We All Need Human Touch

When I was in fourth grade, an Asian girl in my class asked me if I would be her best friend.  I said, “sure!”  So she grabbed my hand, and we walked to the playground hand-in-hand.  I remember a boy pointing and laughing loudly at us and saying we were gay.  I didn’t really know what that meant at the time, but I knew it must be something to be ashamed of, and I dropped her hand.  That was a long time ago, so I can’t remember if she and I continued to be friends afterward.  I doubt it, because I only remember two people from living in Texas, and neither was her.

That memory came back to me, recently.  Aside from my little sister, I didn’t get a lot of physical affection when I was a kid.  My mom had her own issues, including being overwhelmed by having had four children in a matter of six years.  That’s a lot of diapers, laundry, cooking, and cleaning, and I was old enough to remember Chuck, her husband and father of my two youngest siblings, staying drunk most of the time when he wasn’t at work.

I don’t remember when the hugging stopped, but Audra, the youngest of my biological siblings, would run to me for comfort if she got into trouble.  I was so protective of her.  I think she may have been the majority of physical contact I got as a child.

So in 7th grade, I went to a school dance.  There was a boy named Mike who wore the Michael Jackson Thriller jacket, and the fedora and a white glove.  He did MJ impersonations during rallies and talent shows.

He asked me to dance.

I no longer remember the details of the dance, but I remember that when it was over, Mike and I walked to one of the walls, and held each other in an embrace for the rest of the evening.  We didn’t kiss.  We didn’t talk.  We just stood there, holding each other like one long hug.  I’m pretty sure that we got tapped on the shoulder for “overshow of affection,” which at our school included holding hands, but I clearly remember that we stayed that way for what seemed like hours until the dance was over and we all went home.

I think he may have tried to talk to me once after that, but nothing more ever came of that encounter.  He changed schools shortly thereafter, and I never saw nor heard from him again.

I’ve pondered that moment hundreds of times over the years.  It’s only recently begun to occur to me how desperate I was for attention and affection.  It’s no wonder that I got married at 18.

I’m not sure there is any grand point to this entry.  I just felt the need to write about it.  The video above is from that time period.  I thought it would be a nice touch.  (Pun intended!)

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