I return tonight from a promotional campaign cocktail party. Hosted at the mayor’s home, I welcomed the opportunity to observe the types that frequent these fundraisers, and their interactional behavior. My perch, as sole bartender, was ideal for a night of people-watching. As the six o’clock hour passed, I ticked off the token attendees: black lawyer, charismatic gay couple, and elderly female donning a power suit.

I enjoy dinner parties. I recently read Philip Lopate’s “Against Joie de Vivre,” in which he refers to such gatherings as “bullying social rituals.” And like Lopate, I too have encountered the joie doppelganger of bubbly chit-chat, trying my hand at intellectual elitism on more than one occasion. Having grown up in an upper class college town, with more than one friend whose family networks are governed by the academic arena, I’ve become familiar with socially encouraged pretention and general snobbery. It’s true that these individuals tend to identify as open-minded, and often promote theoretical eccentricities, celebrating when their children develop interests in medieval weaponry or dead languages. But as noted in “Vivre,” this fascination with peculiarity is a commonality, and their political correctness only perpetuates the smug egotism running rampant in most circles of moderately-educated “liberals.” In this crowd, a developed sense of socially-acceptable quirks is indicative of a certain cultural prowess.

Unlike Lopate, however, I do not find these obligatory events to be burdensome, but rather, a chance to humor myself. Once familiar with the rules, minimal effort is sufficient to become a master of discourse in the party realm. Granted, certain conditions are ideal (if not required) for success. Foremost, never let a close friend catch you in the act; the less you know or care about the individuals with whom you converse, the greater the possibilities for exercising your artfully developed persona.

***

At five I was given my first lesson from the book of party etiquette. My mother listed rules as we drove to a new friend’s home for a sleepover. “Eat everything, chew with your mouth closed. Napkin stays on your lap. Never put your elbows on the table. Say please and thank you. Wash the dishes when you’re done. Be nice; if you’re rude, they won’t invite you back.”—typical parental encouragement for even a hint of refinement or civility. Unfortunately, I was mistakenly taught to act appropriately. And at home, I was off-stage.

I stared at my plate. A burrito. Rice and beans? I had never eaten beans. I find it remarkable that I have not yet come to an untimely death by coronary blockage, considering my childhood diet. Family friends often joke about my father’s invariable lunch: five bologna and cheese sandwiches. Mirroring his simplistic palate, my lunch requests never changed, either. My elementary school friends watched each day, appalled, as I unwrapped white Wonderbread, slathered in peanut butter and butter.

The beans looked like larvae—in my mind, a rational possibility; Charlotte’s father is an entymologist. But my mother’s haunting warning had hit its mark. I took a bite and gagged, my eyes beginning to water. I tried again. In a weak attempt to veil my disgust, I told Charlotte’s mother, Sharon, that the food was wonderful. Sharon smiled, “You’re so polite!”

So began the dichotomy of who I was (personality) and who I projected (persona). I’ve given serious thought as to whether or not we do in fact “create” our persona. In my case, the persona was (and is) equal-parts blend of maternal guidance and a seemingly innate coping mechanism. I did not, obviously, sit down as a child and devise one through existentialist contemplation and conscious choice.

However, I have known people in their mid-life to drastically alter their attitude, actions, and general appearance. The Internet world seems to support this notion—that persona is a construct, entirely autonomous from personality; WikiWeb even lists a “how-to” article with steps on successfully building one. At reading the article’s introduction, I couldn’t help but call to mind my coursework on image creation strategies and brand marketing. Successful brands are memorable, meaningful, adaptable, transferrable, and most importantly, likable. I wonder at how tonight’s guests have been branded; have they chosen to conform to stereotype branding via the persona? A party of this nature is, at its core, a self-marketing tool.

After the bean encounter, I began to develop new acting strategies; being polite does not denote universal likability. More important virtues surfaced, primarily, endearment.

By nine I had mastered the ability to feign an appropriate level of modest embarrassment. Once, upon arriving for a regular visit to a soccer teammate’s home, her father answered the door and abruptly shouted “Miss Manners is here for your lesson, Caley!” Secretly, I was rather smug. But as being humble, genuine or otherwise, engenders endearment, it is a crucial adaptation for socializing, particularly party-going. It is a common mistake, really, for humility or shyness to be confused with goodness of character. From my own life experiences, I’ll say with certainty that no such relationship between the two exists.

