Amiss Manners by Lisa Kijewski graphic by Michelle Fields I'd be the first person to admit that I had too much time on my hands during the most recent winter break. By the time the New Year rolled in, I had watched enough infomercials that my birthday wish list included a JuiceMan, a Food Dehydrator, and a TotalGym. At that point I decided to tear myself away from the television; no longer would I be seduced by the inventions of Ron Popeil -- not even the Automatic Homemade Pasta Machine. Instead, I decided to embark upon the formidable task of cleaning my room -- closets included. In the process, I came across an assortment of college guides that I had consulted a few years ago to make the all-important decision of which university to attend. Intrigued by the insight that always accompanies experience, I reviewed the stereotypes that recurred in descriptions of U.Va. A 1994 edition of the Insider's Guide to the Colleges, for example, said that U.Va. students' diligence in academic pursuits "is almost always masked by a laid-back attitude." A student was quoted in the same guide as saying that "it's hip to do well if it seems like you did it without breaking a sweat." That observation seemed largely accurate, so I continued to compare the books' generalizations with my own collegiate experiences. A Princeton Review guide maintained that "movies set at idealized college campuses might very well take place at U.Va. Students here are clean-scrubbed, well-dressed, and good-looking." I could attest to the validity of that remark with little hesitation. Another guide concluded that "scholars are grateful for the existence of U.Va., and so are the shareholders of J. Crew and Laura Ashley." Abercrombie & Fitch wasn't yet de rigeur at the time of this book's publication; still, if you forgive that omission, the observation seemed at least somewhat on target. Up until that point, every vignette I encountered encapsulated U.Va. with astounding accuracy. I couldn't decide whether to attribute the validity of the claims I read to the journalistic acuity of the books' editors or to the perennial homogeneity of much of the student body. But then I reviewed another student's reflection on life at a southern university. "I'm from the North," she said, "and when I go home, I actually expect my mother to walk around to the other side of the car and open the door for me. The guys here are total gentlemen." Four years ago, that snippet prompted me to send in my deposit to U.Va. instead of its northern counterparts. As the graduate of an all-girls' preparatory school, I had limited experience interacting with men on any sort of regular basis, and I certainly had no experience with "gentlemen." Unfortunately, when I think about the anonymous student who made the comment, hindsight has left me wondering what school she was attending. Did the intervening years between 1994 and 1998 witness the rapid decline and subsequent death of exceptionally good manners? Had she been spending time in a different part of the South? What was it that rendered her experience so different (so very different) from my own? It would be a mistake, however, to consider only dating behavior to determine whether or not good manners are still en vogue among twenty-somethings in 1998. The wearisome debate surrounding the presence or absence of "chivalry" diverts attention from the real issue: common courtesy should be visible in all interpersonal interaction -- regardless of the context -- but it is often sorely lacking, especially among our generation. Regional stereotypes also fail to shed any light on the issue. A few months ago I asked a U.Va. alumnus about the transition from life in Charlottesville to the more competitive atmosphere at a northern law school. When I pressed him to elaborate upon the differences between the respective student bodies, he said, "You're from Pennsylvania. Didn't you find when you came down to Virginia that people were generally nicer in the South?" I considered his question seriously, and I came to the conclusion that ostensible friendliness undoubtedly abounds at U.Va. After all, the phrase "y'all" can't help but sound friendly, and its use immediately establishes a level of amicability that is almost always endearing. Eye contact and smiling between strangers en route to class probably happens at U.Va. more regularly than at other universities. Indeed, a predominantly affable environment may prevail in the Academical Village, but it is not necessarily accompanied by a healthy regard for common courtesy. But does the flagrant wanting of manners at U.Va. suggest that the predominant regional stereotypes are inaccurate or that college campuses are somehow immune to them? Anyone familiar with collegiate stereotypes might conclude that U.Va. is a sort of impenetrable haven of good manners, taste, decorum, and old-fashioned southern charm; anyone who spends an extended period of time living and working here, however, could undoubtedly cite at least one behavioral trend amidst the student body that suggests our reputation for courtesy (if only by our association with the South) is largely undeserved. The fact remains: an absence of person-to-person courtesy seems to dominate life at U.Va., regardless of its location below the Mason-Dixon. Perhaps my own background makes my perspective somewhat biased. In an all-girls' Catholic high school, "Thou shalt not chew gum in class" is universally regarded as the Eleventh Commandment, and talking during an assembly the eighth deadly sin. With a student body of approximately 300, instances of improper etiquette could be sought out and promptly punished. If an intolerance for disrespect wasn't one of my inherent traits, it was definitely cultivated by the experiences that preceded my time in Charlottesville. Admittedly, I might be hypersensitive to conduct that most people wouldn't even notice. It's almost impossible, however, to tune out the vociferous contingent in almost every large class that insists upon talking at normal conversational tone during the middle of a lecture. In some cases, the two or three people who come to class to chat sit in the back row of the classroom, as though that somehow mitigates the obnoxiousness of their behavior. Unfortunately, it doesn't. Invariably, the conversation topics are never in any way related to the class going on; in fact, I firmly believe the reason why U.Va. never seems like a large, impersonal public university is that students feel remarkably comfortable talking about just about anything, in almost any setting. I've learned a lot about my peers in classes ostensibly designed for my academic pursuits; for example, in a literature class I'm taking this semester, I heard all about the nice young man sitting two seats away from me -- his LSAT prep course, the law schools to which he hoped to apply, his girlfriend (well okay, she