I need to get something off my chest.
I think like, 90% of social decorum is horseshit.
This week was our DE&I day at work. Mindy Kaling was our speaker and so naturally, everyone was energized by her celebrity, ready to get vulnerable about identity in the post-presentation huddle. We examined one of those diversity wheels that HR people use for corporate team-building activities. It looked something like this:
(In fact, I’m pretty sure it was exactly this.)
Anyway, people were sharing and thanking each other for sharing and I had one of those proud moments to work for a diverse organization, on a caring, open-minded team. But the more I heard leadership express interest in learning “who you are on the outer wheel,” the more I imagined myself taking them up on that and being rejected. Not in a blatant or malicious way. But in the suffocating awkwardness that comes with breaching contracts of social decorum.
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Imagine being at the work happy hour and discussing anything other than work, or the sterile bits of your life outside the office. “Yep, the family’s good!” “Oh, I LOVED season 2 of White Lotus!” This is how we bond. In our blazers, over Sauvignon Blanc, this is how we find commonality: by doing everything in our power to avoid being the person who gets a little too personal.
It reminds me why I loved my time as a bartender so much. And working in urban education. (Though, I would not recommend doing both at once if you value your sleep schedule.) Everyone wears their struggles on their sleeves; we all enthusiastically play a role in alleviating them. Those kinds of “we’re all family” atmospheres fucking crack open your identity and spill it like Long Island iced tea. Because in the bar, it doesn’t matter that you are a high-power attorney and I am a broke fundraiser who’s serving you to make ends meet: your wife left you and my mom taught me to hate my body and somewhere in the sticky air between us is a common language.
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Yesterday I had a doctor’s appointment. Over the evolution of social decorum, we’ve been taught to treat doctors like gods. To be meek in their all-knowing presence and get shuffled out accordingly. Not only does this feed the kind of emotional disconnect in patient care that discourages people from going to the hospital, but it perpetuates prestige as a virtue.
I’ve taken it upon myself to be real casual at the doctor’s office. This doesn’t mean disrespecting their knowledge/authority. It means speaking honestly without fear of judgment, and confidently presenting myself as a full person with a personality and feelings. Yesterday I lucked out and had a doctor who matched my energy. And it was precisely our easy, familiar banter—despite meeting for the first time—that yielded the care I needed. And the connective experience I’d hoped for.
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It doesn’t take me long to know whether I can be friends with someone. Sure, I like most people. But to really feel that cosmic kinship, I need to know you’re equally committed to squashing standards of decorum.
I met Kylee for the first time in a cafe. She was a writer and a mutual friend had shown her my blog, so we decided to get together. As we approached the register and I asked what kind of coffee she wanted, she replied, “oh, I’m getting chai. If I have coffee right now, I’ll probably shit myself.” This is unusual for anyone to say the first time meeting. But this drop dead stunning girl??? Get the fuck out, bestie.
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I don’t know. I never want to cross people’s boundaries, or make anyone’s job or life more difficult. I just wish we were more honest with each other. More normal!
We talk about sentimentality like it’s a disease but maybe, just maybe if we embraced the enormity of every passing exchange and stopped clinging to feeling “comfortable” all the time, we could see the truth: that you are me and I am you.
I love a good 4th wall break opener to an awkward meeting. Sometimes I like the decorum because it’s a crème brûlée top to crack and I’m just the spoon to do it. 😈
I’m convinced you could write the Communist Manifesto but Karl Marx could never write this