Rule #8

George Washington’s eighth rule of civility reads:

At play and at fire, it’s good manners to give place to the last comer,

and affect not to speak louder than ordinary.

I’ll be honest: the first time I read this one, I had to read it again. Then I read it again, slower, like maybe the meaning would suddenly jump out wearing modern clothes.

”At play and at fire”?

It sounds like the beginning of a Renaissance fair improv prompt.

But once I translated it into today’s language, it hit me with surprising force. Because Rule #8 isn’t quaint or outdated at all. It’s almost painfully relevant.

In modern terms, this rule is saying:

When you’re sharing space with others - physically, socially, emotionally - make room.

Lower your volume.

Don’t take over the fire.

And suddenly… this wasn’t a strange little etiquette note anymore. It was a commentary on everything.

The Fire Was Never Private Property

In Washington’s time, the fire wasn’t just for warmth. It was the center of the home. The hearth was where people gathered to talk, rest, argue, eat, tell stories, and exist together.

You didn’t own the fire. You shared it.

To “give place to the last comer” meant you scooted over. You shifted. You made space so the person arriving wasn’t left standing in the cold.

And “affect not to speak louder than ordinary” meant you didn’t dominate the conversation just because you could. You didn’t raise your voice to command attention. You didn’t perform for the room.

The rule wasn’t about politeness for politeness’ sake.

It was about shared humanity.

The Modern Fire (Spoiler: It’s Everywhere)

Today, the fire isn’t just a hearth.

It’s:

• the dinner table

• the classroom

• the workplace

• the family group chat

• the comment section

• the living room

• the car

• the relationship

Anywhere humans gather is “the fire.”

And if we’re honest, a lot of us have forgotten that it’s shared.

We’ve become very comfortable standing right in the middle of it, arms outstretched, saying:

I’m cold.

I’m uncomfortable.

I don’t like this.

Move.

Sometimes that request is fair. Sometimes it’s necessary.

But sometimes… it’s not about safety or harm at all.

Sometimes it’s about control.

When Discomfort Became a Trump Card

We live in a culture that has done an important and compassionate thing: we’ve taught people that their feelings matter.

That’s good. That’s necessary. That’s healing.

But somewhere along the way, we also started teaching - accidentally, quietly - that discomfort equals disrespect.

And that shift has had consequences.

Because if discomfort automatically means disrespect, then the logic becomes:

I’m uncomfortable, you must change.

Not we should talk.

Not we should navigate this together.

But you must prove.

Rule #8 gently, almost stubbornly, refuses that logic. It says:

You are allowed to feel what you feel - and still make room for others.

You are allowed to be uncomfortable - and still lower your volume.

You are allowed to exist - without taking over the fire.

That’s not cruelty.

That’s maturity.

Volume Is Not the Same as Importance

Let’s talk about the second half of the rule:

”Affect not to speak louder than ordinary.”

Washington wasn’t talking about decibel levels alone. He was talking about using intensity to dominate.

We all know the modern versions of this:

• the person who talks louder when challenged

• the one who repeats themselves more forcefully instead of more thoughtfully

• the belief that the strongest emotion wins the argument

• the idea that passion justifies interruption

• the assumption that urgency equals righteousness

We’ve confused volume with validity.

But raising your voice - literally or emotionally - doesn’t make you more right. It just makes it harder for anyone else to stay in the conversation.

Lowering your volume isn’t self-erasure. It’s self-regulation.

And self-regulation is one of the most underrated forms of respect.

Making Room is Not the Same As Disappearing

This is important, so I want to say it clearly:

Rule #8 is not asking you to shrink.

It’s not telling you to silence yourself.

It’s not demanding that you ignore your feelings.

It’s asking you to share the space generously.

Giving place to the last comer doesn’t mean you leave the room. It means you scoot over.

You stay.

You matter.

But so does the person who just arrived.

That distinction feels especially important now, when so many conversations feel like zero-sum games.

As if:

• one person’s comfort cancels another’s

• one voice must dominate or disappear

• one perspective must win

Rule #8 offers a third option: coexistence.

A Personal Ache (Because This One Hurts)

This rule landed especially hard for me because of a painful moment with one of my kids - a message sent that broke my heart.

In it, they seemed to believe that their discomfort automatically meant they were being disrespected. That because something didn’t feel good to them, I was required to rearrange myself around that feeling.

And that hurt. Not because their feelings weren’t real, but because they were framed as authority rather than experience.

I want my children to know their feelings matter.

But I also want them to know something just as important:

Your feelings are real - and they are not the only ones in the room.

That lesson is delicate.

It’s tender.

And it’s becoming harder to teach in a world that treats emotional intensity like a trump card.

Rule #8 gives language to that tension without cruelty.

Why We’ve Been Rebelling Against This Rule

If this rule feels hard to accept, I don’t think it’s because we’re selfish or uncivil.

I think it’s because we were taught these ideas badly.

We were taught:

• “Don’t be rude.”

• ”Don’t make a scene.”

• ”Don’t upset anyone.”

But not:

• why shared spaces matter

• how to regulate ourselves

• what mutual respect actually looks like

So we rejected the rules - because they felt like shame, control, and suppression.

But when you strip that framing away, this rule becomes something else entirely.

Not obedience.

Not politeness.

But relational intelligence.

The Fire is Big Enough - If We Let It Be

What I love most about this rule is that it assumes something hopeful:

That there is enough warmth to go around.

Enough space.

Enough voice.

Enough belonging.

But only if we stop trying to stand in the middle of it alone.

The fire doesn’t belong to the loudest person.

Or the most uncomfortable one.

Or the most certain one.

It belongs to everyone present.

A Modern Translation Worth Keeping

So if I had to translate Rule #8 into something I’d actually want to live by, it would be this:

You are allowed to feel what you feel - and still make room for others.

You are allowed to be uncomfortable - and still lower your volume.

You are allowed to exist - without taking over the fire.

That doesn’t feel rigid to me.

It feels… humane.

In a world that rewards certainty, volume, and dominance, Rule #8 asks for something far braver:

Humility.

Self-restraint.

Shared presence.

It asks us not to disappear, but to participate generously.

And maybe that’s the kind of civility we need most right now.

Not rules that shame us into silence,

but wisdom that invites us into better ways of being together.

Around the fire.

Ⓒ January 2026. 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.