wasn't his girlfriend per se. He had met her at a fraternity party, and they had hooked up. He was calling her pretty regularly, but he wasn't sure how you'd classify their relationship because she was trying to keep this long-distance thing going with someone at another school). Finding myself an unintended participant in this conversation and making a genuine attempt to focus on the professor in the front of the room, I looked (okay, glared) at the outspoken law-school hopeful, hoping he would interpret my subtle nonverbal communication and lower the volume of his speech by a few decibels. No such luck. Maybe it's just me, but if I knew that I wasn't going to take a single note during an entire class, but was planning instead on using the 50 minutes to catch up with friends, I wouldn't even bother with the charade of going to class. Unfortunately, deprived of an opportunity to socialize with long lost friends in large lecture classes, most people resort to a more obvious choice -- libraries and computer labs. Why not? After all, only the first and second floors of Clemons are the "Quiet Zone," and if you can watch movies on the fourth floor, you might as well have a party complete with pizza and a six-pack there, because no one is actually trying to concentrate on that floor. If you walk down two floors and enter the "Quiet Zone," you'll notice that the signs welcoming your arrival request simply that you refrain from talking. The signs, as I discovered the other day, don't say a thing about whistling. Someone else discovered this loophole, so I (and the rest of the second floor) once had the pleasure of studying to a masterfully whistled rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Still, there will be those who choose to study in one of the Quiet Zones, and those who are forced by circumstances to study there. If you fall into either category, pray that you never find yourself in an emergency that requires the use of a Clemons "courtesy phone." The term "courtesy phone" might indeed apply to comparable devices in other public places, but in Clemons Library, it would be more accurate to call them "Call Your Significant Other, Catch Up On Your Day, Work Out the Troubled Nuances of Your Relationship, and Make Dinner Plans (While the Person Behind You Waits Anxiously to Check His/Her PhoneMail) phones." So if you can't sing, whistle, socialize, or make phone calls in classes or libraries, what options remain for the communication-starved U.Va. student? Fortunately, you can always stop right in the middle of crowded hallways or narrow sidewalks during class changes -- an option for congregating en masse that seems to be burgeoning in popularity. And why not? Why step to the side and let others pass by if you're trying to have a conversation? It's not your fault you're popular and gregarious. Besides, if you stay put, and people have to get around you somehow, the student body as a whole will become measurably better at pushing. You have to be good at pushing at U.Va., especially if you intend to use the University Transit System (which I highly recommend if you've ever wanted to know what it feels like to be a herd animal). At UTS stops, the unspoken rule that those who have been waiting at the stop for the longest (accepted universally as the "first-come, first-served" rule) gets discarded in favor of the rule that gives priority to those with the most upper-body strength. This, of course, makes perfect sense; the underlying logic seems to be that those who were at the bus stop ever since the last bus departed actually deserve to get pushed around, because they were too lazy to walk to class to begin with. Besides, no one wants to miss the excitement of the "everybody-step-BAAAAACCCCKKKK-I-can't-drive- anywhere-until-everyone-is behind-the-white-line" sequence. You'll want to have a seat for that, so you can look out the window and laugh at the poor fool who has to haul ass because he couldn't get behind the damn white line. Though I've already admitted that I might have more gripes about disrespect than the average person, I know I'm not alone in the contention that our generation could stand to have a few explicit etiquette reminders thrown our way. On the first day of classes last semester, one Commerce school professor began his class with a plea for person-to-person courtesy during the course of the semester. He even explained his prohibition of in-class eating, and the syllabus reinforced the notion that it was disquieting to the entire class to hear the crunch of an apple in the middle of lecture. Despite his best efforts to encourage good manners from day one, a student in this class arrived each morning armed not only with an apple, but often a multi-course breakfast. Midway through a lecture on pricing strategy, she methodically would arrange on her desk space a Greenberry's coffee mug, yogurt, a spoon, napkins -- I distinctly remember soup and crackers on one occasion. This was a 9:30 class, and I had to wonder, if she had to pack all of these items so that she could arrange a spread during lecture, couldn't she make time to eat it before coming to class? I secretly hoped my professor would follow through with his initial warning and summarily take the food items for his own consumption. He didn't, but I applaud his good intentions. It was through my professor's failed attempt at instilling a regard for common courtesy that I discovered the fundamental difference between high school and college and how it relates to plummeting standards of interpersonal conduct: in high school, you behave a certain way because you're told to, and if you fail to conform to the preordained boundaries, mechanisms like demerits and detention provide the needed incentive for reform. In college, no comparable incentive exists that would inspire the extra effort needed to display a concern for someone else's well-being. In a world without demerits, college students are left with only the Golden Rule to govern their behavior in day-to-day activities -- a rule that, alas, seems woefully outdated. Evidence of exceptional courtesy is increasingly the exception in a largely self-indulgent collegiate environment. I still wonder about the woman who was quoted in the college guide that stoked my enthusiasm for an ultra-considerate college experience. When she goes home, she expects her mother to walk around to the other side of the car and open her door for her. Presumably, her expectations arise from the level of conduct to which she has become accustomed at her school. When I go home, I automatically expect to feel a plastic tray wedged between my shoulder blades on the way to my dinner table, and that the people around me will use primarily expletives in their conversations. But then I remember I'm home: the line for the phone is considerably shorter.

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