Fact: Hampden-Sydney College, in Prince Edward County, Virginia, is the tenth-oldest college in the United States (besides being the oldest continuing all-male college in this country). It is the oldest private college in the South as well. It has been a regional secret these many years.
While this sinks in, allow us to assure you, in no uncertain terms, that Hampden-Sydney is, without equivocation, the preppiest college in the United States.
Some will whimper and whine and debate us. Please don’t. We’ve visited hundreds of colleges and universities, in all fifty states. We’ve been to Greek Weeks and homecomings, to tailgate parties and candlelight rituals. We’ve been throughout New England, throughout the South, and this is no casual verdict. (Sweet Briar and College of Charleston, we’re talking to you.)
Whereas: Single-sex schools are—de facto—way preppier than coed colleges. They are modeled after our first schools, they are more traditional, and their alumni/ae and trustees like it this way. (See us after class, Connecticut College.) While one could argue that New England or the mid-Atlantic states, with their heavy load of original colonies, seem older, require more layers to be comfortable, and look more British in that tweedy woolen way, we have found that Virginia, home of FFV (First Families of Virginia) and Jefferson’s aura, is the real deal. The students at Hampden-Sydney refer to themselves as “gentlemen.” They are frequently sons of Hampden-Sydney gentlemen.
Whereas: In the class of 2009, the number of classical-studies majors equaled that of computer-science majors. Take that, preprofessionals.
Whereas: Students often wear freshly pressed shirts to class. Because they feel like it.
Whereas: Students wear coats and ties to home football games.
Whereas: It is a small school, with approximately 1,128 students.
Whereas: Many students minor in military history.
Whereas: James Madison and Patrick Henry sat on the college’s first board of trustees.
Whereas: In 1775.
Whereas: Each freshman receives a copy of the vital student etiquette handbook, To Manner Born, To Manners Bred: A Hip-pocket Guide to Etiquette for the Hampden-Sydney Man. No other college in America places such a high value on good—no, exemplary—manners.
Whereas: Each student needs to pass a Rhetoric Exam as part of the college’s rededicated mission to pay “a more particular Attention … to the Cultivation of the English Language than is usually done in Places of Public Education.”
Whereas: There is no student unrest at Hampden-Sydney.
Therefore: We rest our case.
When former dean and now director of public relations Thomas Shomo answers his phone at Hampden-Sydney, one feels all is right with the world—or at least, nothing has changed, which is almost the same thing.
This Hampden-Sydney graduate, class of 1969, has spent, at this point, twenty-nine years of his life on campus, as a student and in various administrative positions. It is home. In 1978, Diana Bunting, wife of then president Josiah Bunting, complained to her husband that students were not responding to her invitations to dine at the president’s house. So Tommy Shomo was pressed into action and began writing a memo. “I used the college library’s copy of Emily Post, though it was from 1929—now de-accessioned—and a copy I had of Amy Vanderbilt. I tried to write it for our students.”
This memo grew beyond the importance of responding to invitations and expanded to include table settings, holding doors open for women, and encouraging appropriate attire for all events, up to and including Buckingham Palace … just the sort of thing that gentlemen at Hampden-Sydney should know. The title comes from Hamlet, Act 1, scene 4:
“But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born …”
The first edition was published in 1978, and ever since, a copy has been given to every single freshman when he arrives at school. Subsequently, the book has been reprinted, rewritten, revised, and updated. Shomo estimates that about 8,000 books are in print (and for sale at the Hampden-Sydney College bookstore). As Shomo updates his Hip-pocket Guide to Etiquette for the Hampden-Sydney Man he “tries to keep up with social changes. We used to tell the boys to light their dates’ cigarettes. Now we hope they don’t smoke. Cell phones, e-mails, answering machines … It’s amazing.”
