chinese broccoli

It’s not a shocking statement to say that among my social circles (and my adopted countrymen in general) I’m considered more on the brash end of the scale. I prefer “straightforward”, others may prefer the more explicit term “rude”. Secretly I like to think Canadians enjoy having a mouthy American in the group. Like I always say, who else is going to send the food back?

That said, I’ve been trying for some years now — well, let’s start with my column in the eighth grade newsletter — to establish myself in the tradition of the world’s finest etiquette columnists. Though my use of the plural there is a bit disingenuous: I don’t think anyone comes close to Miss Manners, and I don’t really bother reading anyone else these days. Her biweekly column and amazing legacy of books are imbued with not only a staunchly proper code of conduct but a beautifully humanitarian set of ethics. Etiquette, Ms. Martin taught me at a young age, is not in fact a set of rules established to alienate economic classes unfamiliar with the proper use of cocktail forks, but rather, when used correctly, is society’s great unifier. Manners include rather than exclude; they teach by guidance and example rather than admonishment, they smooth over awkwardness rather than create it, and most importantly, they dictate that we must each respect one another. It is this respect that keeps society from entirely running off the rails, people extinguishing their chewing gum in one another’s hair, cussing at little kittens, et cetera.

Although Miss Manners is my hero, I will admit that my own personal sense of right and wrong tends to swing more towards the indignant, “what the fuck?” variety — and I’ll concede that the niche market of snarky etiquette delivery does have a certain cache.

But even I of the shouting-you’re-welcome-behind-your-back school was surprised to have the tables turned the other day when, upon the subway, I was “your welcome’d”! That’s right — I took a seat and the woman who had “let me” squeeze past her — because she’d selfishly chosen to sit on the outside seat of a two-seater — sneeringly said “you’re welcome” to me as I took my seat. On public transportation.

Had I been in a movie and tried to squish my way past someone towards a more premium seat, or perhaps had I even felt I had brushed her or entered her personal space, I would absolutely have said “pardon me!” as I walked past. Heck, I’d do it even after tripping over the knees of a family of twelve at a baseball game for the tenth time that inning. But to be chastised with saccharine for not asking permission to get into a seat that someone had deliberately made difficult to access (she sat down seconds before me)? That’s a new one. The thing is, she clearly thinks she’s making the world a better place, too, by going around letting me know how rude I am. I’ve known for a long time that the whole “leading by example” thing is better than correcting, but, you know, since I’m always right I figured it was at least a little more okay when I did it. But I think I’m going to have to go back to the drawing board with the whole reforming society thing. Or, you know, sharpen my elbows up some.