F*ck Politeness

As a kid riding in the car to my godparents house I was deeply amused by the fact that there were towns in New Jersey with the same name as a color. East, West, South, and regular Orange, collectively referred to as “The Oranges” on road signs. How fascinating. I think I imagined at the time that everything in those towns would be orange themed: lots of citrus and bright colors. I always wanted to live in one of The Oranges.

When I was looking for places to live in 2017 I was drawn immediately to South Orange. I had been to town once before for a work meeting and I found it so lovely. Happily there was an affordable apartment available right when I needed one and I moved in with great delight. Less than a block away from the train station parking lot, a three to five minute walk to downtown (depending on where you were going), and a private parking lot behind my building so I didn’t have to deal with street parking. Bless it all, what a happy arrangement. To this day I find terrific joy in being able to quickly walk into town to the little market, the post office, or one of the several coffee shops or restaurants, all while never being too far from home.

The convenience of access to such delights as a bakery and many coffee shops made it necessary for me to make rules for myself regarding how often I walk into town for a treat. Purely for financial reasons I allow myself one trip into town per week for something extra, typically a takeout meal, a snack from the market, or an extra jolt of coffee in the afternoon.

I love the proximity of everything in town and I love that there are always people around, but as an introvert when I go out on my own I’m not looking to talk to people. I want to get in, get out, and go back home. If I can successfully do that without saying more than “hi” or “thank you” to anyone, I’m happy. To inform the world that I’m not looking to chat, I always walk into town with headphones in. I remove them when I do need to speak with someone to pick up an order or what have you, but for the most part I leave them in to politely make clear that I’m not interested in small talk. It’s not that I hate people, but I do hate talking to people I do not know when I am alone.

One Sunday afternoon a few months ago I found myself with all chores done by 2:00 pm. With nothing left to do for the rest of the day but relax and work on some craft project, I decided it was time for my weekly treat and I mobile ordered a latte from the Starbucks in town. There are lots of options for coffee in town, but I tend to go for Starbucks especially when I’m feeling extra introverted because I can order and pay from my phone, walk in and pick it up, and never have to talk to an actual human. It is glorious. On this particular day, armed with my headphones and my signature resting bitch face, I slung my purse over my shoulder and walked in to pick up my tasty treat.

As I approached the Starbucks I noticed that there were two people standing outside with some sort of poster set up, clearly there to try to sell or solicit charity from the people on the street. There were several people milling around, so on the way into the store I managed to sneak by without getting snagged into an unwanted conversation. I picked up my latte and steeled myself for walking back out of the store: I checked that my headphones were securely in my ears, took my phone out of my pocket, opened an app, and prepared to walk out of the store pretending to be deeply engaged in something on my phone. The rules of politeness (to my mind) would indicate that the people on the sidewalk should leave me alone because clearly I was busy and not to be bothered.

No such luck. I walked out of the store and right into the clutches of the overly polite Randy and his blatantly fake flirtations.

“Hello, miss! Have you ever heard of Doctors Without Borders?” Randy chirruped at me.

This is the moment I made the fatal mistake: I acknowledged his existence by making eye contact, pulling out one ear bud, and saying, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Have you ever heard of Doctors Without Borders?”

I should have walked away, made an excuse, said I was late for something, lied and said my kids were waiting for me, anything to get out of there. But by this time my brain went into it’s automatic “don’t be rude” mode. Not wanting to hurt Randy’s feelings or make him angry at me by simply walking away, I engaged in conversation with him.

“Yes, I have,” I responded, keeping my body turned away from him as if I was about to keep walking on my way. I also did not smile or remove my other ear bud. He had suckered me into a conversation, but I was going to make it clear I wasn’t enjoying it.

Randy proceeded to tell me all about Doctors Without Borders. I did not really listen, so I cannot tell you what they actually do, but I think it is something with providing medical care to people, especially children, in war-torn areas of the world. An admirable cause, but I must say not one close to my heart. I’m all for giving to charity, but it’s not possible to financially support every single cause in the world. One would go bankrupt in short order. When I give my money to something I like to choose causes that I care deeply about: curing Alzheimer’s Disease, protecting and supporting women’s rights, suicide prevention, mental health organizations, and feeding the hungry. And while I do care about all people in war-torn areas, I cannot be responsible for saving everyone and everything in the world. It’s too much. So, I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t really care about Doctors Without Borders and would not choose to give them my money. I trust that they can get along without my help. So, while Randy talked, I waited for the inevitable ask for money and tried to figure out how I was going to get out of actually giving any.

“So today we are out here asking for people to make a monthly commitment to support Doctors Without Borders. How much can I sign you up for today?”

Bold question, Randy.

“You know, I’m not really sure how much I can afford to give right now. I would need to go home and look at my budget.” Also bold, considering I was holding a five dollar latte in my hand, but you’ve got to fight fire with fire.

“Of course, my love, of course.” He kept calling me “my love”. Apparently I looked hard up enough that he thought I’d fall for his little pet names. Really it just pissed me off more, but again, “don’t be rude” was ringing in my head. He continued, “Whatever you decide to give today, you can always change the amount when you’ve had a chance to look at your budget. It is very easy to change on the website.”

“Yeah, but I’m still really not sure what I can give today. Do you have a card or a website that I can visit later once I know what I can give?” Blatant lie, but I was just trying to get home at this point.

“No, I don’t, but I can sign you up right here.” Randy picked up an iPad and started filling out an online form, asking me for my name and address, birthdate and email information. Reluctantly I just gave in, resolving to cancel the donation as soon as I got home. I gave him all my information and we went through the process of setting up a $25 donation which would be charged to my credit card that day.

