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Have Shovel, Will Travel

As the progeny of a wildlife biologist and forester, my sister and I often had nontraditional childhood experiences that in no small way shaped our interests in, and love for, the outdoors. Being highly allergic to almost every blooming plant and grass, and hypersensitive to poison ivy, and prone to cancerous lesions from sun exposure and bouts of numbness from a defunct circulatory system make me the least likely candidate to be an outdoorsy person. Much less an archaeologist.

Archaeology when it was fun

But here I am—lesions and all.

Okay, so I’m not a mass of boils. Still, you get my point. Genetically, I’m predisposed to a warm and cozy indoor office environment, not the exposure an archaeologist faces while traipsing through the wilderness, excavating archaeological sites.

***

Sure, being an archaeologist sounds romantically Thoreau-esque. But after bubbly poison ivy welts weep their itchy discharges down your arms like lava flows, barbed-wire fences rip through your pants and flesh, allegedly disconnected electric cattle fences jolt back to life as you climb them, leaky CamelBaks douse your backside with your only water source for miles, and dog-peter gnats nip at your ears, eyes, and face while cicadas scream from the July heat and humidity, you scoff at the idea that you ever thought this line of work was even remotely romantic.

Back-bending excavation

That said, archaeologists either really have to love their work to keep with it or, early on, cynically resign themselves to their lot.

I’m of the latter ilk.

Granted, archaeology didn’t choose me. I chose it.

Mea maxima culpa.

***

From my field experiences, I found a month and two weeks to be the amount of time away from home-base I could stand without completely losing touch with reality. Returning to a motel room and eating cold canned soup and beans day after day for weeks on end instead of sitting down to a fresh salad in my Deco-decorated apartment got old really fast.

Even if the motel afforded me guilty pleasures like Project Runway and House Hunters.

In the field, sustained human contact was confined to the eight- to ten-hour workday, with the closest thing to after-hours carousing or bonding consisting of field cohorts yelling “Touchdown!” or “Homerun!” from neighboring rooms, and me screaming from my room at a misguided, pretentious fashion upstart, “Tulle and Paisley?! Too much pattern!” or oblivious first-time buyers, “House Two! Pick HOUSE Two, you fools!”

***

All too often, though, the hovel serving as my home-away-from-home became not a place of refuge after a long day shoveling dirt, hauling cobbles, and troweling profile walls, but the impetus for a frantic bar search.

And insult was added to injury when I found myself in a dry county, in the middle of nowhere, as I did on one particularly memorable excursion.

“Described as ‘homey’ and ‘comfortable,’ the motel seems to be just that: stone façade, barn-red metal roof. But I should know something’s amiss when I have to venture to the front of the house-office and enter a glass vestibule. The glass reflects the sunlight brilliantly, but prevents me from seeing inside. The only thing I make out is a small sign that reads “Ring Bell.”

But then a cloud bank passes overhead, and I find myself staring into the Zoo of the Future’s geriatric Homo sapiens sapiens exhibit.

An elderly woman sits in a wingback chair, the arms of which are covered with doilies. She peers ahead to a large television where Wheel of Fortune’s Pat Sajak grins widely. Near the back of the house, an elderly man shuffles with a plated sandwich—pimento cheese, no doubt —from the dining room to the kitchen.

And I just watch. Until I feel like some perverse voyeur.

Then, as any curious person would do, I ring the bell. A loud, long-lasting, arcane musical bellows from within, and the elderly woman rouses herself out of the chair, slowly turns toward the window, and approaches with a thin smile, out of which I can almost hear, It puts the lotion on its skin.

Once she gets to the front desk, she pushes out a bank teller drawer.

“Talk into the drawer. It’s the only way the sound can get through.”

Bending down, I yell into the drawer, and inform her I’m the first of my crew to arrive. She scans a large ledger on the counter.

“But, it’s Sunday.”

“Yes.” Pat, tell her what she’s won!

She seems surprised.

Flummoxed, I repeat my crew members’ names, that we have rooms reserved. We go back and forth until she gets it, and then asks me to fill out a registration card.

“There’s been a booking mistake. My husband took down the reservation.”

When I slip the card through the drawer, I clearly see my name printed in the ledger as “Marakey.” She pushes my room key back out.

Room 112 it is.

“It’s the one there on the end,” she says, pointing to the end unit facing the road.

I thank her, turn, and step into a mud hole. Auspicious signs abound.

I unload everything into a room overstuffed with mismatched eighties bedroom sets and decorated with fiercely disturbing wildlife paintings. My attention turns to the headboard, which features a Sharpie-scrawled, upside-down message: “J.C. loves B.B.” I can only imagine the sex act that facilitated it. And I wonder if they were at all disturbed by the stuffed wood duck staring down from above.

Waking up the next morning with a crick in my neck kicks off a quintessential first field day: we get lost; we get the truck stuck; we get drenched by rain.

Naturally, I return to find my room completely empty.

At first I think I have the wrong room. And then I think I cleaned my room that well and my stuff is just ordered in dresser drawers.

But, no.

Nothing is left. Except my groceries, which I’d tucked away in a TV cabinet.

Marvelous.

Panicked, I yell to the crew chief. He and I venture into the house-office’s vestibule to alert the owners and get some answers. This time, the elderly man sits at the front desk. He pushes the drawer out and I explain the situation.

But he’s not getting it.

“Yes, the man in Room 112 moved into Room 111 this morning.”

I tell him I’m the one in Room 112, that I still have my key, and that I didn’t known about the goddamn move. He gets flustered and says to check Room 111.

I think I must have one of those faces you can’t help but believing.

He walks over with me and opens up Room 111. All of my belongings are arranged in the exact places they’d been in Room 112. Even an upside-down cup on a paper towel had been moved between the rooms.

I shudder.

Barring the creepiness of the whole exchange, the room swap actually plays in my favor. The room is larger, less-cluttered, and doesn’t reek of mold.

Score!

***

But then we left for a week. Two weeks later, my luck wasn’t as good.

As evidenced by a few journal entries:

“I miss Room 111. Little did I realize how good I had it there. After emptying nearly an entire bottle of Febreze in this room, the mold and water stains are still laughing at me. With a gurgle of agreement, the toilet occasionally joins the other icky things in making even the most mundane task challenging.

