Ah, those cultural differences. My father worked in the millinary district in
Manhattan and he used to tell me that the Italians and the Jews were very much
alike. He thought it had to do with the importance of family ties. I suspect
that this was an incorrect assumption. Family ties are important in all
cultures. But what it actually had to do with, was the easy expression of
emotion, whether that be open expressions of physical affection or loud
arguing. With Italians and Jews, everything is out in the open. Not so much
with Anglo Saxons.
Miriam
-----Original Message-----
From: blind-democracy-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
[mailto:blind-democracy-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On Behalf Of Carl Jarvis
Sent: Saturday, December 16, 2017 10:59 AM
To: blind-democracy@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Cc: jamesjarvis98 <jamesjarvis98@xxxxxxxxx>
Subject: [blind-democracy] Re: The Power of a Caring Touch
To Bob and All Huggy touchy Folk, everywhere!
After not seeing my former boss, Shirley Smith, for several years, Cathy and I
drove to Sedona, Arizona to spend the day with her. When we arrived Shirley
gave Cathy a huge hug and then embraced me.
Stepping back she exclaimed, "My goodness, you've finally learned how to hug!"
During my time as an assistant director with the Department of Services for the
Blind, I was the only male on the four person executive team. Shirley, Bonnie
and Faye were all old friends from years of working together. Our executive
team meetings always began with group hugs and friendly, personal chatter.
Having been raised by parents who seldom touched in public, never hugged by my
mother, and most certainly never by my father, and only kissed lightly on the
forehead when being tucked into bed, I was called, "The Stick" by my Team Mates
at work. I asked Cathy, whom I hugged every chance I got, and she said, "Yeah,
you are a bit stiff when you hug other women." I told her that I was going to
correct this flaw in my otherwise flawless persona. She rolled her Italian
eyes and said, "Either you got it, or you don't. I'm not sure there's any hope
for you." I began daily drills. I hugged her in the morning, even before we
rose from bed...enough of that! But still, when the Team met I fell back into
being Stiff Old Carl. I wisely decided to avoid practicing with my female
staff or the young female students, but my daughters and close female friends
became subjects to my crude hugs. So it was a proud moment when Shirley
finally declared me to be a bona fide hugger.
Folks like Shirley, and most of all, Cathy, were important in my efforts to
learn that hugging was not always an effort for a guy to "get next" to a woman.
And then I began hugging my son and my adult grandsons, and my sons-in-law,.
Something else that we did not learn to do when I was growing up was to say, "I
love you". Cathy and I agreed that this was going to be a much used word, not
only between ourselves, but with our children.
And so love ruled our home. But I would never in a thousand years tell another
man that I loved him. Children, yes, but once they reached manhood, never!
Then this young macho bull rider galloped into daughter Jennifer's life. And
with him, Don brought a gaggle of fellow Bull Riders.
These young guys amazed me. They joked easily together, slapped one another on
the shoulder, hugged when it came time to leave, and said, "I sure love you,
buddy".
The contrast between those stiff, more formal years and the warm hugging world
I now live and love in, is amazing. Whatever we do, let's agree that this
current Witch Hunt will not undermine our desire to hug one another and tell
our dear friends and family, "I sure love you". I understand that it is Sex
that advances our Race, but it is truly Love, that gives Life meaning.
Carl Jarvis
On 12/15/17, Bob Hachey <bhachey@xxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:
Hi all,
I sure do hope we can truly reduce the occurrences of sexual
harassment in the workplace and in society generally. But I also hope
we don't go too far.
(see below).
Bob Hachey
The power of touch, good and bad . By Roland Merullo . I come from a
family of touchers. Grandparents, parents, a multitude of aunts,
uncles, cousins - we hugged and kissed without reservation. Often,
when we spoke, we'd put a hand on the listener's shoulder or forearm.
There was nothing strained or affected about this: It was as natural
as making eye contact, as shaking hands, as reaching out and
straightening the crooked shirt collar of someone we loved. This
comfort with physicality occasionally got some of us into trouble. A
cousin of mine went to see a new priest at the local church, needing
to speak with him about a difficult matter. After an hour-long
face-to-face, my cousin thanked the priest, reaching out to squeeze
his upper arm as he did so. "Don't touch me! the priest shouted,
recoiling. My cousin left the church wondering if he'd ever step back
inside. In an unpleasant encounter with a local police officer, after
a traffic incident, I happened to reach toward him - not in a
threatening way, but as a gesture of reconciliation. I wanted to touch
him on the shoulder and refine the point I was trying to make, offer
an avenue to agreement. He responded, loudly, fiercely, just as the
priest had done. "Don't you touch me! In Russia, where I've spent a
lot of time, it's common to see two male friends walking along the
sidewalk arm-in-arm. The same is true in Italy. It doesn't mean
they're lovers; it's not sexual, simply human. But in certain American
circles, touch between straight men is all but forbidden, as if the
Puritans are still casting their long shadow over us. One of the
things I enjoyed about having young children was the almost continuous
physical contact. You lifted them up when they were tired. You sat
them on your lap when reading to them. You touched them a hundred
times a day, and each of those touches
-
like those between my cousins and parents and aunts and uncles and me
- was a wordless "I love you," an assertion of a bond of trust. The
touch of adult lovers is the epitome of this wordless acceptance. We
all remember our first kiss, our first hand-holding, even our first
slow dance. It is touch, ultimately, that keeps the species going. And
so it's particularly distressing to me, as someone who takes joy in
physical contact, to witness all the recent revelations of what must
be called a perversion of that contact. If allowing a friend or loved
one to touch you speaks to a wordless trust, then putting your hand on
someone who doesn't want to be touched speaks to a poisonous rupture
of that trust. It's a violation, perhaps the prototypical violation.
As much as it troubled me to hear my cousin's tale of his bad moment
with the priest, and as unpleasant as it was to have the police
officer feel threatened by what was obviously a slow and unthreatening
gesture, I believe people have the right to decide when and how they
want to be touched, or if they don't want to be touched at all. I was
discussing this with a young woman recently, a bright 22-year-old, no
stranger to unwanted attention. We were wondering if the flood of
recent revelations would actually lead to better behavior - at least
on the part of some men. "It might change things," she said guardedly.
"I just hope it doesn't mean that nobody touches anybody anymore. In
almost every case I can think of, the intent behind physical contact
is unambiguous. You know when it feels wrong, and when it doesn't.
Grown men know when they're giving a co-worker a friendly embrace - in
moments of congratulation or deep sympathy, say - and when they're
angling for some illicit sexual thrill, or asserting a weird
dominance. Even children can often sense when someone is creepy or
not. Like my young friend, I hope the revelations by women who've been
assaulted give the creeps pause and lead to an atmosphere of greater
respect. And, like her, I hope we also find a way to continue to be
able to touch each other, when it feels right - for both parties.
Roland Merullo's latest novel is "The Delight of Being Ordinary: A
Road Trip with the Pope and Dalai Lama.