But is the book read? “I don’t know if they read it; I know they get it,” Shomo says, chuckling. “But eventually I think they do read it,” he adds, “before the dinners.” The Etiquette Dinners are a Shomo specialty, the kind of thing you would not find anywhere else. The Career Services Office hosts an etiquette dinner for seniors who are hoping to interview in corporate America. In case recruiters are inviting anyone for a meal, Shomo talks them through a somewhat elaborate meal (semiformal attire required), including such obscure implements as fish forks and knives. Young women from Sweet Briar are invited as well. Table settings re-create what one would find at the White House (the twenty-first century’s version of Buckingham Palace). Besides dealing with complicated flatware, students hear about how to leave their place settings when they get up from the table, how to network gracefully, and more. Shomo patrols the dinner of about fifty participants and “gently” corrects them, if need be (“nothing too embarrassing in front of their dates”).
The Society of 91 (which is short for 1791, natch) also has a formal Etiquette Dinner. Members of this leadership organization attend their dinner in black tie, and invite dates of their choosing. No trick utensils or foods are served, though one year Cornish hens (not easy to cut) were accompanied by finger bowls.
How have the gentlemen changed since 1965, when Shomo first arrived at Hampden-Sydney? “They are the same as when I was a student. They never change. Sometimes we go through a shaggy period, when there is a little facial hair, but,” he says with a laugh, “even that is nicely trimmed.”
Around 1985, a writer described Hampden-Sydney as “an affront to the whole twentieth century.” It was, and remains, utterly unto itself: indifferent to the world’s opinion, quietly sure of itself— assured that its habits and culture are faithful to the ideals of its progenitors (among them James Madison and Patrick Henry); that mind without character, like knowledge without wisdom, is ignoble, and that there remains a need, still, in the United States, for gentlemen. The campus ambience is well-bred understatement, easy camaraderie, quiet mischief and gaminerie, unstated pride in a searching academic regimen in which grade inflation has made not the merest dent, and a devotion to honor in all things. It is an affront to the twenty-first century—so far. Hampden-Sydney incarnates the wisdom of a forgotten English peer: when it is not necessary to change, it is necessary not to change. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
— JOSIAH BUNTING III
The Hill School (x), Salisbury, Virginia
Military Institute, Christ Church, Oxford
(President, 1977–1987)
We have a problem. It’s not on the scale of global warming, childhood obesity, or the worldwide recession, but it is a problem nonetheless, and it is this: The appropriate terms denoting graduates of schools, programs, or rehabilitation facilities are Latin words that have gender and cases. If many preppies can keep these four words straight (even in the midst of a reunion tailgate free-for-all), then so can you.
To wit: A female graduate of, let’s say, Emma Willard School is called an alumna. The plural, or more than one graduate of Emma Willard, are called alumnae. (This can be pronounced either “alum-nay” or “alum-nee,” depending on how old your Latin teacher is.) A graduate of the all-male Episcopal Academy is an alumnus (“alum-nus”). Put several of these fellows together and you have a room full of alumni (“alum-nigh”). Lucky you, if you are a single girl with straight hair and good legs.
If your school or program (Suffield Academy, Trinity College, the Rhodes Scholarship program) admits both males and females, all together you are still alumni, though individually you remain either an alumna or an alumnus. Casually, of course, you can refer to y
ourself or others as an “alum,” but if the above isn’t absorbed thoroughly, you could embarrass yourself one day, and that would be dreadful. So please practice your vocabulary now. Life is full of pop quizzes.
It just so happens that almost anyone can assimilate into our world of prepdom. The desire to be prep is the most important factor. The desire to embrace Allah as your god and Mohammed as his messenger (in front of two witnesses) is the most important criterion in choosing to practice Islam.
The Muslim chaplain at Brown is named R. (for Robert) David Coolidge. He’s known as Dave. What’s even more unusual about his nonstereotypic Muslim name is his whiteness. He is a serious, well-spoken, thoughtful, joyful midwestern WASP who converted to Islam a few years ago, when he was a Religious Studies major at Brown. He returned to campus in the fall of 2009, when he was thirty, to be part of the University chaplaincy and to be the adviser to the Brown Muslim Student Association. He arrived in Providence with his wife, Sumaiya.
