Try not to be so jaded.

Each fall, Beloit College in Wisconsin releases a “Mindset List” that attempts to convey the worldview of the class currently entering college. For my class, the Class of 2009, the Mindset List includes observations such as “heart-lung transplants have always been available,” “Wayne Gretzky never played for Edmonton,” and “the federal budget has always been more than a trillion dollars.” Every Penn undergrad was born during the Reagan administration, though fortunately was too young to remember any of it.

But aside from these relatively random facts, the List doesn’t really get at what I feel is the most magical truth about our generation: We know more now than has ever been known.

The world is older now than it has ever been. This week, my history professor, Alan Charles Kors, described the philosopher Francis Bacon’s argument that this essentially means that we should not be deceived by the authority of “the ancients,” since in terms of the age of the earth, they were the youth of mankind. We are the experienced ones! We’ve seen it all.

So what do college students today see from where they stand? Question 4B on the Penn application for the class of 2009 asked, “In your opinion, what was the most important moment in history, and why?” It was a short answer, about thirty words. Since admissions information is confidential, I set out to hear what people said (or would have said) to answer the question.

Many sophomores didn’t remember ever even answering the question. With several trillion years of history to choose from, some students I asked couldn’t summon up a single important moment, while others were torn between many. The most popular answer was the birth of Christ. Some people referenced moments in the physical history of the world, such as the Big Bang, or advancements in science and technology, like fire, the wheel and modeling the structure of DNA.

Wharton sophomore Travis Schlegel cited the assassination of archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914, which effectively began World War I. On my application, I said that it was when Cain asked God, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” One of my friends asserted that it was the invention of caffeinated beverages. The question has since been replaced with the more brown-nosing “Name a Penn professor with whom you would like to study or conduct research and explain why.”

In keeping with the Mindset List, I also asked students what they thought had been the most important moment since they had been alive. Although I’ve heard that September 11th will be my generation’s “where were you” moment, akin to the assassination JFK, surprisingly few students actually brought up September 11 as the most important moment they had lived through. The most frequent response by far was the birth of the internet. Following that was the fall of the Berlin Wall.

So, sure, I never saw the Great One play for Edmonton. But we each have a rink-side seat from which to view all that has come before us, and that’s a lot of greatness to learn from.

We are products of our history, but we can also decide what comes next.

I love etiquette. I’m not one of those who thinks that with more rules, things would be boring. If we all had a big book of etiquette, life would be infinitely less confusing.

Life is full of miscommunications, and etiquette is about learning to speak the social language of the people around you. For those who are poor at improv, etiquette is a set of choreographed movements to follow.

I love the joust and parry of societal convention.

At a restaurant, if you haven’t been served, yet don’t mind if the people you are with start eating without you, you may briefly lift your fork to signal your consent. If your companions are versed in etiquette, they will begin eating. If they are oblivious to your obscure mannerism, then they will miss out and must wait until your risotto is served. I find the fork-lift to be extremely elegant, but would it go over well in Houston Hall?

Probably not.

Gradually, etiquette has lost out to the convenience of simply saying what you mean, and probably with good reason. Being straightforward saves time. It’s easier to say, “Hey, you guys can start without me.”

But where is the romance in that?

One standard that I would like to revive is dressing up for class. Last spring, I sat next to two senior associate students (the senior citizens who sometimes sit in on classes) during my history class. They told me that in their day, every man in class wore a collared shirt and a tie, and every woman wore a skirt. While perhaps this would be an extreme dress code for Penn, wouldn’t it be nice if students’ outfits showed they were serious about class.

Since college is most likely the first time that students are living and attending class in the same place, it is their first opportunity to go to class in pajamas.

Dressing up for class, in my mind, is a form of respect for your teachers, your peers and, perhaps most importantly, for yourself. College sophomore Markley Foreman said she’s “opposed to looking like a real slob in class. It’s really unprofessional - not that we’re professionals, but we’re adults.” Dressing up communicates that you view the occasion as a valuable way to spend your time and have made a commitment to put your best self forward - intellectually as well as physically.

Legal Studies professor Stephen Miller said that he doesn’t have a preference for students’ attire, “as long as their dress isn’t distracting for the class or so slovenly that everybody stares.” The College Freshman’s Don’t Book, published in 1910, also expounds on this standard, cautioning, “Don’t think that crazy or odd clothes are necessarily “College” clothes. Lots of College men do wear crazy clothes; but it isn’t so much because they’re College men, as because they’re crazy.”

