Rule #2

George Washington’s second rule of civility reads:

When in company, put not your hands to any part of

the body, not usually discovered.

At first glance, it sounds like a stern grandmother’s warning at Sunday dinner. But as with many of Washington’s “Rules of Civility,” the real lesson is less about manners and more about mastery - mastery over one’s impulses, one’s presence, and one’s ability to coexist gracefully among others.

In the first rule, Washington told us to respect the presence of others - to remember that we are not the only person in the room. That rule invited humility. It asked us to notice the invisible social threads that connect us: attention, tone, space, timing.

Rule #2, however, turns the mirror inward. If Rule #1 was about respecting the room, Rule #2 is about respecting yourself within it. It suggests that true civility begins not with how we treat others, but with how we govern our own impulses.

Let’s start with the obvious. In eighteenth-century society, public comportment was practically an art form. A gentleman was expected to sit, stand, and gesture in ways that reflected refinement. Fidgeting, scratching, or touching parts of the body that were “not usually discovered” - meaning covered by clothing - was considered uncouth. Imagine being at a formal dinner in 1750 and suddenly adjusting your waistband. You might as well have stood up and announced, “I was raised in a barn.”

So yes - on the surface, Rule #2 literally means: keep your hands off the private or unseemly parts of your body while in company. No picking, scratching, or fiddling. Don’t remind others that you have a body that sweats, itches, or malfunctions. Politeness, in Washington’s world, was partly about concealing the messy evidence of being human.

But there’s more here than bodily etiquette.

Washington wrote these rules as a teenager, copying them from an older Jesuit code of conduct. Yet even at that age, he grasped something timeless: that discipline in the smallest gesture ripples outward into the larger character of a person.

When we think of “keeping our hands to ourselves” today, we might interpret it as self-control in a broader sense - the ability to pause before reacting, to choose awareness over impulse. In that way, Rule #2 reads almost like an early manual for emotional regulation.

Consider how often our hands betray our inner state. We wring them when we’re anxious. We fold our arms when we’re defensive. We reach for our phone when uncomfortable. Our hands become messengers of whatever we’re feeling but haven’t yet found the words for. Washington’s rule, then, is less about suppressing natural movement and more about learning to notice it.

If we can notice a restless hand, perhaps we can also notice the thought or emotion that caused it. And once we notice it, we have a choice.

In modern life, stillness can feel almost subversive. We live in a culture of constant stimulation - scrolling, swiping, multitasking. Waiting rooms, grocery lines, even red lights are invitations to “just check one thing.” We reach for our phones the way earlier generations might have reached for a pocket watch, a cigarette, or a nervous scratch behind the ear.

Washington’s rule invites us to practice restraint not as repression, but as presence. To sit in company - literal or digital - without grasping for distraction is an act of quiet power. It communicates self-possession. It says, “I’m here. I can bear the discomfort of this moment. I can meet it with grace.”

And that kind of composure isn’t merely aesthetic; it’s relational. When someone can sit calmly in their own skin, they make everyone else a little more at ease. The air softens. The energy steadies. We feel safe in the company of someone who isn’t fidgeting with their body, their phone, or their need to control the conversation.

Imagine a spectrum of impulse: at one end, the urge to scratch an itch; at the other, the urge to lash out when someone offends us. Both involve the same underlying principle - an immediate discomfort we’d rather soothe. One happens in the body, the other in the heart. Washington’s rule teaches us to pause at that first point of contact - the instant when we want to do something - and to ask: Is this action necessary? Is it kind? Is it dignified?

 To resist touching an “undiscovered” part of the body is to practice restraint at the most tangible level. To resist touching the emotion sore spots of ourselves or others - that’s the deeper practice.

In conversation, this might look like:

• Not interrupting when someone’s story reminds you of your own.

• Not retaliating when someone’s tone rubs you the wrong way.

• Not making every silence a cue to fill.

Civility, in this light, isn’t about pretending discomfort doesn’t exist; it’s about learning to sit with it gracefully. 

There’s another layer to Rule #2 - boundaries. In order to respect others’ boundaries, we must first respect our own. If we can’t manage where our hands wander, how can we manage where our emotions or attention wander?

Consider how touch itself has changed meaning over time. In Washington’s day, physical contact was formalized: a handshake, a bow, a courtesy. Today we hug, high-five, fist bump, or even send virtual emojis to simulate connection. Yet boundaries remain as vital as ever - perhaps more so, in an age of blurred digital and physical space.