Raised in suburban Chicago, Coolidge intended to explore faith in college, as he looked for a deeper meaning. “I was comfortable about being agnostic, so I was surprised that I was drawn into the process of conversion. For me, it was a search for the ontological truth. Then through Islam I felt I found Truth with a capital T—not a small thing. I was excited.”
It took a number of years to “find my place within the cultures and histories of Islam. As a white Anglo-Saxon, I didn’t want to feel my conversion was an act of cultural apostasy,” he explains. White Christian Americans are not the preponderant converts to Islam, which seems to reach more to the African American and Latino populations. “As a white Muslim, I had to be myself with my background and proud of those things, and proud of Islam, even though there are not a lot of people like me.” Furthermore, “most white Muslim converts try to become Arab,” meaning they study the Arabic language and move to the Middle East for an extended or even permanent stay. But Dave Coolidge wasn’t comfortable with that approach. “Last night I went to a mosque in jeans and a Brown sweatshirt. I suppose I looked like a stoner,” he says with a little laugh. “I look like anyone, but I wear a short chin beard, kind of the minimum requirement, that is my outward symbol of being Muslim. (I know I’m very Muslim on the inside.)”
Could he imagine a Muslim student striding across the quad in a Lacoste shirt and khakis? “I like it. They are the clothes of my people. I’m biased. I like it when people dress preppy. If a Pakistani student wore a button-down or Lacoste shirt, no one would blink. But if he wore an argyle sweater, his collar up, and a pair of Nantucket Reds,” that would be too much. “I have a friend, who is also a white Muslim who converted, who graduated from Amherst, and she and I have talked about having a Muslim preppy party.” It would be, needless to say, alcohol-free.
PORTER:
Seventeen year old freshman at Vassar. Was invited to roommate’s house in Dominican Republic, and will not let us forget it.
MUFFY:
Thirteen going on twenty five; have you seen her Face-book page? It’s a scandal.
DRYDEN:
Has had a fake ID since she was fourteen, but she gets A’s in math and science. (Doesn’t take after us.)
ANDERS:
No complaints here. (Well he could sit on a chair, but that would be asking too much.)
LARKIN:
This is how she looks after 2 espressos. What’s up with her? At nineteen you’re supposed to have energy to burn! A sophomore at Cornell.
SPENCER:
Our little mystery man. Five years old. Loves Sudoku, Charlie Rose, and rice.
One never knows how many people will show up for Thanksgiving until the last minute, and our children just have to be willing to be flexible. We were perfectly happy to sit at the children’s table—a longstanding tradition—at our parents’ Thanksgiving . . . not like our darlings. This is a time to be thankful, after all. We are thankful that Crosby was given a “withdrawn” rather than an “expelled” from Woodberry Forest. We are thankful that Sallie’s marriage to her surfing instructor was annulled. We are grateful that Evans will be living in the halfway house soon. We are grateful, of course, that Daddy opened the special bottle of Bâtard Montrachet.
And we’re sure the young people at the table feel the same, or will when they think about it. We are not going to let their attitudes spoil our lovely Thanksgiving. Look at Porter twirling her hair with daggers in her eyes, Muffy texting all day long, you couldn’t pry that thing out of her fingers if you tried. And you know Dryden and Larkin are just going to run to the bathroom again. Thank goodness for Spencer. He’s a perfect angel. (Should we be concerned that he hasn’t moved a muscle since the soup was removed? It’s a little odd. No matter!) What happened to Anders’ shoes? Speaking of which, where is Henry?
Happy Thanksgiving. It’s wonderful to be together again.
As of now one cannot major in hairstyles in an accredited college, but one can always dream. A syllabus of style: The politics of tortoiseshell hair accessories. Whither the flip? Biomed ethics on how the brain is affected by hair-color chemicals, and how blond is dangerously blond? (Not to mention the prep male follicle seminars: What your part says about you. Just because you don’t grow a beard doesn’t mean you can’t. The Preppy Hairline.)