“For instance, my shower experience was a nightmare. I cringed when I opened the door to the claustrophobic, mold-ridden shower which, incidentally, had a rusted light bulb-cord combination dangling from the unpainted plywood ceiling. I had no shower shoes, so I threw down a bath towel as a barrier between me and the shower floor funk. When I turned on the shower, only two jets sprayed—the rest of the holes must’ve been blocked, with what I don’t hazard to guess, nor want to know. I angled my body under both jets. But doing so caused me to knock into the soap-caked shower caddie. The whole caddie slipped down the showerhead’s neck, and the showerhead detached from the wall; it ripped open a small hole, out of which scurried a large silverfish that all but greeted me with, “Hello! Welcome to Hell!” When I jumped back to avoid my unexpected showermate, I smacked my ass into the nasty tile wall. I screamed.

“Now all I want to do is throw myself face-down onto the bed and bawl my eyes out with dramatic flair. But there’s a stained, heirloomed, floral piece-of-shit comforter that’s covering two stained sheets. Stains no doubt left by a Mr. Mayberry, the author of a sweet-nothing found etched into the nightstand’s inside drawer, no doubt with a shank: ‘Michelle. Love You. It Ben Fun. Mayberry.’

“Juxtaposed with the faux wood paneling, the comforter is supposed to make the room seem homey, but any semblance of hominess is dashed when a foreign pubic hair is found sticking out of one of the comforter’s brocaded rose blossoms. Mr. Mayberry’s, I presume? In order to fall asleep, I wear a toboggan, a down jacket over a fleece and an undershirt, and long sweatpants tucked into two pairs of calf-length socks. But all that doesn’t keep me from actually feeling things crawling on me throughout the night.

“And when it’s not creepy-crawlies keeping me on pins and needles–which are probably stashed between the mattress and box-springs–Bubbas keep racing up and down the alleyway outside my door, as if recreating a Dukes of Hazard episode. Four gunshots are interjected between the revving engines and squealing tires. Three in rapid succession; the fourth, no doubt, the finishing shot.

“When I wake up un-infested and bullet-free, I’m greeted by two slugs slowly sliming across the room’s water-stained, mildewed door. And, to top everything off, my body is keenly aware of my surroundings—I can almost hear my bowels rumble to me, ‘Like hell I’m letting you use that dripping, broken-down toilet, which was probably used to dispose of a fetus.’ Fuck. It. All.”

***

My contempt for Harrison Ford and his pack of lies has been mitigated slightly by capitalizing on my rather atypical job.

For one, it makes me seem butch.

Alright, fine. At least it’s a conversation starter.

“A who?”

“Ar-chae-o-lo-gist.”

“Say what?”

“Like Indiana Jones.”

“Ohhhh. So you dig up dinosaurs?”

“No, those are paleontologists. Have you even seen Raiders of the Lost Ark?”

“So, you don’t dig up dinosaurs?”

“No, dead peoples’ things mostly.”

“Do you at least wear a cool hat?”

“No. Mostly raggedy, stained clothes and boots.”

“And you go to school for this?”

So maybe it’s just a failed exercise. Still, the moniker gets people talking. Real archaeology means you’ll be hunched over your desk for hours, putting artifact tags into archival bags, or using a high-intensity magnifier to separate fish vertebrae from soil residue; all of that and then some, instead of wielding a golden statuette in one hand, whip in the other, and beautiful, buxom arm-candy clinging to your biceps.

I mean, the closest I’ve come to wielding a whip sensu Indiana was getting a riding crop to the nuts during an angsty teen fight with my sister. And she won.

Lab Days

But misconceptions about archaeology, and anthropology in general, are perpetuated for multiple reasons. Not the least of which is anthropologists’ inability to interact with people.

As professionals whose jobs hinge upon their abilities to engage people on a daily basis, anthropologists fail miserably. When it comes to social interaction, the rules we budding anthropologists are taught fly out the proverbial window during the most mundane salutation between professors and graduate students.

But I can see how it can be difficult for some professors to talk about anything other than themselves, how great and informative their work is for The Discipline, and the potential their work has to reform entrenched paradigms.

Seriously, though, guys and gals of the professorial persuasion, hear me.

Stop masturbating each other at the drop of a hat and realize that ninety-nine percent of what you say doesn’t resonate with your intended audience. Mostly because you’re too damn proud to take a few steps down from the Ivory Tower and make your subject-matter relevant for your undergraduates, much less for the general public.

***

But particular experiences did teach me one thing about interacting with academic anthropologists: mentally file professors’ non-academic interests under “Break Open in Case of Socially-Awkward Emergencies.”

This proved valuable on multiple occasions. Like when I was tasked to set up a departmental picnic and was stuck with two married, socially-inept professors an hour before the party.

Once I’d exhausted commentary regarding how great the food looked next to the hosts’ pot-bellied stove, I mentally scanned through the files I’d compiled for each of them.

“Is that a Fiestaware platter I see under that baklava?” I oozed, remembering that I shared a love of Fiestaware with the hostess.

And then we were off. Before I knew it, I’d gotten answers to the when, where, and why of her Fiestaware collection. Not wanting to completely exhaust the Fiestaware file just yet, I briefly recited my own Fiestaware’s lineage before turning to the host and asking about a particularly beautiful drugstore apothecary cabinet sitting in their living room.

And then we were on to antiques.

By the time we got to a story ending with “And so when he turned the loveseat on its side to get it through the door, the commode’s marble top fell out of the cushions and shattered to pieces,” people began trickling in and I bolted for the booze.

Usually, though, social situations involving two or more anthropologists rarely end that smoothly. Oftentimes, awkward silences last for minutes, inappropriate topics are broached to fill the silence. Or, as I once witnessed, a professor begins to shake like a Chihuahua who piddled on the family’s Persian rug.

All of these are cues to pack it in, cut your dialogical losses, and leave the bumbling bonobo of an interlocutor to hash out their neuroses in private.

***

But working outside the Ivory Tower didn’t shield me from awkward interactions. On many occasions I’d attempt to bond with my fellow shovel-bums.

I had little success.

Like when I thought it’d be a hit to sprint to the top of a steep hill, twirl around, and get a laugh out of my crew.

“I feel like Julie Andrews, like I could just break into song and collapse on the verdant hills!”

Silence.

“Well, er, I guess. If you feel like it.”

I’d missed the mark. Or my audience didn’t care.

Worse yet, they might not have ever seen The Sound of Music. But I found the last realization too troubling, and redirected my focus to the upcoming hills, full of cow-pies and horse flies.