Keeping our hands to ourselves, metaphorically speaking, means knowing when not to reach for what isn’t ours - whether that’s someone’s body, their story, or their emotional labour. It’s the art of letting others have their space, and ourselves, ours.

Part of the reason we fidget in company is that being observed is uncomfortable. Sitting across from another human being, aware that they can see us - our gestures, our awkwardness, our pauses - can feel vulnerable. So we cover it. We adjust our sleeves, check our phones, sip water we don’t need.

Washington’s advice invites us to endure that vulnerability instead of disguising it. To let ourselves be seen as we are - attentive, perhaps a little nervous, but present. That’s not just etiquette; it’s courage.

There’s something beautifully human in learning to bear the small embarrassments of existence: an itch you can’t scratch, a silence you can’t fill, a truth you can’t yet articulate. When we allow those moments to exist without scrambling to fix them, we practice a kind of humility that softens the room far more than any polished manners.

Think of the people who make you feel calm just by being near them. They don’t need to dominate a room or charm everyone with jokes. Their power lies in steadiness. They listen fully. Their posture is relaxed yet alert. They rarely seem in a hurry to react.

Such people embody what Washington was really after - a divinity that communicates trustworthiness. Their composure says: “You’re safe here.”

This is the kind of civility we crave today - not the stiff politeness of a bygone era, but the genuine ease that comes from self-awareness. It’s not about hiding our humanity: it’s about regulating it enough to make space for others’ humanity, too.

Our bodies are our first instruments of communication. Long before we speak, we express. So Washington’s focus on physical decorum wasn’t arbitrary - he understood that the body broadcasts who we are.

When we fidget, we signal restlessness. When we cross our arms, we close off. When we sit still and open, we convey confidence and respect. The smallest gestures can either build bridges or walls.

In that sense, Rule #2 isn’t prudish - it’s perceptive. It recognizes that civility begins with awareness of what our bodies are saying, even when our mouths are quiet.

Let’s bring it into today’s world:

• In conversation: Resist the reflex to check your phone, glance at your watch, or straighten your hair. Offer full attention instead.

• In conflict: Notice the jaw tightening, the tapping foot. Before you act on the irritation, breathe. Stillness first, response second.

• In solitude: Observe how often you reach for distraction. Can you sit in quiet for one minute longer than feels comfortable? That’s the modern version of Washington’s refinement.

Every time we practice stillness, we strengthen the muscle of restraint - and that restraint becomes freedom. Freedom from compulsive habits, from reactionary emotions, from the need to constantly prove or fix ourselves.

Of course, there’s a shadow side to self-control. Taken too far, it can harden into repression. Washington’s rule was written in a time when appearances mattered more than authenticity, and emotional expression was often stifled. We don’t need to return to that. True civility isn’t about suppressing what’s human; it’s about channeling it wisely.

Keeping your hands to yourself doesn’t mean denying your feelings, it means holding them gently until you can express them with care. It’s the difference between reacting and 

responding, between blurting and communicating. That’s not repression - it’s refinement.

One person’s composure can recalibrate a whole group’s energy. When you stay calm, others subconsciously adjust to your steadiness. That’s why leaders - whether presidents or parents, teachers or friends - are remembered not for their cleverness but their poise under pressure.

Washington, for all his flaws, modeled that kind of composure. His civility wasn’t performative; it was practical. It kept tempers cool, egos balanced, and dignity intact amid conflict. In a young nation finding its identity, that mattered.

And it still matters. Whether we’re in a boardroom, a family gathering, or a social media debate, our ability to hold ourselves - literally and figuratively - with grace determines the tone of the space we share.

Rule #1 reminds us: you are not the only person in the room.

Rule #2 reminds us: even when you are, act as if you’re not.

Carry yourself as though someone you respect deeply is watching - not out of fear or vanity, but out of reverence for the shared dignity of being human.

Cilivy begins with awareness of others, but it endures through mastery of ourselves.

So next time your hand twitches toward your phone, your hair, or your irritation, pause. Let your stillness speak for you.

Because, as Washington seemed to know, the measure of refinement isn’t how loudly we impress, but how quietly we contain.

Next Up: Rule #3 Show nothing to your friend that may affright him.

(Is it just me or has that one been completely tossed aside?)

Ⓒ October 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.