Hands-a-Holdin’

I take a picture every time I come across a “Link.”

Alanna Stein, Editor-in-Chief • December 18, 2023

Inspired by Ross Gay’s “The Book of Delights,” this piece highlights my enamoration of hand-holding.

Hands are meant to hold ______.

Please, fill in the blank for once you rake through your tank, you can offer… say? “cake!” to fill in the blank.

Hands are meant to hold cake.

I could end my tale there. You know, with you thinking I love cake. But, I don’t. Ask me on my birthday, and I’d still say hands are not meant to hold cake— they’re not meant to hold a cheesesteak or a gas tank or a statement of bank or a you, thank. Point-blank.

Hands are meant to hold each other.

My upbringing reflects the value of genuine relationships: I’ve smelled love through a bouquet of roses on my parents anniversary, I’ve tasted infatuation when my brother promposed to his girlfriend with a plate of mandel bread, I’ve seen devotion as my dog greets the dry cleaning delivery man every day without fail, I’ve heard passion on a phone call with a supposed “friend” to establish what are we?

But, I’ve chosen to live affectionately through four senses (not five), and I will continue to remain intangible for I hate physical touch. Except, this doesn’t align for as much as I hate physical touch, I find delight in observing other people’s physical connections.

So yes, I think hands are meant to hold each other WITH, of course, the exception of my hands. In fact, I’ve documented every time I walk past a passionate grasp of an adjacent’s palm… past a Link.

My phone possesses a photo-album titled “Hands-a-Holdin’” that houses fifty-three pictures of sporadically-aged, uniquely-colored, and differently-gendered physically-connected pairs or triplets or quartets. When I let the Links wander by, I become a detective: the subjects conceal their backgrounds like criminals covering up a scene, but I see beyond that. Their facade cracks, offering hints of authenticity through giggles and glances and gestures. Like the Links, small hints, themselves, hold hands, practically writing their provider’s narrative. Each square within the album portrays an original story:

The first square of the second row depicts three young girls— one barefoot in a ruffle, flowered dress with clipped-back brown hair, one in a pink tie-dye t-shirt with black jeans and a thick mane reaching the bend of her knees, all loosely collected by a green ponytail, and one in a basic purple t-shirt tucked into distressed jean shorts and shoulder-length, dark hair that parts above her right eyebrow.

The three Links innocently playing beneath a Central Park tree. (Alanna Stein)

“12:07 pm on June 19th, 2023” stamps the snapshot, setting the scene in a specific second of space. The three girls are protected by the shade of a blooming Central Park tree, and contrary to assumptions surrounding hand-holding, the Links are not lovers. Instead, they are three friends, singing “Ring Around the Rosie,” naively ignorant to the tune’s comments of death.

Four rows down is a square that illustrates an elderly woman and man, connected by the overlap of ten phalanges. The Links are returning home after an evening performance of Funny Girl on W 52nd St, New York, New York… they are walking in-sync.

The Link’s clasp in harmonious endearment. (Alanna Stein)

The clasp of their hands signals confidence in their relationship— no veins pop from the arms to show clenching nor do the conjoined fists sway with their strides to show insecurity. It is the work of affection at its finest: simple, soothing, safe. The ever-present aroma of wisdom encompassing the elderly couple confirms their hands are not taped but glued together for the remainder of their journey home— and the rest of their life, that is.

I’m enamored by human adhesion.

I love to infer life experiences and backgrounds through examining a mere touch of skin.

Sounds creepy? Slightly.

But, I transform my disgust of personal touch into delight of contactless touch. And, perhaps, maybe this delight is a reflection of my inability to let myself be vulnerable enough to engage in physical connection. To become a Link.

“The power in numbers” tells me five is better than four. Ritz-Carlton Hotel reviews tell me five is better than four. The Ginger-less Spice Girls tell me five is better than four. Even Big Brother tells me five is better than four! So yes, I recognize that practicing all five senses is better than merely performing four.

But for now, my hands are not meant to hold each other. Instead, my eyes are meant to watch your hands hold each other.

Point-blank.