The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment

by A. J. Jacobs

  In other words, be aware of the consequences of your actions on others. An elegant notion that’s often ignored in our era of unabashed individualism.

  Rule 2 is this:

  When in company, put not your hands to any part of the body not usually discovered.

  That’s right. The second rule that formed the character of our first president? Do not touch your pecker in public.

  Turns out this advice is so important, and the habit so rampant among eighteenth-century men, it merits repeating just a few rules later.

  Rule 11: Shift not yourself in the sight of others.

  Okay? No pocket pool, as we called it in eighth grade. And ladies, no adjusting the bra straps.

  This much is clear: the list has quite a range.

  Some rules are general, some wildly specific. Some reflect the era, some could have been written this morning. And they will affect every part of my existence:

  • The way I talk (“mock not at anything important,” “speak not of doleful things in a time of mirth or at the table”)

  • The way I think (“in all causes of passion, let reason govern”)

  • The way I laugh (not “too much at any public spectacle”)

  • The way I squash bugs (“kill no vermin, or fleas, lice, ticks, etc., in the sight of others”)

  • The way I sit (“keep your feet firm and even”)

  • The way I eat (don’t complain about the food, don’t “gaze about while you are drinking”)

  • The way I treat my friends (“Show nothing to your friend that may affright him”)

  • The way I treat my bosses (“In company of those of higher quality than yourself, speak not ’til you are asked a question”)

  Oh, and by the way, I will not be spitting for the next few weeks. Washington’s Rules were very opposed to spitting. And if I see spittle on the ground, I should “dexterously cover it up” with my foot. (For the full list of 110 Rules, see Appendix A.)

  BASIC TRAINING

  Before I try to spend a few weeks behaving like George Washington, I figure I’ll consult a man whose full-time job is to behave like Washington. His name is Dean Malissa. He’s the Sean Penn of George Washington impersonators. Or interpreters, I found out later. That’s the preferred term.

  Malissa agrees to meet me and invites me to see him in action at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. So on a late September day, I join a group tour at Valley Forge. I’m standing next to Phineas Folger, a Quaker merchant who is wearing a Huskies baseball cap and is getting sunscreen applied to his face by his mom.

  We’ve all been assigned a Colonial character to portray—it’s part of the tour’s living-history shtick. I’m Charles Carter, a “gentleman of the highest honor.”

  On my other side is a seamstress named Abigail (aka Irene, a nurse from Seattle). She looks like a naturally aged Diane Keaton—and she’s a Washington groupie. She spends her vacations visiting places where Washington has slept. I tell her about my project on the rules of civility.

  “That’s what I love about George Washington,” she says. “He embodies those rules. He was virtuous. He did things for the right reasons—out of service.”

  She pauses.

  “Not like that Jefferson. He liked to stir things up. He’d do something awful, then say ’it wasn’t me!’”

  Irene throws up her hands in mock “What? I’m innocent!” pose.

  We stop for a Colonial-themed dinner (the dessert includes Martha Washington’s coconut balls, which caused some snickering among the teenage congressional delegates). And then we walk to Washington’s headquarters. The door swings open and out strides George dressed in smart yellow pants and a blue waistcoat. It’s kind of startling how much Dean looks like our first president. He breaks six feet, has the president’s substantial nose, and a mane of white hair tied behind his head. (Later, I’ll learn that his Achilles heel is eye color—Washington had blue, Dean has brown. For close-up film work, Dean puts in blue contact lenses.)

  “What I am about to share is of the utmost sensitivity and I need to be certain that all of you will keep this confidence,” says Dean-as-Washington.

  He tells us that his spies inform him that the British plan to evacuate Philadelphia imminently. They’ve ordered all their laundry to be returned immediately.

  “My friends, we entreat your fervent prayers.”

  And now, he’ll take questions.

  On the back of our name badges, the Valley Forge folks have suggested questions for our characters to ask General Washington.

  The delegate from New York asks the old chestnut: “Are your teeth made out of wood?”

  “No, they are not,” replies Washington. “I have problems with my teeth because my father had very bad teeth. I also like to crack Brazil nuts with my teeth and that’s not a very smart thing to do. I do have false teeth and they are made of animal bone.”

  This I knew from my days reading the encyclopedia: they’re actually a mixture of human teeth and ivory from elephants and hippos.

