Holidays...
Which brings me rather neatly to the concept of holidays, and especially the summer holiday. I am including this under 'calendrical rites' (although nit-pickers might argue that technically it is neither) as it is an annually recurring event of possibly even greater cultural significance than Christmas, which in my book makes it calendrical, and a 'liminal' ritual conforming in important respects to the pattern identified by van Gennep as characteristic of rites of passage, which in my book makes it a 'rite'. (And this is my book, so I can call things calendrical rites if I choose.)
In terms of punctuation marks (I can labour metaphors too, if I wish), the summer holiday is an ellipsis (...), the three dots indicating passage of time, or something unspoken, or a significant pause or break in the narrative flow, often with a suggestion of mystery attached. I've always felt there was something decidedly liminal about those three dots. There is certainly something very liminal about the summer holiday: this two- or three-week break is a time outside regular, mundane existence, a special time when the normal controls, routines and restraints are suspended, and we feel a sense of liberation from the workaday world. We are free from the exigencies of work, school or housekeeping routines - this is playtime, 'free' time, time that is 'ours'. On holiday, we say, 'your time is your own'.
Summer holidays are an alternative reality: if we can, we go to another country; we dress differently; we eat different, special, more indulgent food ('Go on, have another ice-cream, you're on holiday!') - and we behave differently. The English on their summer holiday are more relaxed, more sociable, more spontaneous, less hidebound and uptight. (In a national study conducted by my SIRC colleagues, 'being more sociable' was one of the three most common responses when people were asked what they most associated with summer, the other two being 'pub gardens' and 'barbecues', which are both essentially also about sociability.) We speak of holidays as a time to 'let our hair down', 'have fun', 'let off steam', 'unwind', 'go a bit mad'. We may even talk to strangers. The English don't get much more liminal than that.
English holidays - summer holidays in particular - are governed by the same laws of cultural remission as carnivals and festivals. Like 'celebration', 'holiday' is a magic word. As with festivals, however, cultural remission does not mean an unbridled, anarchic free-for-all, but rather a regulated sort of rowdiness, a selective spontaneity, in which specified inhibitions are shed in a prescribed, conventional manner.
The English on holiday do not suddenly or entirely stop being English. Our defining qualities do not disappear: our behaviour is still dictated by the ingrained rules of humour, hypocrisy, modesty, class-consciousness, fair play, social dis-ease and so on. But we do let our guard down a bit. The cultural remission of holiday law does not cure us of our social dis-ease, but the symptoms are to some extent 'in remission'.
We do not miraculously become any more socially skilled, of course, but we do become more socially inclined - more open, less buttoned-up. This is not always a good thing, or even a pleasant sight, as the native inhabitants of some of our favoured foreign holiday resorts will testify. Some of us are quite frankly nicer when we are not shedding our inhibitions all over the place, along with our trousers, our bras, the contents of our stomachs and our dignity. As I keep pointing out, our famous polite reserve and our almost equally renowned loutish obnoxiousness are two sides of the same coin: for some of us, the magic word 'holiday' has an unfortunate tendency to flip that coin.
For good or ill, the liminal laws of carnival/holiday time apply to minor calendricals such as Bank Holidays as well - and even to ordinary weekends. (Some members of non-mainstream sub-culture tribes, for instance, may only be able to adopt their 'alternative' dress, lifestyle and persona during this liminal time-out. The more dedicated, or simply more fortunate, full-time members of these tribes refer to the part-timers rather dismissively as, for example, 'weekend Goths' or 'weekend bikers'.) Evenings and lunch-hours are also mini-remissions, and even coffee- and tea-breaks can be - what's even smaller? - nano-remissions, perhaps. Little oases of time-out; tiny, almost homeopathic doses of therapeutic liminality.
We talk about 'getting back to reality' or 'back to the real world' after a holiday, and part of the meaning and function of holidays is to define that 'real world' more sharply. Holidays and mini-remissions do not challenge or subvert the norms and laws that are sometimes suspended for their duration; quite the opposite: holidays highlight and reinforce these rules. By labelling holidays as 'different', 'special' and 'unreal', we remind ourselves of what is 'normal' and 'real'. By breaking the rules in a conscious, structured manner, we throw these important norms into sharp relief, and ensure our own obedience to them back in 'real' time. Every year, English holidaymakers, sighing at the prospect of 'getting back to reality', comfort each other with the wise words: 'But of course if it were like this all the time, we wouldn't appreciate it'. Quite true. But the reverse is also true: holidays help us to appreciate the structure and certainties - and even the restraints - of our 'normal' life and routines. The English can only take so much liminality. By the end of the summer holidays, we have had enough of indulgence and excess, and yearn for a bit of moderation.
Other Transitions - Intimate Rites and Irregular Verbs
Decade-marking birthdays and wedding anniversaries, house-warmings, workplace 'leaving dos' and retirement celebrations are usually smaller and more informal affairs than the big life-cycle transitions described earlier, although some may be no less important to the individuals concerned.
As these transitions tend to be celebrated privately, among immediate family and close friends, they are generally less socially challenging, and thus less awkward and stilted, than big life-cycle rites such as weddings and funerals. In private, among people we know very well, the English are quite capable of warmth, openness, intimacy and the full gamut of human emotions associated with friendship and family ties. Some of us are more warm and open than others, but that is a matter of individual differences in personality, and has little or nothing to do with national character.
Retirement celebrations and 'leaving dos' that take place at work are an exception, as those involved may often not all be close friends of the person whose departure is being ritually marked. These events are therefore more likely to be characterized by the usual Englishnesses: social dis-ease symptoms, medicated with incessant humour and alcohol; polite egalitarianism masking class obsessions; modest, self-deprecating speeches full of indirect boasts; moaning rituals; jokey presentation of gifts; drunken 'disinhibition'; awkward handshakes, clumsy back-pats and uneasy embraces.
Truly private rites of passage - birthdays, anniversaries, housewarmings and retirements celebrated just with chosen close friends and family - are much less predictable. There may be a few generic customs and conventions (cake, balloons, singing, special food, drink, toasts) but the interpretation of these, and the behaviour of the participants, will vary considerably, not just according to their age and class, as might be expected, but also their individual dispositions, personal quirks and histories, unique moods and motivations - the sort of stuff that is really the province of clinical psychologists and psychiatrists, rather than us social scientists.
This is all true to some extent of the more formal, less private rites of passage as well - we are individuals on these occasions too, not mere automata acting entirely in accordance with the dictates of national character. But without wishing to deny each of us our individuality, I would maintain that our behaviour at these larger, less intimate gatherings is broadly predictable, and conforms more consistently to the principal 'grammatical' rules of our culture.