the idea of etiquette is partly about respect—but it’s also partly about elitism.
No sir, I’m not like those rubes. I’ve got me some manners.

DRINK LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON

Luckily, there are enough inspiring tales in my Washington biographies to keep me going. Yesterday, a week into the project, I read about one of my favorite examples of his civility:

After the British surrendered at Yorktown, the general told his men, “Do not cheer. History will huzzah for us.” I’m not sure how his troops felt about this—“Um, we’d really like to huzzah now”—but it’s a beautiful and noble thought.

And it’s straight out of the Rules: “Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another though he were your enemy.”

I try it out tonight. Julie and I go out to dinner with our friends Paul and Lisa. The drinks arrive.

“Here’s to the self-destruction of the Republican Party,” says Paul, lifting his beer.

We’re in the middle of the Obama/McCain presidential race, and the Republicans do seem to be intent on immolating themselves.

Lisa raises her glass. Julie raises hers. I refuse.

“You’re a Republican now?”

“No, I just don’t think it’s civil to gloat.”

Paul lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“You know, I think he’s got a point,” says Julie. She puts her glass down. Yes! Support from Julie during one of my experiments—that’s heaven.

“Fine. What would you like to toast to?”

“Freedom from mobs as well as kings.” A traditional Founding Fathers toast.

It’s interesting. The Rules don’t forbid you from feeling gleeful at your enemy’s demise. The rule is, Don’t
show
that you’re gleeful. It’s almost the opposite of Radical Honesty. Put an extreme filter between your brain and your mouth.

The Rules are like cognitive therapy—behave civilly, and eventually you’ll think civilly. The Rules are a rejection of what Richard Brookhiser, in his excellent intro to a 1997 reprinting of the 110 Rules, calls the “cult of authenticity.” Why should we show all our emotions? Why should we always try to be true to our natural selves? What if our natural selves are assholes? Stalin was true to himself.

In times like these, I love Washington’s repression. Or, as he might say, self-mastery.

GREET LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON

George Washington hated shaking hands—another mark in his favor. At receptions, he’d stand with one hand on his sword and one hand holding a tricorner hat, leaving zero hands available for shaking. And Dean Malissa told me the hat wasn’t even a real hat. It was specially made with a hole in it to hide his hand.

As a mild OCD sufferer, I support Washington completely. His handshake-phobia, however, came a few decades before the germ theory. It was all part of his aloofness and dislike of physical contact. Washington preferred the old-school greeting: bowing, in accordance with Rule 26: “Make a reverence, bowing more or less according to the custom of the better bred.”

So I’ve decided to follow suit. When I visited him, Dean gave me a tutorial:

“When you bow, you must sit back on your rear leg. Oh, and we have no monarchy in this country, so you keep your eyes straight. You look into the eyes.

“If you’re bowing formally, you put your best foot forward and you turn out your toes to present your calf. If you’re bowing to a man, your calf projects your power. If you’re bowing to a woman, your calf projects something else.”

Something else? What something else? Was there a saying, the bigger the calf, the bigger the . . .

Dean smiles mysteriously. (He later told me that’s exactly what he meant. Legend has it there were even prosthetic wooden calves you could stuff in your socks to appear more manly.)

For the last week, I’ve avoided handshakes altogether in favor of the bow. There’s been a clear split in reactions.

There are the reciprocators. I met this lawyer at a cocktail party my wife took me to.

“This is Alex, he’s a friend of Barbara’s.”

Alex stuck out his hand.

I did a quick, shallow bow. He looked startled. And then he did an even deeper bow.

I took that as a challenge and executed the full Dean Malissa lean-back-and-present-your-calf-and-bend-90-degrees-at-the-waist bow.

He responded with a graceful arm swoop and a doffing of his baseball cap.

On the other hand, there are the insulted. Yesterday, I met my friend David for lunch, and he brought his business associate Terry, whom I’d never met. Terry stuck out his hand. I ignored it, and bowed to him, presenting my calf. He looked startled.

He kept holding out his hand. He would not take it down.

I bowed again, this time more quickly.

And yet that hand—it stayed out there.

I bowed a short cursory bow, just a little head dip.

“You want me to say something in Japanese?”

“I’m trying not to shake hands.”

“It’s all right. You can shake hands.”

“No, I’m trying not to.”

“Come on.”

We stood there for ten seconds, playing chicken with the salutations. Finally, he took down his hand, but the lunch was halting and awkward.

Historically, the handshake was seen as a democratic gesture. William Penn was a big proponent, and scandalized some upper-crust types by shaking hands with Indians. But nowadays, I think the bow has more benefits. Though it may seem pretentious, it’s actually deeply humbling. Just lowering yourself before someone—the universal symbol of modesty—makes you feel more respectful. Behavior shapes your thoughts.

REFRAIN FROM ANGER LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON

George Washington is known for controlling his emotions. What’s remarkable about this is what a struggle it must have been for him. He wasn’t born with a Zen attitude. Just the opposite. Below his placid exterior, he was a burbling witch’s cauldron of emotions.

And when he did lose control—which was more often than he liked—oh man it was ugly. “Few sounds on earth could compare with that of General Washington swearing a blue streak,” wrote his private secretary.

Gilbert Stuart—the artist who painted the portrait on the
dollar bill—said he saw in Washington’s face “the strongest and most ungovernable passions, and had he been born in the forests, it was [my] opinion that he would have been the fiercest man among the savage tribes.”

But as the Rules say, “Use no reproachful language against anyone, neither curse nor revile,” and “In all causes of passion, permit reason to govern.”

I worked on restraining my wrath during my Bible year, but it’s a struggle that’s never over. Today I get my chance to practice Washington-style anger management. Here’s what happened: since I have no office, and since I have three extremely loud boys, my mother-in-law lends me her studio apartment when she’s away on a trip. I go there during the days to write.

Last week, she came back a day early, before I’d had a chance to clean up the empty soda cans and dishes.

She was not happy. I called to apologize, which was the Washingtonian thing to do: he could be great at saying sorry.

“Hello, Barbara. It’s your son-in-law calling to apologize.”

“This is not working out,” she says. “We have different standards of cleanliness. You’re going to have to find somewhere else to work.”

“Well, I know I made a mistake, but—”

Damn. My cell phone cut out. I dial her back. She answers.

“Hi, Barbara. Sorry about that, my cell phone seems to have died.”

“No, it didn’t. I hung up.”

“You hung up on me?”

“I said what I wanted to say, and then I hung up.”

“Wow.”

Now, normally, my reaction would have been mild annoyance mixed with amusement. She’s a character, my mother-in-law. The first words I ever heard her utter were “I need a drink.”
(She’d had a bad parking experience.) So generally I’m able to enjoy her quirks.

But I’m hyperaware of manners right now. And to get hung up on? That was rude.
Highly
uncivil. I’ve been treated better by parking cops.

I start to sweat. I punch in her number, ready to reproach her and curse and revile. Wait. I can’t do that. Follow George Washington’s lead. I click off.

That afternoon, I sit down to write a letter to Barbara. I love the Colonial style of writing—the roundabout phraseology. “It is not without reluctance that I bring this up,” I start. “But I wanted to endeavor to elucidate my concern.”