I don’t remember where I learned that you’re not supposed to blow your own trumpet. Unlike most rote manners that are drilled into children you are never exactly taught that it is improper to display too much confidence. It’s just something you grow to understand. As nine-year-olds, my friends and I would police each other for the cardinal sin of “showing off”.
You grow up, you realise that you’re not going to get very far in life (especially if you’re a woman) unless you find a way to get comfortable demonstrating at least a bit of self-belief. You learn tactful ways of articulating your achievements. Professionally, that is. Socially? Self-deprecation is still ingrained. It isn’t just a custom but a communication style: making jokes at your own expense makes you approachable.
But recently, I went to a wedding in America. It was a dream: in a beautiful, creaking, old New England inn with a white porch and wreaths of carnations hanging over the screen doors. On the last day, a maple syrup stand was pitched on the lawn outside. At the “rehearsal dinner” – a tradition I’d heard about in TV and films and which here was a welcome drinks and pizza at a nearby wine bar – I met the bride’s family and friends, all desperate to talk to the British contingent with openness and generosity and curiosity. As I was introduced to them, I realised very quickly that the self-deprecation that is instinctively “polite” to us might risk coming off strange and even worse: rude.
It seems I am so desperate not to give the impression that I’m bragging that I can’t even tell someone something as simple as where I live or what my job is without a chaser of unnecessary caveats that end up more negative and awkward than if I’d just beamed smugly in the first place. London? Oh it’s awful, dirty, expensive, noisy, it’s taking years off my life. Writing, at a national newspaper, the job I once dreamed of and love and manage to do alongside cherished, talented and inspiring friends? Oh no, I mean, it’s actually really stressful, it’s very high-pressure, meeting famous people and going to concerts and watching television for work is really not as good as it sounds (most of the time, it is).
This is already a bad habit at home, because obviously nobody is so in thrall to my unremarkable CV that I must overcompensate with excessive humility. Abroad, it is even more embarrassing because people think you’re sincerely complaining when you’ve only just met them. Diplomats and doctors don’t need you to tell them your job is a bit stressful sometimes, they’re just trying to make conversation. And it turns out self-deprecation is not a universal lingua franca.
It only took one person to look confused by this impulse for me to remember I was in America, where people are optimistic, direct, and there is no cultural stigma attached to sounding proud of yourself. Here, self-promotion is perfectly acceptable, on earth as it is on LinkedIn. And so I decided to experiment. For the rest of the weekend, as I met and mingled with more and more people, I would resist. Be positive. Don’t overexplain. Don’t caveat. Don’t scream “IT WAS ON SALE, IT WAS REALLY CHEAP, IT’S REALLY OLD, YOURS IS MUCH NICER!” when someone compliments your outfit.
I thought it would be counter-intuitive, and a bit freeing. I didn’t expect it to be so easy, or to transform my confidence in a room full of strangers so instantly. How much lighter it is to have a conversation without putting up guard-rails lest somebody think you’re arrogant. To push away the impulse to apologise for yourself. To lose all those unnecessary denials and reassurances that we do without thinking, and that interrupt our flow. Leading with positivity and speaking about myself with pride and without worrying how I came across began to feel natural – I felt calmer. Their ingrained self-confidence, I realised, must be part of the reason why Americans – earnest, friendly, upbeat – are so good at putting new people at ease. I started that wedding knowing two people and finished it knowing 80: socialising had never been so uncomplicated.
The next wedding I went to I was back with a British crowd, trying very hard to practise what I’d learnt across the pond, when I got talking to my friend’s father who reads and loves this paper. My usual reflex, to push away praise, did not trouble me this time, because I could see that to do so wouldn’t make me look less full of myself, it would minimise something he cares about and make me look immature. His enthusiasm made me feel proud. Sometimes, in life, you’re allowed to be.
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