My generation was raised to say please and thank you write letters by hand arrive on time and treat every person in the room like they mattered and now we're being told we're out of touch by people who can't make eye contact without a screen in between and I refuse to apologize for the way I was raised

Last week, I watched a young woman at the grocery store become visibly frustrated when the cashier, a gentleman about my age, took an extra moment to count her change carefully. She rolled her eyes, tapped her phone screen impatiently, and muttered something about "self-checkout being faster."

What struck me wasn't her impatience but what happened next. The cashier smiled, handed her the receipt, looked her in the eye and said, "Have a wonderful day, miss."

She grabbed her bags without responding, already scrolling through her phone as she walked away. The cashier turned to me, still smiling, and said, "Next, please."

That moment crystallized something I've been feeling lately. There's a growing divide between those of us who were taught that human connection requires actual presence and a generation that seems to believe efficiency trumps everything else, including basic courtesy.

The art of showing up has become revolutionary

Every Thursday morning for the past fifteen years, I've had coffee with my neighbor. We sit on her porch when it's warm, in my kitchen when it's not, and we talk. Really talk. Not while checking our phones, not while multitasking, but giving each other our full attention for that hour.

Recently, her granddaughter visited and seemed genuinely baffled by this ritual. "Why don't you just text each other?" she asked. How do you explain that the warmth of shared silence, the comfort of familiar company, the way we can read each other's moods by how we stir our coffee, simply cannot be replicated through a screen?

I think about my father often these days. He was a mailman who knew everyone in town by name, their kids' names, their dogs' names. He taught me that acknowledging someone's humanity wasn't optional; it was the bare minimum of living in community with others.

When he delivered mail, he'd pause to ask Mrs. Henderson about her arthritis or congratulate the Johnsons on their new grandchild. Today, packages get left on doorsteps without so much as a knock, and we call this progress.

When basic manners became "performative"

Have you noticed how saying "please" and "thank you" has somehow become suspect? I've heard it called "performative politeness" by those who prefer what they call "authentic communication."

But here's what I learned in thirty-two years of teaching high school English: teenagers, even the surliest ones, responded to being treated with respect.

When I said "please pass in your essays" instead of demanding them, when I thanked students for their insights during discussions, I wasn't performing. I was acknowledging their dignity.

The handwritten thank-you notes I still send after dinner parties have become conversation pieces, as if putting pen to paper is as archaic as churning butter. Yet every single person who receives one mentions how much it meant to them.

We're starved for tangible proof that someone thought of us for longer than it takes to fire off a text message.

Punctuality as an act of love

Being on time has apparently become optional. I cannot count the number of times I've sat in restaurants, watching the door, waiting for someone who's "running just a few minutes late" according to their text sent twenty minutes after our meeting time.

When did respecting someone else's time become old-fashioned?

During my teaching years, I started every class at the bell, not five minutes after. Students learned quickly that being present meant being present on time.

It wasn't about rigid rule-following; it was about teaching them that their classmates' time mattered. That the lesson mattered. That they mattered enough to be held to a standard.

The courage to look up

What worries me most is the inability to simply be with other people without a digital buffer. I've watched couples in restaurants spend entire meals looking at their individual screens.

I've seen parents at playgrounds scrolling while their children play alone. I've witnessed entire families gathered for holidays, each in their own digital world while sharing the same physical space.

In one of my recent posts about navigating widowhood, I wrote about the importance of real presence during grief. You cannot comfort someone through a screen the way you can by sitting beside them, maybe not saying anything at all, just being there.

The friends who showed up at my door with casseroles, who sat with me in silence, who knew that their physical presence mattered more than any perfectly crafted text message could ever communicate.

Why I won't apologize

Yes, I still believe in looking people in the eye when I speak to them. I believe in firm handshakes and arriving five minutes early.

I believe in writing actual letters to my grandchildren that they'll receive when they turn twenty-five, letters they can hold in their hands and know that I spent time choosing the paper, selecting the pen, crafting the words just for them.

I refuse to apologize for believing that every person in the room deserves acknowledgment, from the CEO to the janitor. This isn't about being old-fashioned; it's about recognizing that efficiency and convenience have their place, but they should never replace human decency.

The young woman at the grocery store missed a moment of genuine human kindness because she was too focused on her perceived inconvenience. The cashier who served her with grace despite her rudeness understood something she didn't: that these small interactions are the threads that weave the fabric of community.

Final thoughts

I'm not suggesting we abandon technology or that everything was better in the past. But I am suggesting that some things shouldn't be considered outdated just because they require more effort than swiping or clicking.

The basics of human decency, respect for others' time, and the ability to be truly present with another person aren't generational quirks to be outgrown.

They're the foundation of meaningful connection, and I'll keep practicing them, teaching them, and refusing to apologize for them, no matter how out of touch that makes me seem.