  “General,” I call out. I figure I should get in the spirit and read the question on my name badge. “I mean no disrespect, General, but I have heard rumors you married for money. Is that true?”

  Washington looks at me sternly.

  “That is inappropriate, sir.”

  “Sorry. I’m just reading what’s on the card.”

  “The truth is that Mrs. Washington was an exceptionally wealthy widow . . . But sir, it was something very magical that transpired between us and I will leave it at that.”

  Dean’s right. The Valley Forge folks set me up. The question is a very uncivil invasion of privacy. In fact, I’ve been thinking that just researching the life of Washington is an un-Washingtonian invasion of his privacy. Rule 18 warns us, for instance, not to read other people’s letters.

  The problem is, much of what we know about George Washington is based on his private letters, released to the public after his death. How would Washington feel about this? You think he’d be happy that we all know he apparently had a crush on Sally Fairfax, his married neighbor? He wrote her a letter saying, “The World has no business to know the object of my Love, declared in this manner to you when I want to conceal it.”

  And what about the receipt for cantharides that was found among his letters? The other name for cantharides is Spanish fly. Biographer Paul Johnson argues that Washington might have needed the Spanish fly as a very primitive form of Viagra. (If Johnson is right, which I’m not sure he is, then the Washington Monument is the single most ironic tribute on planet Earth.)

  With Washington, the dilemma we face is between a respect for his privacy and the importance of understanding history. And it seems history generally trumps privacy. Thank God I’m not going to be a great man. Poor Obama. In a hundred years, historians will be combing through his Google searches and pharmacy receipts.

  By the way, Washington probably did marry partly for money.

  The next morning, I meet Dean at his home, which sits on the border of a woody park in suburban Philadelphia. He greets me at the door wearing white shorts and a mustard-colored “Don’t Tread on Me” T-shirt, his long white hair freed from its ponytail.

  “I hate the long hair,” he tells me. “But it’s all about accuracy. Men in Washington’s day wore wigs but Washington never did. He would powder his hair for formal events, but he would consider himself a soldier and a farmer. He did not wear a wig.”

  We enter the house, and I’m met with an explosion of George Washington memorabilia. George Washington paintings on the wall. George Washington books on the shelves. George Washington waistcoats and breeches in the closet. George Washington booze in the kitchen—Madeira was his drink of choice.

  We sit down, and Dean tells me about life as Washington’s doppelganger. He’s quite busy, working at both Valley Forge and Mount Vernon, the latter gig coming to him after another Washington interpreter retired.

  “They were actually considering a nationwide search,”
Dean says.

  “Really?” I say. “That could have been a good reality show. America’s Next George Washington.”

  “I hate reality television,” he says. “I actually have great distaste for most television. Portraying Washington has sensitized me with regard to the devolution of our world and our country. The lack of courtesy, the lack of civility, the lack of a self-starting populace. The whole idea of virtue and honor is becoming more and more difficult to find. So your comment about reality television strikes a nerve because it is the pus at the top of the pimple. It is everything that I hate.”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “I don’t watch it much, either.”

  I think I just got schooled. Hoping to redeem myself, I shift gears quickly. I ask him if he thinks I can learn from the 110 Rules.

  “Yes. Just remember Washington’s personal credo: Deeds, not words. He may not have been the greatest thinker of his day, but he took the greatest ideas of his day and translated them into action.

  “He tended to be very reticent and take in a lot without responding,” says Dean. “I cannot portray him that way. Or else I’d lose my audience.”

  So was our first president really different from us? Was he really more civil and decent? Yes, says Dean. Just look at politicians today. “If George Washington knew that politicians in America run for the presidency, he would be appalled. A gentleman does not run for president. He stands for the presidency. Running might make him less able to govern for the good of the people, and dispense justice.”

  He also would have kept us from this economic mess we’re descending into. “In Washington’s Farewell Address, he warns us against mortgaging the future of our children and grandchildren. And that’s exactly what we’ve done.”

  Dean’s so passionate about Washington, I feel guilty that I overlooked G.W. all these years. He says he thinks of Washington as the American Moses—the right man at the right time. And, like the seamstress/nurse from Seattle, Dean very civilly, very politely disses Jefferson: “The more one reads about Jefferson, the more one becomes aware of the great difference between his actions and his words.”

  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.