And when I couldn’t rely on my fellow crew members to chat, jovial Bubbas, each of whom were positive they knew everything I didn’t, felt inclined to proffer said knowledge to me–the guy digging in the dirt.

Noticing us swatting at hoards of gnats hovering above a test unit, one such DOT worker imparted a pearl of wisdom.

“Ya know how to get rid of those gnats, don’tcha? Well, what ya do is reach back into your drawers, pick out a dingle-berry back there, wrap it up behind your head, and all the gnats will go to it and not yer face!”

By the time he’d uttered ‘behind your head,’ I’d thrown up a little in my mouth.

Twice.

***

Regardless of the constant trekking, intensive physical work, low pay, and nonexistent benefits, I got to see picturesque farms, rolling hills, and breathtaking views, and experienced warming sunrises and cooling breezes.

Scenery like that let me escape into myself, think about life and what I wanted. And while it turned out that what I wanted was nothing like what I was experiencing, I still counted that realization as revelatory.

Because with each revelation, each hurdle cleared, I was that much closer to figuring out what exactly it was that I wanted out of life.

And even if I fell, I could still dust myself off and try again.

Except when the hurdle happened to be an electrified cattle fence. Then, I’d just smiled through the pain.

Even if I straddled it.

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Reading the Leaves

The leaf landed so stealthily that I didn’t notice it resting on my hand until Meadow and Dave exchanged vows.

Because that’s when I nudged Andy’s hand, smiling as I did.

***

Life chapters before that moment, I was walking with my paternal grandmother, feeling the autumn breeze on our shoulders and watching the leaves glide down from above.

We’d been talking about nothing in particular when a browned leaf grazed my hand on its downward track. And when I shook my hand in response, Mom-Mau took it with her gnarled, arthritic one and squeezed.

I looked down at her, and she smiled up.

“That’s a good sign, a leaf falling on your hand. A good sign of good things to come.”

Her aged brown eyes danced mischievously, focusing not on me but the past–perhaps a younger version of herself experiencing life before it changed.

Before a lithe, smooth-talking Italian named Edward asked her out for a date and stuck her with the bill; before they found themselves dancing across a battered lodge floor; before they tied the knot; before the war; before my father’s birth; before the trials and tribulations life doles out tested their resolve; before they found their faces aging, the laugh lines growing deeper from the corners of their eyes; before their grandchildren were born; before we celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary; before his chest pains increased in regularity; before that day in the hospital when everything changed; before she said her final goodbye.

Then, as quickly as the leaf had floated from my hand to the ground, the spark faded, receding behind Mom-Mau’s deep browns like a wave from shore, bringing her back to the brisk day in which we found ourselves. To a different kind of comfort, a different life.

A few years later, I held her hand again. But for the last time.

***

So, as they exchanged vows, I raised my camera slightly and snapped a blurry photo.

Reading the Leaves

But the most meaningful part wasn’t the photo, or the leaf caught within the lens; it was Andy’s leg resting against mine. Acknowledging how time continues to unfold and reveal so many moments, each of which is but a blip on my life’s radar–an anchor to experience.

And like that moment so many years ago, I had someone by my side whom I loved deeply, whose love I never deserved–for which I never asked.

A type of love that just is.

So I let my eyes dance for a moment, glancing back through the memories, through the experiences that brought me to this moment with him. Knowing life changes without warning.

Tied Together

Knowing, above all else, there is living ahead.

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Postmaster

I’ve always had compulsions. Innocuous enough, they exercised their power through OCD-lended voices, demanding tribute in the form of exhausted light switches and disturbingly odd hopscotch burlesques across the multicolored kitchen floor tiles every morning.

And by the time I reached college, I’d shaken a majority of my ticks, and their residual effects translated to a socially acceptable anal-retentive cleanliness. It’s one thing to ask that someone use a coaster on your Art Deco sideboard; it’s something entirely different to stand outside the room in which your guests sit, reach around the doorframe, and turn the light on and off four times–only four!–while ensuring you avoid eye contact with something breakable, because it would surely tumble off its stable surface under the power of your gaze.

Face it, with the second option, water rings would be the least of your problems.

***

It wasn’t until graduate school that many of my dormant compulsions made a terrifying resurgence like a bastardized phoenix from a garbage can fire. Stress undoubtedly informed most of them. During a time when I felt I was spiraling out of control and found myself literally pressing my forehead to postmodern tomes during hours-long library binges in the hopes that their gibberish would translate through osmosis, the ticks wreaked havoc. Many times I had to run to the morning bus stop because I had to turn around to check the stovetop one more time, or give the front doorknob a fifth twist.

And then there was Time, always there, mocking me–asking me why I wasn’t already on my way to teach. After all, it was noon: recitation starts at 12:30, and it takes approximately ten minutes to get there; and you might need to double back for notes; and you’ll probably need to review that closing PowerPoint slide; that shoelace looks loose, and will probably need retying; and you’ll definitely need to check into the nearest bathroom to make sure you don’t have any lunch in your teeth–even though you stopped eating lunch months ago; and you can’t get to the room after the students, because they won’t respect you.

Clearly, it all made sense.

Flash forward a few years and graduate school is a distant memory, and I begin to relish reading again. But I still require evidence that I’ve conquered a book–that I’ve absorbed, embodied, and deconstructed it. Its ending has multiple meanings for the multiple people I’ve been through my life: neurotic late-bloomer teen; neurotic, angsty college goth; neurotic mini-professor graduate student; and neurotic, disillusioned archaeologist.

Enter: Post Its.

Post Its!

Not the big ones, mind you, but the ridiculously useful, multicolored ribbony ones; the ones that just scream to be plastered just so, their ends alluding to the meaning sandwiched between a book’s pages. More importantly, though, no one can see them. My secret obsession is safe.

Perusing book spines, potential boyfriends would be completely unaware of the Post It panoply facing the wall. If we’d become full-fledged boyfriends, and they pulled one off the shelf, I’d provide a very brief justification for the two colors of Post Its marking the pages of The Lord of the Flies. 

“Each color signifies a different meaning, I’d explain, “So please don’t remove them.”

It’d be at that point that I’d unabashedly bring my OCD into sharp relief.

