I have long noticed that in large groups of disabled friends, it is not uncommon for people to hold hands. I have always felt that my peers in the sisterhood of disability possess an understanding about this. So when I grew up, and society told me “Friends don’t hold hands,” I became isolated from yet another way of being with people. Through all the phases of declining mobility, holding another’s hand has always provided connection. Holding hands, however, is something I can always do. Gone are the days are sitting on the floor or sharing the bench seat in the back of the car. My physical connection to others these days is largely shaped by their ability to learn the contours of my beloved chair and reach me without nudging a switch. My steadily decreasing mobility has led to more and more time in my wheelchair. These gestures, too, are affectionate and kind, but nothing can take the place of human touch. When the greeter, disabled or not, is faced with the quirky dance involved in achieving physical closeness with me, it frequently seems easier to settle for a quick wave or a kiss blown across the room and caught. More often than not, I find myself saying, “Sorry, I couldn’t really reach you.” The ritual usually ends with both of us collapsing in laughter as we realize that most of the hug has been received by the other person’s chair. The chairs, as our mothers have sternly reminded us since childhood, must be off. It is often difficult for me to give hugs, and there is always a silent collection of phrases swirling above my head when I do: don’t trip over my footplate, watch the joystick, oh my god did I poke you with the screw on my armrest? The hug is further complicated when given to another friend in a wheelchair. I live in a world that does not even know how to look at me, much less touch me. However, it cannot be denied that being seated on an electronic throne of metal, plastic, and overpriced foam affects my relationship with physical touch. Any metaphors likening my chair to a metal prison will be swiftly rejected. I do not resent my wheelchair or see it as confining. I view my wheelchair as a tool of freedom, as natural to me as a leg or an arm. I was born with cerebral palsy, and I spend most of my time in a power wheelchair. As a disabled woman, I have felt this loss uniquely and profoundly. I more or less stopped connecting with my friends through touch altogether after childhood because I didn’t want to “give the wrong idea.” When we lose social permission to hold hands as an expression of sisterhood, all women lose something. Not wanting my friends or those around us to misinterpret a gesture of friendship as something more, I stopped holding their hands. A simple gesture that in my childhood served as a means of human connection is now treated as sexual, and all its other meanings-like unity, strength, and togetherness-seem to fade away in the eyes of the world. But it grieves me, as it should grieve us all, that our culture is so hypersexualized that just about anything we do stands the possibility of being perceived as sexual. Hand holding between any two people is beautiful when used as a romantic gesture. As I grew from a girl into a woman, I started to get a lot of cultural messages, implicit and explicit, that holding hands was no longer acceptable between friends because it was now assumed to be romantic, reserved for those who are “more than friends.” Suddenly, this way to be close to those I love was sexualized. It was a sign of companionship and togetherness, one that wordlessly affirmed the strong force that is female friendship. When I was a little girl, I held hands with my friends. WMC Loreen Arbus Journalism Program The power of holding hands
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