I wanna hold your hand

                Do you remember in middle school the first time you held someone’s hand?

                I remember it being absolutely terrifying.  I remember the thoughts running through my mind: “what if my hand is too sweaty?  Am I squeezing his hand too hard?  Everyone is staring at us.  Does he want to let go?  Is he uncomfortable?  Oh my gosh, my fingers are totally sweating.”

                Hand holding was a big step back then.  Maybe it still is.  I sure do enjoy it a lot more now than I did when I was in 7^th grade.  I myself am partial to fingers laced, with my thumb on the inside of his.  I like holding hands all over the place—walking, driving, watching a movie—it makes everything seem like you’re together, and like you’re a couple, and like you’re in love.

                Everyone holds hands in Lesotho.  

                When you shake hands with someone, often times they’ll hold your hand for an uncomfortably long time while they continue chatting with you.  I remember the first time this happened to me.  It was with one of my teachers after we had just met.  It was an awkward moment when I tried to pull away too soon.  The next few times it happened, I’d pretend to motion to something with my hand while I was talking in order to break free from the embrace.

                A few other times, I’ll be walking to class or to the toilet with one of my teachers and she’ll catch hold of one of my fingers and won’t let go.  I can only hold on for so long, and then I get that creeping feeling that my fingers are sweating or that it’s been an oddly long time that our fingers are laced.

                I’m trying to get used to the hand-holding.  I’m not yet to the point where I’ll initiate it, but I can hold on for quite some time before the grasp is released.  Of course, I’m still always consciously aware of the seconds ticking by while I hold this persons hot, sweaty hand.  But I can hang in there.

                Basotho don’t seem to mind.  Boys and boys, girls and girls, boys and girls, friends, colleagues, family…they all hold hands.

                I was watching my kids’ choir practice last week.  They’re getting ready for a district competition on Friday.  The girls stand in the front of the choir and the boys stand in the back, naturally.  The shorter boys pull up stools to stand on in order to be seen above their towering classmates’ heads.

                Hand holding is big during choir.  My students must feel their knuckles grazing those of the person next to them and instinctively intertwine their fingers.  It’s actually kind of cute seeing them clasp and unclasp their hands while they’re singing, especially the little boys.  They don’t even seem to notice that they are holding hands, and just as suddenly as it started, they break free from each other once the song is over.

                Why is it that in American culture, we have this “personal space bubble” that can’t be invaded?  This isn’t the first time living abroad that I’ve noticed that we Americans don’t like being touched.  While I was in Argentina, I remember several male classmates being disgusted by giving the customary one-cheek beso to other males.  More than once, I was referred to as la Americana fría—the cold American.

                Although I’m still not totally into it, I’m growing used to holding hands.  I actually think it’s kind of sweet.  When Maphoka and I hold hands on the way to the shop, I feel a really close bond between us as sisters.  When my teacher grabs onto me while we’re at a cultural competition, I feel like she’s doing it to be protective of me in a crowd.  And when a stranger won’t let go during that first conversation we’re having, I see it as them being genuinely interested and engaged in meeting me.

                What I wouldn’t give to see my conservative Dad sweating and uncomfortably holding hands with my male principal for a full five-minute conversation.  J