It was a great litmus test: either he’d crack a smile and shake his head, or I’d get a “Let’s just be friends” email the next day. But at least Gmail’s flagging function became useful when I filed those in the folder “Close Calls of the Boyfriend Kind.” It was sort of like using Post Its, minus the associated baggage of failed romance. Little did I know, years later, I’d actually snag a guy who cracked a smile, shook his head, and stayed.

But boyfriendom wasn’t in the fore of my mind as I raced to make a book reading by one of my favorite authors at my favorite Raleigh bookstore. As Garbage’s #1 Crush queued into my iPod mix, I began grasping for something witty to say to this prolific, nationally-known, intellectual writer that wouldn’t translate as cliché or trite.

But before I could craft together something memorable, I pulled into the parking lot; I had to make a decision. Stacked on my passenger seat was every book Sarah Vowell had ever written. And each had its pages plumped by Post Its: Radio On: pink; Take the Cannoli: yellow; The Partly Cloudy Patriot: blue and green; Assassination Vacation, my favorite: blue, yellow, and purple; and, the book of the evening, The Wordy Shipmates: orange and yellow. I considered how intensely odd the tower of Post Ited books might appear, and replayed the conversation I’d had hours before with my friend Judie.

“Don’t do it.”

“Why not? I’d be flattered if I knew someone liked my book this much.”

“Because it looks like you’re a bit, um, extreme.”

“You mean insane?”

“Precisely. And you don’t have a book.”

“Whatever. I think it’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

And what’d Judie know, anyway? Sure, she’d earned a PhD in psychology, and had diagnosed me with everything in the book, but that shouldn’t stop me, right? Right. Plus, I had half an hour before the reading began; I could test the waters, see what everyone else had brought.

Walking in, my adrenaline rushed; this was the first real author I’d ever met. My palms started sweating. I tried to take my mind off things, so I judged others.

A woman to my right only had her reserve copy of The Wordy Shipmates, and a slight man to my left had Radio On and was thumbing through The Wordy Shipmates. I smiled to myself.

Amateurs.

Ten minutes away, people began filing down from the reserve counter. Decision time. I calmly stood, placed my copy of The Wordy Shipmates atop my chair, gave a quick I-Will-Cut-You glance at seat-ogling latecomers, and walked up to the entrance. The minute the door swung closed, I took off running to my car, ripped the books from the front seat, and ran back, slowing at the door, and walking in with the books’ spines facing out.

When I sat back down, the woman stared at the books’ colorful pages.

Cutting a sideways glance, I politely responded to her non-inquiry, “I’m a fan.”

The slight man arched an eyebrow, turned, and resumed thumbing. Then the introduction came, and Sarah Vowell was at the podium. Her signature voice was unmistakable. But I was astonished at how the larger-than-life mental image I’d constructed didn’t translate to her actual stature. It’s a little thing, but still.

Interjected between her readings were random bits of experience: emasculating a friend’s boyfriend by successfully defending her title as the HORSE champion of Bozeman, Montana; meeting Al Gore while giving an interview on The Daily Show; listening to The Buzzcocks while sitting in her Stickley rocking chair.

Before I knew it, she was wrapping up. And I was combing through my mind, searching for my meaningful statement like a bonobo searching its mate’s hairy back for bugs.

Then, inspiration.

Two women in the back asked how Sarah (we’re on a first name basis, you know?) reconciled her atheism with researching Puritanical Protestantism, the crux of her book. Sarah explained, and offered a closing statement.

“And thank you for pointing out, in the South, that I’m a godless heathen.”

That’s when it slapped me across my face: atheism, my in!

***

The signing line was incredibly long, and I thanked the universe that I didn’t have to go to work the next day. I got closer, and found myself behind the women who asked the religious question. I secretly envied them, especially when they exchanged guffaws with Sarah while she signed their books.

There’s no way I’d be as cool and collected as them. I’d probably sweated so much that I’d lose my grip on my books and drop them on her.

But then the attending employee took my stack from me, and readied them for Sarah. In the brief moments between the employee taking the books and Sarah telling the women goodbye, the employee looked from the bloated pages back to me. I blushed. She set them down.

My turn.

Sarah and I exchanged the usual pleasantries, and then she saw the books. And the Post Its.

“Wow, you like Post Its.”

I turned magenta. Cue nervous laugh.

“Hah. Well, I’m a little obsessive-compulsive.”

She opened The Partly Cloudy Patriot to a Post Ited page.

“So, what do the different colors mean? Different significance?”

Ohmygodshegetsit.

I laughed a bit and nodded. She signed, perused the others, and opened the next in the same fashion.

“And this one has three different kinds?”

“Yes, well, um, the blue signifies something interesting from a historical perspective. Purple, something I found personally meaningful. And yellow, something funny. Yellow usually marks something funny.”

She cracked a slight smile, which could’ve stemmed from horror or puzzlement.

And then she opened up The Wordy Shipmates. I wrung my hands. I hadn’t finished putting in the Post Its. It looked like I hated it. Why had I told her about my Yellow=Funny equation? There were only three yellow Post Its in the whole book. 

“Well, I just finished this one. I really liked it!” I boomed a bit too cheerily. 

She finished signing, looked up, and thanked me for coming.

I stood in awkward silence.

Justsayityoufool!

I smiled, turned, and took a step away. But then I figured, why the hell not? I swiveled back around, probably to the chagrin of the assisting employee.

“Well, from one godless heathen to another, thank you for your books, I really appreciate them.”

She looked up from the book she was prepping, stared at me, and cocked her head.

Silence.

Fuck.

I turned quickly and aimed for the door. I hope you’re satisfied. You just embarrassed yourself!

But then, that unmistakable voice. 

“Well, if you ever do decide to go to church, you’re well prepared. Well-equipped with all your Post Its.”

Holyfuckballs.

***

Several months later, I was in the same bookstore, with a similar pile of Post Ited books to hear Celia Rivenbark read from her new book.

Sidling up to the signing table, I watched the same employee push the stack toward Celia. Her eyes widened a bit, and she looked up at me. We had a similar conversation as I’d had with Sarah Vowell, but then Celia yelled to her daughter.

“Honey, come see this!”

Her young daughter came over, and Celia asked the employee to take a picture of us, with them holding up one of my marked books.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m happy you like them so much!”

Celia and Post Its

***

And I guess that’s the point, right? Knowing your life—what you’ve written—strikes a chord somewhere.  

Even if it’s not particularly colorful. 

