because its dwellers—excluding those in a small subsection to the east of Central Park—share a suspicion of the upper class and, by extension, exclusive societies. It’s a unifying aesthetic. We all fear that, at any given moment, the draft riots will break out again and we’ll be on the wrong side of an angry mob.
Gawker.com could only have been born in New York: While the rest of America worships celebrities, New Yorkers worship those who mock them.
For example, my college roommates, most of whom now livenear one another in the Triangle area of North Carolina, visit each other frequently—at book clubs, the country club. Among them are memberships to garden clubs, bridge clubs, the Junior League, the Terpsichoreans, Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Colonial Dames. I, meanwhile, share groceries with a few others in the office to save money and suddenly am the target of malicious derision. When coworkers pass the kitchen as we chop broccoli, they sneer sarcastically, “Oooohhh, it’s the
lunch club
! I wasn’t invited. I guess I’m not good enough to be part of the
lunch club
—boo hoo hoo!” Other words I’ve been told were used behind my back: “precious,” “exclusive,” “obnoxious,” “stupid,” and “twee.” Raw cabbage and a can of beans are twee? Maybe in a Charles Dickens novel.
The point is, no one in New York wants to be a part of your stupid club.
It didn’t take long for this sentiment to rub off on me. My mom says I’ve turned into a “reverse snob,” which cuts me to the quick—not because she’s wrong, but because, by categorizing me as its opposite, she still defines me on a snob’s terms.
This is not to say that New Yorkers don’t exercise common courtesies. Even the crudest thug will give his subway seat to a pregnant woman. But he didn’t learn to do so from his parents—the rule is printed on a poster on the subway wall. Mayor Bloomberg thought it was rude to blow smoke in the faces of strangers, so he passed legislation banning cigarettes in public places. Up here, the manners we exercise are simply called laws. And the ramifications of the NYPD justice system are far more painful than being cut from the Hawthornes’ Christmas-card list.
But laws, of course, are an extension of “necessity,” a word you will never find in a manners book (unless it’s been grossly misused). Then again, the plush world of my youth embraces a differentunderstanding of needs: In addition to oxygen, water, food, and shelter, the list also includes decorative soaps shaped like their owner’s dog. Such superfluities are the blessings of a good life. Unfortunately, they don’t travel well. For example, if Aunt Jane finds her food bland, and spies a shaker on the other side of her husband, she will not ask, “Lucius, will you pass the salt?” Instead, she asks, “Lucius, will you have some salt?”
“No thank you,” he responds. “Will you have some salt?”
“Yes, please. Thank you,” she says. And he passes it to her.
That’s the rule: You always offer whatever you want to someone else first. But in order to get it back, the other person has to know the routine. If Aunt Jane moved to New York, she’d become known as that strange lady who offered everyone seasonings. She’d either have to give up salt or carry some in her purse.
People up here don’t understand niceties; anything extraneous is suspected of betraying an ulterior motive. Once, when I called a coworker’s mother “ma’am,” she responded, “Are you buttering me up?” Other responses I’ve heard to “ma’am” include “I’m not that old” and “Do I look like I run a brothel?” Eventually I broke the habit; actually I’ve shattered more than a few. That means when I go home, I have to pull my manners out of storage, slip out of my rented ghost costume, zip on a great big smile, and recalibrate the tenor of my voice to say with gusto, “Hey y’all!”
This is a bit dishonest,
Gawker.com could only have been born in New York: While the rest of America worships celebrities, New Yorkers worship those who mock them.
For example, my college roommates, most of whom now livenear one another in the Triangle area of North Carolina, visit each other frequently—at book clubs, the country club. Among them are memberships to garden clubs, bridge clubs, the Junior League, the Terpsichoreans, Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Colonial Dames. I, meanwhile, share groceries with a few others in the office to save money and suddenly am the target of malicious derision. When coworkers pass the kitchen as we chop broccoli, they sneer sarcastically, “Oooohhh, it’s the
lunch club
! I wasn’t invited. I guess I’m not good enough to be part of the
lunch club
—boo hoo hoo!” Other words I’ve been told were used behind my back: “precious,” “exclusive,” “obnoxious,” “stupid,” and “twee.” Raw cabbage and a can of beans are twee? Maybe in a Charles Dickens novel.
The point is, no one in New York wants to be a part of your stupid club.
It didn’t take long for this sentiment to rub off on me. My mom says I’ve turned into a “reverse snob,” which cuts me to the quick—not because she’s wrong, but because, by categorizing me as its opposite, she still defines me on a snob’s terms.
This is not to say that New Yorkers don’t exercise common courtesies. Even the crudest thug will give his subway seat to a pregnant woman. But he didn’t learn to do so from his parents—the rule is printed on a poster on the subway wall. Mayor Bloomberg thought it was rude to blow smoke in the faces of strangers, so he passed legislation banning cigarettes in public places. Up here, the manners we exercise are simply called laws. And the ramifications of the NYPD justice system are far more painful than being cut from the Hawthornes’ Christmas-card list.
But laws, of course, are an extension of “necessity,” a word you will never find in a manners book (unless it’s been grossly misused). Then again, the plush world of my youth embraces a differentunderstanding of needs: In addition to oxygen, water, food, and shelter, the list also includes decorative soaps shaped like their owner’s dog. Such superfluities are the blessings of a good life. Unfortunately, they don’t travel well. For example, if Aunt Jane finds her food bland, and spies a shaker on the other side of her husband, she will not ask, “Lucius, will you pass the salt?” Instead, she asks, “Lucius, will you have some salt?”
“No thank you,” he responds. “Will you have some salt?”
“Yes, please. Thank you,” she says. And he passes it to her.
That’s the rule: You always offer whatever you want to someone else first. But in order to get it back, the other person has to know the routine. If Aunt Jane moved to New York, she’d become known as that strange lady who offered everyone seasonings. She’d either have to give up salt or carry some in her purse.
People up here don’t understand niceties; anything extraneous is suspected of betraying an ulterior motive. Once, when I called a coworker’s mother “ma’am,” she responded, “Are you buttering me up?” Other responses I’ve heard to “ma’am” include “I’m not that old” and “Do I look like I run a brothel?” Eventually I broke the habit; actually I’ve shattered more than a few. That means when I go home, I have to pull my manners out of storage, slip out of my rented ghost costume, zip on a great big smile, and recalibrate the tenor of my voice to say with gusto, “Hey y’all!”
This is a bit dishonest,
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