Ideally, this polite, humble, (to use a cliché, “good girl”) persona remains unchanged. But life happens. As we grow, we eventually encounter situations in which personality and persona expose one another. And when it does, we hope that the initial impression, if strong enough, serves to maintain the persona for us, even when we ourselves cannot.

Towards the end of our Eighth grade year, my neighbor, Natalie, wanted to go to her first keg party. She knew her parents wouldn’t let her out; junior high, or rather, junior high boys, had made her untrustworthy. She requested my services.

We’d developed a sinister relationship: her parents were confident that under my care, no harm would befall her. With her extended invitations, I gained access to social circles otherwise off-limits. And though neither of us particularly liked the other, the arrangement continued throughout most of high school. Even during those later years, when my own infractions surpassed the typical, her parents never thought twice about my character. A good impression, once solidified, takes countless exposures to reverse.

As such, introductions are paramount. If maintaining some form of relationship for an extended (or worse, indefinite) period of time is required, I reveal the time-tested, conventional self. If, by fortunate chance, it is an introduction in passing, I am free to practice, experimenting with traits to decide which hold the most caché in particular crowds. Although I rarely tell direct lies, I take advantage of any opportunity to heighten my virtue through the perfect balance of ambiguity and implication. And often make the mistake of believing it. I’ve wondered, at times, if companies begin to believe in their brand, their “corporate persona,” too. Do Hilton employees believe they’re “Filling the Earth with the light and warmth of hospitality”?

***

I know I’m not alone in my twisted neurosis. I have friends who for years frequented chat rooms, trying out various roles in both genders to elicit exciting online banter. A friend from college once confessed that she creates dramatic life stories to share with strangers on planes and in bars. I find, however, that inventing of this kind doesn’t hold much appeal for me. At 21, I’ve even shed most of my tendencies to exaggerate. I’m happy to eat food from all cuisine types, and have a decently respectable knowledge of wine. But despite the fact that I now genuinely enjoy taking part in vivre celebrations, it remains a game—the same stage. I will never be part of the inner circle, of which I am fully conscious. But I find myself amused at my lucky positioning: I am not a true partaker in puffery; I am merely an undefeated faker, and I delight in playing.

The bar is the ideal venue for a performance. Successfully corking and pouring wine takes only a degree of confidence, and it is easy enough to persuade oneself capable over the course of an evening. Confidence translates; it is highly adaptable, but counter-infectious. For example, if I were to appear nervous or bumbling, tonight’s attendees would immediately assume I had little to no experience with wine and as such, would feel especially knowledgeable, sensing an increase in their own acumen. However, by displaying a little confidence, there is an immediate sense of unease and nervousness on the part of the guest. Some, though, are impervious to this inverted relationship of wills. Generally speaking, these are interlopers, indifferent to the rules of the game.

One such man, an old-timer I’ll name Roger, didn’t seem to be able to hold a conversation. He frequented the bar, calling me “Red.” I liked it. He wasn’t acting, and I felt like Joan Holloway as I deftly poured him more Noir. My education tells me such terms are demeaning and anti-feminist, but I can’t be bothered to care. Because Roger didn’t mind if I lost the plastered smile or if I forgot to say “You’re most welcome. Enjoy your evening” as I handed him his glass. Roger doesn’t do puffery.

It’s the dinner party in particular that separates those who conform, (relying on their persona, their “brand”) from those who don’t. I’m guilty of the former, but always choose the latter for friends or partners (whether out of respect, admiration, or jealousy, I am unsure). I wish I had the necessary real confidence, not the projected confidence, to disregard the impression I leave. I used to believe that confidence is acquired with age, or better yet, with the beginning of senile apathy. Though I try to suppress the revelation, I am now fully aware that it is merely strength in character that allows some to not fear the rejection of friends, family, and new acquaintances. I repress the notion knowing that the next time I visit Charlotte, I will likely eat beans and later, wash her dishes; I have no desire to change my habits. It is at the dinner party, though, that I may give my silent Hurrah! to those who care more about the meaningful and memorable, than the likable brands. To those who create disharmony in joie and the celebration of constructed identity.

Maia Livengood is a Drexel sophomore with dual majors in Business Administration and Hospitality Management.