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Then, Him

Children were screaming. Bounce houses were deflating. Rain was pouring down. And my hair looked like the sad leavenings of a Chia Pet porn scene.

And then I met him.

***

With thirty minutes of sleep under my undone belt, I steeled myself for the big day. And convinced myself that, no, I wouldn’t vomit after all.

Sidewalk chalk, a duffle bag stuffed with clothes I knew I’d never change into, and a few water bottles I knew I’d never drink were thrown haphazardly into my car. After all, when the LGBTs overrun one of Raleigh’s busiest downtown streets, there’s no time to do anything. Except do it up right.

Meaning, by the shebang’s end, we’re completely exhausted, dehydrated, and cattier than usual. A year in the making, the festival was the second of its kind in Raleigh’s history. There’d been attempts at other Pride-like events, but this one was different.

Not only was it larger this time around, but it had the fortuitous placement days before a critical vote in the state regarding LGBT rights. Everything had to run smoothly, and every person involved had their liver to remind them just how much vodka-laced logistical mess was involved to pull everything off. Each of us knew there was much more at stake than a few balloons and carnival games. Civil rights, it seemed, hinged upon our ability to garner support in any way that we could. In the eleventh hour. On thirty minutes of sleep.

And I looked fantastic.

My shirt dripped with sweat before the first visitor arrived, and I had Louis Vuitton bags beneath my eyes—minus the classiness. Dried-out contacts demanded tears as tribute for their aggravation at such an hour, while my gut reminded me that Nutella and Salt-n-Vinegar chips contain little nutritive value. An olfactory bouquet of restaurant refuse, cigarettes, and body odor from the previous night seemed to cling to the sidewalks until sweeper crews blew everything into the street and onto me.

So as I crinkled my nose and directed the inflatable bounce house delivery truck to various drop-off points—past the frantic production coordinator slapping paper numbers to the asphalt and crying out “We’re not ready!”—visions of little Gertrude pulling a chicken bone out of her foot skipped through my sleep-addled mind. By the time the puppeteers arrived, I’d come to some realizations: (1) Such sleep-deprivation should only occur if one finds themselves sandwiched between Frank Iero and Sam Trammell; (2) No amount of deodorant will compensate for rotten potato juice splashed on your shirt while moving overflowing garbage cans; (3) Toilet Bowl Basketball is never just like Ring Toss, regardless of whatever the responsible delivery driver emphatically suggests; and (4) No amount of product will tame curly hair when humidity, heat, and the impending presence of hyperactive children conspire against you.

Several hours into the melee, rainbow flags were whipping in the wind, performers were entertaining crowds with their singing and dancing, protestors were reciting our collective sins from behind explicit and color uncoordinated signs, and I was repeatedly convincing parents that, if they tilted their head slightly to the right, the inflatable sea creature crevices out of which their children happily sprung looked less like labias and more like Nessie’s lips.

The wind picked up a bit more, and then the deluge engulfed us—no drippy, misty foreshadowing, just an all-out fallout. While the protestors held their hands aloft and proclaimed the rain to be the work of God, I channeled my inner lifeguard and pulled kids out of the slopping messes the inflatables had become—being the collective buzzkill and nearly inciting riots among the tiny warriors, all the while mentally reciting two hands working can do more than a thousand clasped in prayer.

Between phoning the rental company and holding up my waterlogged pants, two of the inflatables came down. Sidewalk chalk renderings of families washed with tobacco chew and disintegrating cotton candy into the overwhelmed drains, and I pretended to be elsewhere as I felt my favorite shoes fill with the disturbing soup.

Before long, even God’s wrath became too much for the protesting zealots, and they ran. With wind funneling through the high-rises and whipping the vendors’ tents like spaghetti, OutRaleigh 2012 was called a few hours before its scheduled end time.

But not before my curiosity was piqued. An infinitesimally short amount of time separated the opening showers and the subsequent deluge. But sandwiched within this respite from the maelstrom was a brush with a yet unknown future.

***

With suspicions of an early close dancing somewhat gleefully in the back of my mind, I relieved a volunteer of his post at the massive Screamer Slide. Kids slicked by rain couldn’t get enough of it, and I steadied myself against its outer edge right as two kids crumpled into a wet, laughing pile at my feet.

More than bedraggled, I glanced up and past them to the opposite side. And there was this guy, whose eye contact was far deeper than the puddle at the bottom of the slide, and whose shoes could’ve easily been paired with a technicolor raincoat. He had a slightly mischievous, ear-to-ear smile plastered across his face, and just nodded his head at the kids descending into a rambunctious welter between us.

And then the sky opened up—not for an apropos rainbow or angelic music, but rather fat drops that splattered across our faces and settled the minor feud unfolding at my feet. Man X and I ushered the kids out, and began deflating the slide. And somewhere along the way, he mentioned his name: Andy.

“I like your shoes. They’re really bright.”

As my inner tween made an “L” sign on his forehead and rolled his eyes, I slipped and fell on my stomach, into the float. Andy looked down with another smile, and raised an eyebrow.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

***

Months later, I’m sitting on a mid-century-modern sofa he’d purchased on one of our antiquing excursions and surveying my pneumonia-clouded mind—retracing how I’ve ended up here. So many details in between that soggy day and this moment have been etched into memory—the hikes, the ice cream, the brunches.

But I wave them away to appreciate this moment: the fleece he brings me to quell my fever-induced chills, and the chocolate-covered pretzels and gummy worms he spreads across the coffee table before me. He clicks on the complete Daria series, presses “Play,” and gingerly rests his hand on my knee, giving it a slight squeeze.

And I know this snarky cynic is finally home.

Warm, fuzzy feelings and all.

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Edge of Twenty-Seven

He woke me at midnight. I bolted upright, the force of which nearly toppled the carefully arranged historic doors I’d erected as an art installation turned headboard.

“Travis?”

His voice was slurred a bit, but comprehensible. Perfect, he’s liquored up, which means everything he’s soon to divulge about how much I mean to him will undoubtedly be true. Grey Goose: the real litmus test of reality.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me.” Soft and heavy.

I loved that “it’s me”–so comfortable, so familiar: so something boyfriends say to one another. Warmth enrobed my body.

Well, part of it.

“So you know that game we were playing…the other day?” Ice clinked in the background.

I gasped. How could I have forgotten?

We’d just stopped for an ice cream break after walking around campus in our camouflage shorts and tight tees. Much to my delight, we’d spent most of the walk talking about “us,” how we’d make a good couple. I almost hadn’t needed ice cream to make the day better.

