Hands

I have this non-erotic fetish with hands. Male hands to be exact. It's not what it seems. I honestly believe that a person's hands can tell the trajectory of their lives. A man's hands (Seinfeldish?) are a good definition of their person or at least their story. A person's face can be misleading. A person's mouth, well that of course is filled with lies. A man's feet have seen more too much work. But their hands, I really think you can read a story in a person's hands.

When I was younger, I used to look at other boys hands and think that my hands didn't measure up and they never would. A majority of this comes in the shape of the knuckles. Trust me, the knuckles are important. The knuckles that join the fingers to the hand and not what people call knuckles that join the segments of your fingers. You see, the knuckles are very important. When the fingers are coiled together and the hand turns into a fist, how those knuckles stand tells a large part of the story. The cool tough boys had these big knuckles. Big bony knuckles. Four mountains jutting straight up, impeding the the future of the horizon. Some of these mountains, tall and pointy with a severe definition while others have a gently orbicular face. I would look at these boys fists and compared to their social standing I knew they were cool, tough, strong. Their fists didn't lie. Their knuckles told me, "I'm going to be doing this for a long while. And I will be doing this well."

I saw mine in comparison and knew I was not them. Mine, seemingly smaller. My knuckles, hidden by thin layers of fat. Mine made to look like round domes and with no strong peaks just gentle squat hills. And when my hand was extended with my fat short fingers stretched as far as they could, the roundness of my hand was shameful. No veins, no muscle striation, no definition.

But when the other boys let their fists be free, you could see the young veins of prepubescence bulge and grow. There they were, like little serpents of life waiting to be worked or do the work. Waiting to pulse and give life to those hands that were even more so waiting to be made alive. To be made alive to work, to be strong, to really live. To live without fear, to get in fights. to build things, to build a life without fear.

I remember always feeling guiltily jealous for not having veiny hands. I didn't have that for the longest time. There was always a thin layer of fat that was hiding my life. If you looked you could see the blue-green streaks of life hiding beneath the surface. But I couldn't expose them like I'd like to have exposed my life, my vivacity for life and strength. I knew the potential was right there, right under my skin, but the outside world would never see. My ability to be young and strong and alive was hidden under my inability to be strong.

Being a man, changing from a boy to a man, is hard. Stories all throughout our lives are told. They are our guides to what maybe the truth of what it means to be a man. Be strong, not soft. Little signposts, little guides like hands, are the archetypes for our path to becoming men. But maybe it's my twenty-first century rebellion, but, those stories are the lies. Those archetypes of definition are what are misleading. Men are boys who have finally come to terms with growing old and staying young. Men are children who are comfortable with living within and outside the bounds of growing up. Men are boys who finally learn to say change is ok. Men are little kids who understand what compromise really means. Men are boys who have found out the truth about selfishness. Men are ok not trying to be men, but trying to be better selves.

I look at my hands now, and I am happy. My knuckles are strong and mountainous with valleys; valleys soft and secure. My skin has pock marks of growth and youth. My veins are proof that I am vital. My outstretched hand, with my short crooked fingers and chubby palms, tell me it is ok to be comfortable with who I am.

I'll let you know what else I see along the way.



Without Relent,
Peace
Remoy

PS: One more thing: I'm half of a boy, but I'm twice the Man