It’s not so much crazy clothing that has me dispirited, as it’s a lack of effort. College sophomore Morgan Hennessey points out that perhaps getting dressed up is just a waste of time “that you could’ve spent with your friends or sleeping.”

Fifty years ago, people used to dress up for class.

“Yes,” College sophomore Ryan Jones said, “but they also used to dress up for airplanes.”

Some traditions, I suppose, have flown away for good.

When I was little, someone told me that sneakers hanging over a telephone wire means you can buy drugs nearby. Thenceforth, I felt extremely streetwise whenever I walked below a dangling pair, knowing that I was in the presence of sin and urban decay. As I got older, I figured out that probably, if this were always true, the country would have long won its “war on drugs,” just by following the trail of All-Stars and Air Force Ones.

There is a pair of Sperry topsiders hanging on the telephone line outside my window on the 3900 block of Pine Street. If Nikes, Reeboks and Converse mean drugs, what does the preppiest shoe in the world, hanging outside my window, mean is going on in the street below? Maybe it signals to West Philadelphia-wary Penn students that the block is a safe environment where their

Topsiders means some serious business.

wealth and privilege will be recognized and matched. The topsiders on the line are the Penn student way of saying, “I’m a gangster, too, I just deal in stock options.”

There is one other pair of shoes, but while they are tied together, they aren’t matching. One is a men’s sneaker, and the other is a woman’s platform heel. What the hell does that mean? You can use your imagination.

Even if it is composed of short-term residents, the population of a neighborhood will leave its mark. My block is unlike the one to its west, or one to the south.

Other myths behind “sneakers on the line” include delineating rival gang turf, celebrating the last day of school, proclaiming a loss of virginity, or just plain being a bully. Whatever the intention behind those shoes, I’m sure they mean mischief’s a-brewin’ in my hood.

This summer, a Time magazine cover story titled, “The New Science of Siblings,” revealed how our siblings shape our behavior. The article described how interactions with siblings prepare us for success in the workplace, in school, and in social and romantic situations.

“Aha! So that’s why I am unemployed, an average student and single,” I said to myself.

You see, I am an only child. What did the article say about only children? That we are doomed to forever be miserable failures at life. Well, not quite.

The article had a sidebar about only children, who are apparently now called “Singletons.” The sidebar asserted that while we are often stereotyped as maladjusted, needy and spoiled, these presumptions are not always true. Some only children do lead happy, normal lives. This reminded me of a public service announcement for people with a rare, but treatable disease.

The normal family I never had (synergizedsolutions.com)

Growing up, I never wished for a brother or sister. I thought that I was lucky compared to friends who had to compete with their siblings for attention. I had the full and undivided devotion of two parents, who thought I was perfect. My sibling-ed friends had to share toys, while I had the whole toy store.

I was pretty satisfied with the cards I had been dealt in life. But suddenly, the Time article got me thinking about all of the ways that being an only child was a terrible and irrevocable loss.

Not having siblings has its downside. No one learned how to drive before me, so I wasn’t allowed to drive alone for years after I was eligible. No one got in trouble before me, so it was hard for my parents to take it in stride–a minor experience with alcohol in high school convinced them that I was on a downward spiral toward death and dropping out. There has been no one to compare me to, which has had its good side and its annoying side.

But what I probably miss the most as an only child is that I don’t have anyone with whom to share the experience of growing up. “Our spouses arrive comparatively late in our lives; our parents eventually leave us,” the Time article said. “Our siblings may be the only people we’ll ever know who truly qualify as partners for life.”

I’m the only one who knows what it’s like to be the child of my parents, and I’ll be the only one to understand the loss when They’re gone. At certain points in my life, I’ve wished for the guidance of an older sibling or the opportunity to pave the way for a younger one. I want those life partners.

The upshot is that I am self-sufficient. I credit my only-child upbringing as a source of creativity, since I have spent so many hours trying to amuse myself. I’ve had to be fairly outgoing. So, at holiday parties, while I was cracking jokes with the adults, Salinger child-style, my five-year-old sibling-ed counterparts were throwing food at each other.

Although I’ll never truly understand what I’m missing out on, I think that being an only child had advantages and opportunities that are equal in value to the experience of having brothers and sisters.

They call me a singleton; I’d call myself an independent.