Almost.

After he’d asked about “my type” and me his, I was rewarded with the proverbial cherry on top: “You fit.” All I’d needed to make the sundae perfect was nuts.

“You there?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. You mean the ‘My Type’ game?”

“Exactly. And you asked me what my type was. You remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well…”

If I’d been on the rotary phone with the long manila cord my parents had had when I was growing up, I’d be twisting myself into a tangled mess.

“…your friend Andy…”

Or hanging myself with it.

“What?”

“You know, Andy. On Myspace.”

My mouth was dry, the darkness all-consuming. Ice clinked again.

“He’s my type for sure.”

Of course he is.

I felt physically ill–the anger bubbling up from my gut the strength of a thousand lava flows. Why Andy? Why my best friend? And then it clicked. But Travis wasn’t done; the vodka had lubricated his lips and the barbed testimonials to come.

“And you know the other night, when you couldn’t make it out to Michael’s with us?”

I just hummed.

“Well, that night I met this hot Latino gardener.”

I had to sit down.

“And I took him back to my place…”

I covered my eyes.

“…and fucked him.”

I hung up, threw the phone into the dark room, and fell into my bed dramatically, hitting my forehead on a doorknob in the process.

The next morning, my lump-headed self walked into Masterpieces of Spanish Art, the art history course we had together. Our friendship had begun a semester prior, across the quad in The History of Greece, then progressed over the months from a kiss to a few copped feels and plenty of bedroom eyes. But here it would end, as El Greco as our witness.

“Good morning,” he smiled thinly, disguising his forked tongue.

I glared at him. We never spoke again.

***

When I think of Travis, a number comes to mind. “Twenty-seven,” he’d said, “that’s when your brain is fully developed.”

Dubious as I was, I figured he was making shit up to offset the eventual burn from his deflections. And, to an extent, he was. At the ripe age of twenty-one, I’d mentally abused him, demanded what he knew about the world–a late twenty-something just now getting his bachelor’s degree.

Pah! I’d thought, he knows nothing.

But here I am, a whopping six years later, past the cusp of twenty-seven, nearing twenty-eight, and things are just now starting to make sense. They’re still a bit fuzzy, but focusing a bit with each day, each revelation I find in the random bits of conversation, experience, and life that compose my days.

So, I’ve acknowledged that, maybe, Travis was right. At least a little bit.

It’s in the trite clichés, the moments of teeth-clenching retrospection that I understand the value of perspective–how we change. And while I still don’t see the value of his picking-up-a-trick-and-fucking-him penchant, I’ve acknowledged that Travis might’ve been trying to do something good–teach me something.

That’s why I write: to figure myself out through each typed word, watch myself change through paragraphs, and, ultimately, become a different person than I’ve been–one who marvels at how consumed I’d been with a particular thought or person, and how, now, I couldn’t care less.

Self-deprecation has become a fragile truth to which I cling like a sponge, wringing it out every so often to see what parts of me stay trapped within its webbing, and which parts wash away. Life is spongy–it’s porous, and always changing. There’re some things about me that’ll stick and others that’ll stray, and there I’ll remain: forever changing.

And in a few years when I read back through this, I’ll probably roll my eyes, realize how misguided, how full of hubris, and how completely out-of-touch I am currently.

I hope so.

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The Roads We Travel

To my fellow I-40 drivers, I’m an in-process PSA—a future, grisly slide for a Driver’s Education course. With a massive mid-century modern leather sofa–nicknamed Betty–completely obscuring the right half of my Matrix (Trixxy), I try to play it cool. Nothing to see here, police. Just a gay on the road to decorating bliss. With some additional badonkadonk in Trixxy’s trunk.

A muffled observation comes from the floorboard behind my seat.

“Wow, you have two cup holders? Perfect for my Evian bottle.”

Cloaked in a microfiber throw, Andy shifts, kneeing my back and pushing my face into Betty’s leg.

“If I was a lesbian, my hips would be too wide to fit back here. Then again, we’d probably be in a Subaru Forester. Which would mean I’d actually have a seat.”

I try to hum my agreement, but gum Betty’s leg instead.

***

This morning, right as I’d contemplated dropping Andy’s IKEA plates, he materialized in the kitchen doorway as fast as that girl from The Ring. He had an announcement.

“I need your measuring tape. I’m going to see if we can do something.”

Intentionally obscure comments always grab my attention. And, apparently, also transpose IKEA plates from potentially destructive hands to safe cabinet space. Next to my beloved Fiesta ware, no less.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to see if we can get Betty into Trixxy.”

Smart man. With our apartment in full-fledged disarray—my eyes darting from overflowing boxes to precariously stacked furniture—Andy knew the one thing that could possibly delay me from assuming the fetal position and channeling my inner Nell. No, not chocolate.

Aesthetic congruence. 

A few minutes later, the front door slammed.

“Get your pants on! We’re going to get Betty.”

I smiled. Then narrowed my eyes at the Campbell’s Soup mug-bowls peering out from the cabinet. “Count your lucky stars. You’re safe. For now.”

***

Flash-forward through disassembling Trixxy’s interior and stuffing Betty inside. It’s dusk; Trixxy’s undercarriage occasionally groans from sofa rearrangement. With a few final expletives, we get the driver’s side seat angled enough for me to accelerate and brake relatively safely, while leaving a small space in the back floorboard.

A young family approaches. As I subvert my envy of youth’s bodily plasticity, I reconsider the space between Trixxy’s steering column and driver’s seat.

“This is going to be tight. I hope I don’t end up with an impaled face.”

“Don’t worry. If anything happens, you’ll die instantly. But I’ll probably be okay.”

Fears allayed.

Once the family disappears from view, Andy folds himself into the floorboard and covers his head with the throw. And we’re off.

***

Only one driver induces a life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment, but I narrate that close call out of my running commentary.

“Say something every now and then so I know you haven’t suffocated.”

“I’m glad I brought my water.”

He shifts again.

“Oh, much better. I should tell you I’m claustrophobic.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, as long as I can move my limbs, I’m okay. Otherwise, I’ll freak out.”

A few more bumps and curves later, we pull up to the apartment. Removing Andy from the floorboard reminds me of the images I’ve seen of Saddam’s extrication from his bunker.

“Take a minute and breathe. Let the blood flow back to your feet.”