When I told Randy my birthday he said, “OMG that’s my girlfriend’s birthday! We’re both Virgos!!” “Don’t lie to me, Randy,” I thought. “Telling me I have the same birthday as your girlfriend does not make me feel anything other than annoyed that you are continuing to play me. I do not care that we are the same star sign. I hate you for roping me into this and I just want to go home.”

In real life I just gave him a fake smile and unenthusiastically said, “Oh, that’s cool.”

After a few more minutes of form filling out, Randy pulled me to the side. “So, my love, we’re actually out here today looking to get donations from people over the age of thirty. Now I know you want to give, so would you be okay if we just changed your birth year to make you a little older?”

I stared at him and thought, “Fuck you very much, Randy. I very clearly told you my birth year and watched you enter it into the form incorrectly (and didn’t correct you because I didn’t care). Fuck you for trying yet again to ingratiate me by acting like I’m ten years younger than I am, because obviously as a woman I want to be told that I look young. As if that is going to make me give you any more money.”

In real life I said, “Dude, I’m thirty-six. I was born in 1986.”

Cue the shock and whole, “wow, you look so young” rigamarole. I know what I look like, Randy, and I do not look twenty-six. Fuck you again. I hate you, Randy.

I let him go through his whole process, fake smiling at any further comments, just wanting the whole thing to end so that I could go home and wallow in my shame at not just being able to say, “no, thank you” and walk away. Finally everything was done and Randy was thanking me for supporting Doctors Without Borders.

“How do you feel about hugs?” he asked me.

I glared at him while thinking to myself, “you’ve been a pushover for everything else in this conversation, just hug the guy.” I gave him the least affectionate hug I think I’ve ever given in my life, spun on my toe, and walked away. The moment I got home I checked my email and figured out how to cancel the monthly donation, pissed off that my Sunday afternoon was now tainted with this additional task.

I have never been able to just walk away from people asking for money like that. There is that constant mantra of “don’t be rude” in my head, but I think a larger factor in the whole thing is that I put myself in their shoes. I would hate it if I was trying to fundraise for a charity I believed in and people kept ignoring me or rudely walking away. That would be upsetting to me, which is why I’ve never been much of a fundraiser or salesperson. I’m not built for it.

At the end of the day giving $25 to Doctors Without Borders is not a big deal. It didn’t break the bank, although the experience did sour me towards the organization and I highly doubt I will ever even consider giving them money in the future, no matter how flirty any future Randys may be. The thing that is really upsetting about the whole ordeal is how easily I got caught up and how I could not find a way out.

My favorite podcast is called “My Favorite Murder”. It’s a true crime/comedy podcast which sounds bonkers, I know, but I love it. The hosts explain it best by saying that they address their anxiety over one of the most horrible things that can happen to someone (being murdered) by making jokes and laughing about the stories. To be clear, they do not make fun of the victims or make light of murder, but when you listen to true crime stories they are usually rife with situations absurd enough to make you laugh. It’s like how you have to laugh when someone with dementia does something silly - because if you don’t laugh, you cry/get really depressed because someone you love is slowly disappearing as their brain stops functioning. Anyway, it’s a good podcast. I recommend it.

Another thing the hosts of “My Favorite Murder” have done over the years is create little mantras or tips for how to not get murdered. One of the first and most popular is “Fuck Politeness.” There are countless stories of (mostly) women getting abducted, raped, murdered, held prisoner, or indoctrinated into a cult by someone who lured them in through some innocuous conversation. The women engaged in the conversations because they did not want to be rude, and therefore found themselves in a horrible situation. This does not make it their fault. It is not the victim’s fault if they were raised to be kind, polite, and helpful. It is not the victim’s fault that not everyone can be trusted.

Fuck Politeness does not mean “be rude to everyone and never do anything nice or helpful ever again.” Fuck Politeness means “trust your gut: if you are uncomfortable in a situation or being asked to do something you do not want to do, get yourself out of the situation by any means necessary.” It means don’t worry about someone else’s feelings if you’re worried for your own safety or wellbeing. Say or do whatever you need to do to get out.

I did not feel in danger when I was trapped talking to Randy, but I did know from the very first moment that I was going to be asked to give money, which I did not want to do. But even after years of listening to “My Favorite Murder” and hearing “Fuck Politeness” over and over again, the mantra in my head is still “don’t be rude.” And really it wouldn’t have been rude to simply say, “Thank you, Randy, but I’m not interested.” I could have said that and walked away and I would have enjoyed the rest of my Sunday without losing any self respect or $25. And truly, if there was ever a safe place to practice fucking politeness, South Orange on a Sunday afternoon is it.

I love my little town and still enjoy walking around it from time to time despite the risk of running into unwanted solicitors. There is one spot behind the small market which I discovered a few months after moving in: a dead end driveway that butts up against the train tracks. On the retaining wall between the tracks and the driveway there is a sign that reads “South Orange Welcomes You.” Welcome, says the town, to this random dead end. I love this spot. For all the nice and friendly things about South Orange, that sign kind of reads like a little fuck you. “You drove down a dead end, you idiot. Enjoy doing a seven point turn to get yourself out of here and back on the actual street. But seriously, welcome to town.” My town knows how to fuck politeness with the best of them.

South Orange is a lovely place. Do come visit, walk around, and see the sights. All are welcome.

Except for you, Randy. Fuck you.