Clap in Public
The art of giving thanks starts with putting your hands together. 

By Steve Almond

I’m a public clapper. There. I said it.

If you happen to sit next to me at the movies, or even at the local high school talent show, chances are I’m going to clap when the show ends, probably loudly and for a while. I’ve been known to applaud ice-cream scoopers for generous portions, lifeguards for lane-divider diligence, even gallant taxi drivers. That skinny dude earnestly applauding the smooth landing on your next flight? Guess who.

If you’re like most folks I encounter, you won’t say anything about my public clapping. At some point during my outburst, though, you will steal a skeptical glance at me, one that poses the basic question, Hey, Goofball: What’s with the clapping? To which I will now respond with a question of my own, Hey, Sourpuss: What’s with the not clapping? Seriously.

I don’t mean to be rude here. But I can’t for the life of me figure out why so many Americans now consider it déclassé to applaud in public. It’s like we’ve suddenly fallen under some collective spell of inhibition and ingratitude.

Now, I’m sure this will make me sound like a grandpa to the young folks, but when I was growing up, way back in the ’70s, moviegoers considered it standard operating procedure to applaud at the end of a film—even a lousy film. It felt good to clap, frankly. The act of salutation sealed us within the experience we’d shared, as a group.

These days—as you may have noticed—nobody makes a peep at the Cineplex. The flick ends and everyone sits quietly in the darkness for a few seconds, watching the screen as the credits scroll. You get a little private murmuring at most. Mind you, not everything Hollywood cranks out deserves audible support. But I’ve seen a full theater sit on its collective hands for an Oscar-winning film. What a travesty!

Or consider what’s happened at classical music concerts. For hundreds of years, fans were expected to applaud after each movement of a symphony and each section of a concerto. Today, The Rule of Hush prevails. In fact, those who deign to clap before the very final note risk identifying themselves as newbies.

As a writer, I can attest to the fact that public readings suffer the same fate. Eerie silence has replaced applause as the normative crowd reaction. And I’m here to tell you, folks: There’s nothing like an eerie silence to reassure a neurotic writer that he (or me) has utterly failed to entertain.

About the only public venues where Americans still feel comfortable clapping, outside of some churches, are sporting events. I’m sorry, but there’s something troubling about a culture that will cheer wildly for a millionaire athlete pounding his foe into submission, but not even lift a finger—let alone two hands—to praise an artist.

I should explain that my own history as a public clapper dates back to a long flight I took more than 20 years ago. When the plane landed, many people burst into applause. I was dumbstruck.

My seatmate noted my confusion. “It’s just a way of giving thanks for our arrival,” she cheerfully explained.

Her words stuck with me. The more I thought about them, the more sense they made. After all, we tend to take for granted the miracle of modern travel. A journey that once would have taken weeks or months now takes a matter of hours. Can you imagine, for instance, how thankful a traveler from the 15th century would be to step onboard a 747? From that flight on, I made it a point to applaud whenever I reached my destination.

I don’t mean to portray myself as some kind of holier-than-thou Enlightened Traveler. I get just as grumpy as the next person when I run into delays at the airport—probably grumpier. Which is the precise reason why my clapping ritual has come to feel so necessary. It’s a kind of personal liturgy, a way of forcing myself to step back and acknowledge my good fortune. It helps me let go of all my petty frustrations.

So, fine, you’re wondering, but why can’t I just think about my gratitude? Quietly. To myself. Well, I suppose you could. But there’s something about the act of clapping that makes the experience seem more real. It’s like I’m issuing a public declaration to the folks around me, saying, Hey, folks, I know you’re caught up in the midst of your own frantic life, but can’t we agree that overall we’re pretty darn lucky?

Unfortunately for my wife, I don’t limit my public-clapping habit to airplanes and cinemas. No, siree. I’m a clapper at live performances, too. At rock shows, this is no big deal. I can clap and hoot to my heart’s delight. And I do. When the performer in question is working a coffee house or a street corner, applauding seems a little stranger.

But honestly, what’s the difference? If you’ve got the guts to sing on a subway platform, don’t you deserve a little recognition? My own favorite busker used to station himself on the train platform at Davis Square, outside Boston. He was from Mali and played a long, stringed instrument that produced cascading melodies. I tossed plenty of money in his tip box, and even bought the CD he was hawking. But I also clapped for him each time. The music was just that lovely. It deserved acclaim.

A few years ago, I took a date to a fancy Italian restaurant with an open kitchen and enjoyed the most spectacular shrimp scampi of my life. It was so good that I told the waitress, as we were leaving the restaurant, to give my compliments to the chef.

“The guy who made your dish is right there,” she explained, pointing to a red-faced line cook. I don’t suppose it’s any secret what I did next. To the utter mortification of my date, I gave him a round of applause and a few bravos. He nodded shyly and looked relieved when I exited.

So I’ll admit that my public clapping sometimes makes people a little uncomfortable. That’s not my intention, though. I honestly feel like we’d all be happier if we allowed ourselves to express our gratitude.

For years I’ve mulled the question why public clapping has fallen out of favor in so many settings. My theory is that people have become more self-conscious in public spaces because they spend less and less time in them.

Consider that a few decades ago, the average American rode public transportation, swam at a public pool, walked in public parks, and even attended town hall meetings.

These days, Americans spend most of their days in cars, cubicles, and recliners. Modern life insulates us from the hassle of public life. We spend more and more of our leisure time in front of screens, at a remove from the actual world.

And when people do venture out, they’re often equipped with technology—cell phones, iPods, and all the rest—that allows them to tune out their fellow citizens. Honestly, when’s the last time you said hello to a passing stranger on the sidewalk?

At the same time, we’ve been exposed to a culture of incessant marketing. We watch so many commercials and game shows, not to mention staged political events. We listen to so much canned applause that the very act of clapping seems hokey.

But clapping isn’t hokey. Not if you really mean it. As a mode of nonverbal communication, it’s been around longer than we have. The habits of the primate world confirm this. The Romans were so serious about their applause that they created an entire hierarchy of claps—ranging from snapping to clapping to waving the flap of the toga. The emperor Aurelian preferred handkerchiefs to the toga flap, and went so far as to distribute them to the people.

No, the problem isn’t with clapping, I’d maintain, but with us. We’ve become tragically self-involved, so locked in our private orbits of obligation that we’ve forgotten one of the central dividends of a civic life: the right to express ourselves in public. More specifically, the right to show gratitude, to remind each other of the remarkable blessings that we enjoy as Americans.

Which is why I am hereby issuing the following call to arms. Or, OK, to hands. Next time you go to see a movie and love it, dare to applaud when it ends. Next time you go to the symphony, dare to applaud if the first movement inspires you. And if you’re on a plane right now—and something tells me you are—dare to clap when you touch down.

I realize this may push you out of your comfort zone. But just imagine a world in which everyone else on the plane clapped too, in which this simple gesture of appreciation was the rule, not the exception. Wouldn’t that be a better world? One worth applauding?

Steve Almond is the author of the new essay collection Not That You Asked (Random House). He’d appreciate if you bought the book but expects no applause when you finish.

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Not quite bold enough to clap out of turn at the symphony? Read up on the most appropriate times to show your enthusiasm here.

Remember Miss Mary Mack? Teach your kids the classic hand clapping game and bring retro fun to the playground.