by Erin Ajello
Hands
are the first part of a boy that seems to matter
At five years old,
a boy’s hands are yucky,
dirty nails with muddy hands holding bugs.
You squeal and run if they try to touch you,
or else make fun of any girl holding hands with a boy,
because who would want to do that?
At thirteen years old,
something has apparently changed.
Boy’s hands are still dirty, but instead of holding bugs,
they grip the phone they use to call and ask you out.
You say yes, clinging to the phone until you can grasp his hand,
because who wouldn’t want a boyfriend?
At seventeen years old,
a boy’s hands are sticky again,
now coated with beer spilling over from the cup they hand you.
You take the cup from them because denial is rude, or uncool, or something frowned upon enough to make you look bad.
You don’t say anything,
because who would reject free alcohol?
Somehow,
during high school,
during college,
during the rest of your life,
a boy’s hands will seem amazing and alarming.
You will press them against you and shove them off you,
depending on who these hands are attached to.
You will say no, and yes, and nothing to them, depending on if you want them closer or far, far away.
When your own hands slyly hide a phone under your textbook in class,
and scroll through Facebook, your fingers will pause when you see a post that starts with #metoo and ends with “every single day.”
You will deftly use your fingers to type “#metoo” into a search bar, and when you realize what it means, what your friends and family and idols are saying has happened, your hand will put your phone away, and grab a pen, and starting writing the words metoo on the bottom of a piece of paper.
You will suddenly feel the need to do something with your own hands, that starts with typing, clicking, finding out more
Your hand will raise in a class where the hashtag comes up, and you’ll be surprised to find yourself saying anything
Your hands will be balled into fists in your jacket pocket when another boy’s hands interrupts your study of your own.
You see, there’s a man behind you who sped up when you walked by.
He just wants to tell you his name, shake your hand, ask where you’re going, walk you home, give you his number, a hug, a kiss, a suffocating embrace.
You say nothing,
but when you come home,
you realize that your hands need to be able to do something more
To make the hands of the men that scare you do far, far, less.
Signed,
all of us