We arrive as freshwomen—intimidated by cool and experienced upperclass women—not realizing that we actually threaten them. We are new, unspoiled, unknown, young, but not too young to get involved with seniors.
“I’m just going to leave it down. I had to go to class this morning with damp hair. It looked weird, so I had to leave Poli-Sci and go brush it for a while, during the slide show, which was b-o-r-i-n-g! Texted Franny from the bathroom. She is still half asleep, the sloth. No matter what I do with my hair, it pretty much looks the same all the time. Maybe it’s my shampoo.”
“Can’t decide: to cut it off or keep it long? What about bangs? I might have gained three pounds over the break, and maybe I should change my hair as a distraction? Should I take History and Literature of the Riviera pass/fail or keep my B? So many questions. I’m so stressed. Kip just told Anson he loves my hair; that’s it! I’m keeping it long. Should we go to Boston for the weekend? What about Hanover?”
“I am going to Berlin for a semester, and I have to write this damn paper as part of my application. Get my hair off my neck to concentrate. Concentrate. How has globalization affected my education? Just concentrate, Sophie. I don’t mind it in a ponytail. It’s simple and neat and with my pearl studs, it’s a look. Do I look too much like my mother? Eeeww. Clark likes it this way. But he likes Mummy, too. Gross.”
“I swear, I’m just going to cut it. No, I need to keep my options. That’s why I’m applying to law school and Teach for America and Condé Nast. And Google. And anything else I can think of. The career counselors here seem totally clueless. I should have Daddy speak to them. He could straighten them out and get them all real jobs. (Just kidding!) I’m serious about my future, Daddy. But you promised me I could travel with Brophy to Greece after graduation. You promised!”
We know that many of you understand the principles of preppy style. But just to be sure, let’s review them again.
We wear sportswear. This is because it is easier to go from sporting events to social events (not that there is much difference) without changing.
We generally underdress. We prefer it to overdressing.
Your underwear must not show. Wear a nude-colored strapless bra. Pull up your pants. Wear a belt. Do something! Use a tie!
We do not display our wit through T-shirt slogans.
Every single one of us—no matter the age or the gender or sexual preference—owns a blue blazer.
We take care of our clothes, but we’re not obsessive. A tiny hole in a sweater, a teensy stain on the knee of our trousers, doesn’t throw us. (Remember, we are the people who brought you duct-taped Blucher moccasins.)
We do, however, wear a lot of white in the summer, and it must be spotless.
Don’t knock seersucker till you’ve tried it. (Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, unless you live in Palm Beach or southern California, or the southern Mediterranean, please.)
Bags and shoes need not match.
Jewelry should not match, though metals should.
On the other hand, your watch doesn’t have to be the same metal as your jewelry.
And you can wear yellow gold with a platinum wedding band and/or engagement ring.
Men’s jewelry should be restricted to a handsome watch, a wedding band if American and married, and nothing else. If a man has a family crest ring, it may be worn as well. For black tie, of course, shirt studs and matching cuff links are de rigueur.
Nose rings are never preppy.
Neither are (shudder) belly-button piercings.
Nor are (two shudders) tongue studs.
And that goes for ankle bracelets.
Tattoos: Discouraged. Men who have been tattooed in a war have them, and that’s one thing. (Gang wars don’t count.) Anyone else looks like she’s trying to be cool. Since the body ages, if you must tattoo, find a spot that won’t stretch too much. One day you will want to wear a halter-necked backless gown. Will you want everyone at the party to know you once loved John Krasinski?
Sneakers (aka tennis shoes, running shoes, trainers) are not worn with skirts.
Men may wear sneakers with linen or cotton trousers to casual summer parties. We like.
Women over the age of fifteen may wear a simple black dress. Women over the age of twenty-one must have several in rotation.
High-heel rule: You must be able to run in them—on cobblestones, on a dock—in case of a spontaneous footrace.
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