Fort Collins 80525
Date: March 25th 2005
Hand-touch experiences are commonplace events that aren’t usually analyzed or reflected on. Everyday, people from all areas of the world touch hands. I touched someone’s hand once and that moment is committed to memory not only because of the intense feeling associated with it, but also because it allowed me to see differences in a new light and begin to celebrate them.
The friendship was new and the territory completely uncharted. This was the first time we had spent a considerable amount of time alone together and I was full of mixed emotions. I was questioning as usual. Did I want a relationship?
And if I did, what would it feel like? How would I be sure? But most importantly, I couldn’t imagine the two of us being together because we were so different. He, an Australian student, and me, a Vietnamese girl.
We were driving by a very large cornfield. Slowly passing the neatly defined rows of corn in springtime can be a meditative experience. That day my mind was racing. I looked over and saw a perplexed look on my future boyfriends face. Then I saw his hand move toward me. I wasn’t sure of his intention until his soft, strong fingers made contact with mine. It was as if our hands were magnets; each pulled to the other. Our hands, like ourselves, were different colors, sizes and temperatures, but these weren’t the things that
I noted. Instead, I recognized the new entity that was created by our hands intertwined. His large, white hand next to the small, sun burnt and cold appendage of mine seemed much too different to fit together well. At first we were nervous and our hands were trembling slightly, but as we began to feel comfortable with each other’s touch, the grooves and imperfections became less and less noticeable. This was the first time that I had touched someone else’s hand and didn’t worry about my own cold and clammy