So who decides what’s socially acceptable?

This country never ceases to fascinate me with its many layers upon layers of social class divisions, of what “should” or “should not” be done according to one’s supposed status on the class totem pole. Let’s face it, there are so many unwritten “rules” for an island so small that for those who were not brought up here, or who are ex-pats, it often take years to understand and truly figure out.

To this day, I often hear about something in this never-ending list of social mores and immediately think: why? who said so? who decided this? and frankly, who cares? I’m also often left baffled at why people allow themselves to be dictated to by some obscure, unseen diktat even if they secretly don’t agree with it, because they are afraid of what others in their circle will say.

Take weddings.

I remember a time when ONE DID NOT DARE DANCE at a wedding, because it was considered just horribly, horribly lower class (and for want of a better word in English, yes, I have to resort to that difficult-to-translate Maltese expression, tal-hamalli). So there we would all be, milling around in abject boredom, making excruciatingly tedious small talk in our smart outfits as different variations of the same finger food was passed round for the millionth time, while a string quartet played discretely in the background for four hours.

No wonder so many young people when they leave this rock, are able to really breathe and become individuals, as they finally recognize the absurdity and pettiness of all this social control.

My 20s and 30s were spent in a blur of attending friends’ weddings like this, all yawningly the same. Was this supposed to be a celebration of a happy event, or just an excuse for the parents to fulfill their social/business/political obligations by inviting their contacts to a lavish reception, I often wondered?

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, around 15 years ago, something shifted, and I went to a wedding where halfway through, a very popular band took over from the discrete, innocuous music, the stuffiness immediately dissipated and everyone, and I mean everyone, took to the dance floor and (gasp) actually enjoyed themselves.

This is great, I thought to myself, but I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Did someone change the rules? Who was that first couple who took one look at the Maltese wedding tradition of propriety in all its stifling ennui and thought, “to hell with this, it’s my wedding, and we’re going to bloody well dance”? All I know is that, whoever you are, you brave, pioneering, anonymous couple, I salute you for breaking the mould and giving a two-fingered salute to conformity.

I would say practically every wedding I have been to since then has included dancing and magically, amazingly, just like that, viola’: dancing at a wedding has now become cool and socially acceptable among the middle class.  Which goes to illustrate just how much people often follow others like sheep; if X and Y are doing it, then it must be OK. (And who knew you could actually have fun at a Maltese wedding, maybe those village “peasants” had it right all along, huh?).

This might sound like a very frivolous example, but to me it drives home a very salient point: that as a country we are still too tied up in anxious knots about doing what we’re “supposed” to do and acting/behaving and even thinking in a certain way to be like everyone else. We put ourselves into straitjackets over all sorts of silly things, waiting warily until it gets the stamp of our social class approval and we can finally admit to liking it (or abhorring it, as the case may be). Like, is it OK to love Freddie Portelli? For many years his very name and retro stuck-in-the-70s image and music evoked a certain scoffing reaction, complete with upper lip curled in disdain.

Then, inexplicably, I remember a point a few years ago when groups of middle class women began attending his shows in a kind of ironic way, amidst great hilarity. It was like Freddie had been rediscovered and he was once again in great demand. Of course, it must also be said that the laughter and enjoyment of his larger-than-life persona were a step removed, in that very “oh, what fun!” condescending sort of way which posh people have when they feel secretly thrilled that they are slumming it with the rest of us plebs.

despite progress having been made in acquiring a more liberal outlook on many issues, the paradox in Malta is that too often, individual thought and expression are suppressed out of fear of not fitting in

In fact, to some people, to this day, suggesting a Freddie Portelli song for any event has (in their eyes) hamallagni written all over it. I know because I once made such a suggestion and the sheer look of horror on some faces made me burst out laughing. It was one of the many times I have felt mystified by just how many hang-ups people have about this sort of thing.  Except, of course, when they are abroad (where no one knows them) in which case it is not unusual to see groups of Maltese people singing homegrown songs, free of the shackles of perceived social embarrassment. 

The mystery to me always remains: just who is dictating all these dos and don’ts? Are you considered low class if you enjoy watching a rowdy football match and celebrating with the winning team in all their loud glory while they sing victorious songs with colourful lyrics? Are festas and fireworks only supposed to be something you go to when you have a foreign visitor to whom you are showing all our quaint customs (but would not be caught dead at otherwise)? And who decided that the Nadur carnival is OK because it’s hip and trendy but the Valletta carnival should be mocked for its kitsch?

There are so many things which are considered infra dig which are “not done” if you want to be considered to be in the right crowd, that you could twist yourself into a pretzel trying to keep up. No wonder so many young people when they leave this rock, are able to really breathe and become individuals, as they finally recognize the absurdity and pettiness of all this social control. No wonder those who eventually come back approach Malta with a totally different mindset, freed from the cobwebs which insularity and rigid social circles so often impose on us without our realizing it.

For despite progress having been made in acquiring a more liberal outlook on many issues, the paradox in Malta is that too often, individual thought and expression are suppressed out of fear of not fitting in. Too many people are afraid of going against the grain for holding a different point of view to their friends. And nothing has exemplified this more than the ridiculous, snooty comments I’ve read about the location of the monti debate, which ended up once again, revealing much more about how we pigeonhole others according to their likes and dislikes, than the issue itself.