“I’m a little dizzy.”

Andy totters up to the front door and I open Trixxy’s trunk. With a few heaves and close calls with narrow doors, we get Betty upstairs. She’s home.

“I can tell you’re excited.”

And I am. So much so, I barely notice the blood seeping from my battered thumb.

“Don’t get blood on Betty!”

***

About an hour later, Andy and I spread our celebratory Whole Foods loot across the coffee table and sit on the floor with Betty at our backs. Avatar begins streaming through the TV, illuminating the darkened room between Isaac’s intermittent lightening.

And it’s in that moment that I realize, seven years ago today, I came out to my family.

Andy rummages his hand through a gummy bear bag. I look down at my overflowing plate. And grin at the metaphor.

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Life Lessons and Detergent Threats

When a gay is backed into a corner by his anal-retentive boyfriend–who’s harping about his putatively superior decorating abilities–he’ll say what he must to shut down the borderline argument:

“If you’re not nicer to me, I’ll wash this repeatedly with industrial detergent!”

Andy postures in the kitchen corner, holding a mid-century modern chair as ransom. He wins.

But, for good measure, he adds, “And my gargoyle is not kitsch!”

Well played, sir. Well played.

Having a live-in boyfriend is fun. We can agree, argue, subject one another to our respective cold shoulders, throw temper-tantrums, emphatically assert we’re superior decorators (fine, that’s all me), and have stress-induced crying fits. But then we have sex, and all potential slights or work day traumas are resolved. Sex is sort of like The Price is Right‘s Plinko game: Regardless of what chips you bring to the table, you almost always have a happy ending.

With this foray into genuine boyfriendom, I’ve realized that being a late-bloomer works to my advantage. Sure, I’ve been like a camel for a while–minus the hump (ba da bah!); meaning, I’ve been able to go without a lot of things for protracted periods of time, all the while cobbling together some semblance of selfhood and self-esteem. That’s not to say camels don’t have low self-esteem, but you get my point.

Bringing a more robust sense of self to a relationship facilitates more in-depth, personally meaningful conversations, as well as the development of a maturity toolkit to deal with the rigors of relationships: mending slighted feelings; admitting you’re wrong; clearly communicating your thoughts; and owning up to the fact that, sometimes, you’re being an asshole (this is not the same thing as admitting you’re wrong). It’s been a learning process, but an important one. It’s made me more human and less machine-like.

It’s made me cherish the quiet, important moments of sitting there and staring at Andy, each of us expecting or needing nothing more.

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ANNimosity

Maybe I just had a really slow, boring day at work. Or maybe I’m just fed up with the incompetence that surrounds me. Or perhaps I just despise the GOP and everything they do to subjugate minorities and infringe upon the rights of their fellow Americans. Yeah, it’s the latter. So, in honor of the RNC, I composed a little something for the “show-stopper,” Ann Romney.

Dear Ann:

Today, I want to talk to you about love. It’s a strange, little, bizarre word with slightly saccharine baggage. But it feels so nice to hear, especially when it comes from someone who genuinely cares about you. It’s a shame I’d never consider you to be such a person, even if you threatened to dress me in Gaga’s meat outfit and throw me into a bin of ravenous Chihuahuas.

In your riveting speech last night, you extended your hand to those Americans “going through difficult times,” which I’m fairly certain excludes you. (By the way, how is the Utah ski lodge faring this time of year–so much to worry about with global warming, you know?) But I get it, you’re going for a Nobel Peace Prize–you know, that award thing President Obama received back in 2009–by trying to connect with those Americans (read, the ninety-nine percent).

But maybe you’re just a big kidder. For instance, this excerpt just cracked me up: “…The parents who lie awake at night side by side, wondering how they’ll be able to pay the mortgage or make the rent; the single dad who’s working extra hours tonight, so that his kids can buy some new clothes to go back to school, can take a school trip or play a sport, so his kids can feel…like the other kids.”

I mean, if you were serious, it’d read more along these lines: “The parents who lie awake at night, wondering if one of them will ever be able to have legal rights over their child; the single woman who was raped being told that, yes, she and her rapist ‘conceived’ the child together, and he can potentially sue for parental rights; the two dads wishing their son wasn’t ridiculed at school and could feel…like other kids.” Oh, my bad. Was I projecting? It must be that internalized gay agenda.

Oh, Ann. While I am a man (not a “real married” one, that is), I do know what it’s like to get late-night phone calls from an elderly friend–whom I consider family–and then make the long drive to check on him. My friends and I also know the fastest route to the local emergency room, because we have to worry about the time it’ll take to jump through additional legal hoops in the off-chance that we’ll actually succeed in cajoling a doctor to let us stay with our partners and not be left in an informational dead zone–meaning, the ER lobby. Oh, wait. You can visit and make end-of-life decisions for Mitt? Fascinating.

Now, Ann, I don’t mean to be hard on you. I did think the homage you paid to your family was touching. Especially this part: “When he was 15, Dad came to America. In our country, he saw hope and an opportunity to escape from poverty.” Now, this country was fine and dandy for your father and countless ancestors before him–never mind the Native Americans who got in their way–but let’s keep all of the “others” out, especially those with brown skin or an “accent.” That is, unless they’re here to tend one of your six lawns or raise your children. Then they can have a little more time to trim the hedges or make your sons’ lunches before they get a ride from ICE.

And the parts about you and Mitt eating on an ironing board were priceless. It really showed your love and devotion for one another over the years. Because nothing says devotion like an ironing board: “…When Mitt and I met and fell in love, we were determined not to let anything stand in the way of our life together. I was an Episcopalian. He was a Mormon.” Thank goodness y’all didn’t let your gay neighbors’ loving relationship get in the way of your happiness (they have a way of doing that, or so Rush tells me). And here’s additional thanks that y’all didn’t let religious differences get between you two. I mean, what kind of country would we live in if we let religious extremists control the government, sanctioning only those relationships they deem worthy and punishing everyone else? It’s a slippery slope, Ann. And I’m glad you’re wearing heels.

And I agree with you. You can trust Mitt. As long as you’re a rich, white, bigoted, heterosexual misogynist. And I’m sure he loves America. At least the rich parts.

But Ann, I’m at a loss. Despite your love-infused speech, I have to say you’re wrong. There would be an America without you and your husband.

In fact, it’d be a much better one.

