Today I’m thinking about handshakes, that age old-way of making a small human connection. This is not something I thought about a couple weeks ago, when I was still meeting friends in bars and giving them hugs hello. And by the time you read this, it may feel laughably dated to still have this small and insignificant thing on my mind. It’s possible few of us are going to even see each other in person for quite some time.
But for now, this is what I’m thinking about. For years, my daughters greeted the principal of their school every day with a handshake, eye contact and a polite greeting. It was best practice, and I am proud that my children learned how to comport themselves at an early age. “Good morning!” (Firm clasp of hands, friendly arm-pump.) “How are you?” Now a handshake has become dangerous. Assuming that any of us will still get within greeting’s distance of one another anytime soon, let’s go through a few alternatives:
The head bow. Maybe with a little tip o’ the hat pantomime for a bit of old-timey flavor.
Hands clasped in front of chest — kind of like a metaphorical handshake, but we’re substituting our own left hands for each other’s right hands.
An elbow bump? A foot tap? Does anyone else feel like they’re playing the hokey-pokey?
If this seems a little light, trust me: I’m feeling anything but lighthearted. But there’s a part of me that has been metaphorically feverish and short of breath since November 2016. There is something strangely liberating about having the outside world suddenly join me and my anxious compatriots in a persistent sense of alarm.
Back to handshake alternatives, yes? One recommendation was to wink. Well, not all of us can. And the rest of us … maybe shouldn’t.
What about that finger point/gun thing? No. Guns are a virus of a different kind. But, this just in from the department of silver linings: With schools closed, we’re going to see a remarkable dip in school gun violence. Another winner: the environment. As more and more humans retreat to their houses, the planet is starting to breathe.
If only we didn’t have to retreat to our individual homes. Just a few days ago, my daughter Stella was laughing in the other room with a friend. They were not quite socially distant enough for my taste, but they’d been hanging out all of last week at school, anyway, so I figured whatever germs they’re carrying, they already share and have already exposed their families to them, too. But Stella’s older sister, Lila, came home from college last weekend, and there was a confirmed case on campus. So now we’re all getting really cozy with each other — and simultaneously missing everyone else.
It strikes me as deeply ironic that just as we are forced to realize how deeply, molecularly intertwined we all are — how dependent we are on one another for, well, everything, even our very lives — we now have to stay at least 6 feet away from each other. Social media can be a mixed blessing, to put it mildly, but we’re going to crave connection more than ever. A video has been making the rounds on Facebook: The image is of a deserted Italian street, but then you hear the voices of people leaning out their windows to sing together in harmony. The metaphor struck me so deeply, I cried.
The flip side of every single one of my fears is something to be grateful for. I’m grateful my children are not at high risk. I’m grateful that I am able to work from home, thankful that I was able to stock up on groceries. I know these are privileges not everyone shares. I’m grateful that I live in close proximity to my neighbors, who are not merely vectors, but caring community members whom I can count on, not just today but every day. But today, I wave at them through glass.
I’m also thankful for this: My children now realize how much they love school, and how rich and full their lives actually are — when they can lead them normally. Now that we’re all home together for who knows how long, I’m surrounded by my favorite people. They, however, are not. I can only hope that once we’re on the other side of this, they’ll hold on to the knowledge of how lucky their everyday, ordinary existence actually is. I hope I hold on to that, too.
I guess our new greeting will have to impart something akin to this sentiment: I’m over here, a safe distance from you, but also necessarily close. Nothing reminds us of our shared fate like a virus that knows no boundaries. Once we all head out in the world again, I’m going to stick with simply saying hello and giving a little wave. Hi. How are you? I hope, truly, that you are well.