Gay kisses,

Matt

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Fishes, Loaves, and Rainbows

It’s not often that, as an adult, you have a chance to tell your parents that you’re proud of them. Regardless of whether or not they do admirable things after you’re out of the proverbial nest, it just seems weird to have such a verbal exchange with someone who changed your diapers. But then you get reminders of just how much they do–not for personal gain, but because they want to make a difference.

And I had one such reminder this past Sunday. During our weekly phone conversation, my parents summarized the first meeting of an LGBT support group they helped organize with other progressive members of area parishes. Yes, “parishes.” Contrary to the Vatican’s problematic dogma, and the hate that’s regularly spewed by bishops and other Catholic clergy, there are plenty of tolerant Catholics out there fighting for equality. Even in Alabama.

“Hey, yeah, I’ll let your mother tell you more about it. We may have to move to a larger space for the next one. And we had at least one each of the LGBT.”

I smile. Southerners: we preface everything with “the.” Dad hands the phone to Mom.

“Hey, honey! We had a great turnout. And everyone liked the door prizes.”

Again, I smile.

It’s almost cliche to write that growing up gay is fraught with challenges. But it is, especially when you’re cognizant that your identity–even if you can’t quite yet put a name to it–is seemingly irreconcilable with your religious background. Being gay in a hyper-conservative state is hard. Being gay and Catholic in Alabama is even harder. But my sister and I went through the motions our parents expected of us–you know, living under their roof and all. Still, we preferred mimicking the chorus member, who’d bang on a tambourine at the most inopportune moments during Mass, over paying attention to what was being said.

And as often happens, we left the roost and took our respective positions regarding religion. By now, our parents have accepted our decisions, and don’t push. We respect each other’s beliefs, or the lack thereof, and they use their faith to build bridges rather than walls.

Without any provocation or emphatic suggestions on my part, they each attended a symposium led by a progressive Catholic ministry. There, they learned more about LGBT life and rights in the context of Catholicism. They came back energized and determined to make a difference. And last Friday, they, along with a handful of allies–my sister included–saw the first glimpse of their efforts: 25 to 30 LGBT-identified individuals gathered for their first meeting. Some had been out for years and coupled for decades; some were new to the community. And each of them found a place alongside my family.

While I’ve long since forgotten most of what I learned in CCD, I do recall that excessive pride is sinful. More than that, it’s dangerous.

But in this instance, I think it’s heavenly.

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I Want To Hold Your Hand

Context is everything. If the past decade’s worth of anthropological musings and experiences has taught me anything, it’s that simple fact. And as my boyfriend Andy and I were accosted this past Saturday, that phrase looped through my mind.

The morning had been a good one. We slept in, went out for breakfast, then drove to a favorite antiquing haunt with new iTunes as our morning’s soundtrack. The beautiful day was ours for the taking, and we were enjoying every minute of it.

Until we returned to Raleigh a few hours later and pulled up to a traffic light. A new Ford pickup idled in the next lane over, and I paid it little attention.

It was one of those quietly perfect moments: his hand in mine, the music low and soothing.

And then erratic movement from the truck drew my attention.

The truck’s backseat passenger talked animatedly to his front seat companions and motioned toward us. The smile he had plastered across his face was eerily familiar–one I’d seen exchanged between drunk fraternity brothers threatening me and my friends outside an Alabama gay bar; the same I’d experienced countless times in crowds, followed by whispers and pointed fingers; the exact one I faced when four men in a similar truck tried to force me off an Alabama road. So I knew what was next.

But instead of engaging them, I stared ahead and silently willed the light to change. And I kept holding Andy’s hand, squeezing it a little tighter.

Their gestures became more emphatic and drew Andy’s attention. I looked over with him, into their hateful faces. We raised our clasped hands, and I kissed his. And that’s when things escalated. Because when bigots are literally faced by those whom they taunt, they suddenly realize their targets have means of reacting–can hold their own–and they panic. That’s when they started screaming “Fucking faggots!” We responded with our own salutation and matching raised middle fingers.

The light changed. We got ahead of them. I seethed with anger. The car ahead of them turned, and their truck pulled up beside us. Leaning out the lowered window, the backseat rider screamed a few more “faggot”-laced comments. That’s when Andy took out his phone and took their picture. Like a chastised child, the bigot dove into the backseat, rolled up the window, and the truck accelerated.

I tailed them while Andy leaned into the windshield and made it very clear that we were photographing their license plate. They began weaving haphazardly through traffic. I slowed and turned down our street.

And we were once again left in silence. But this time, it was tinged with discomfort and anger. And fear.

We pulled up to the house and sat there. I got out. As I removed my keys from my bag, I fought back tears demanding release and shook off tremors running through my hands. I tried to laugh things off. I couldn’t.

Neither of us could smile, even as we dumped out our our antiquing spoils and situated them in the apartment. And then we lay down and held each other. There was tacit knowledge–a close call.

We knew we could’ve easily been on a deserted road, in the middle of nowhere. They could’ve been drunk, and more reactive. There could’ve been more of them. They could’ve had a gun. We could’ve had a gun. And the latter thought scared me even more.

And the provocative act in all of it? Holding hands.

I know, it’s terrifying. It hurts the children. It’ll surely evoke nature’s wrath and wipe Raleigh off the map. Yet, it was that innocuous act, in the privacy of my personal vehicle, which tipped them over the edge.

I’ve long realized that the world is full of hateful, ignorant, despicable people. The same people who break into a woman’s home, tie her up, carve “Dyke” into her body, and attempt to burn her alive; the same people who kidnap children to “save” them from their “immoral” parents; the same people who advocate for “rounding up the deviants” and confining them in electrified fences until they starve to death. The same people who fail to see the hypocrisy in tying a man to a fence, beating him, and leaving him to die alone in the name of a man who was nailed to a cross, beaten, and left to die alone.

The point at which a person is objectified to the degree that they are no longer considered human is the point at which unimaginable violence is exacted upon them. It’s the point at which LGBT individuals become hate crimes.

For me, the terrifying reality of this particular incident is that–in our country today–these three men stand an equal chance of being reprimanded for their hateful behavior as they do for being commended for their “defense of traditions.”

And until you find yourself on the “other” side, it’s much easier to turn a blind eye to hate–to tell yourself that your sandwich doesn’t fund murder, to quell the rising fear within your heart that such behavior may one day be directed at you.

After all, you’re just holding someone’s hand. What could possibly come of that?