FRANKIE
#23
(May/Jun 2008)
THE
HUGGING DILEMMA
Edited version published:
Frankie #23 (May/Jun 2008)
When my grandmother died a couple of years back, the mood was
sombre. Death tends to do that I find. My extended family and I had gathered
at the airport, ready to fly off for the funeral in Hong Kong—and
lowen behold, my uncle was there. Considering I hadn’t seen this
big, imposing, man-titted Malaysian dude in ages, I immediately went up
to him for a friendly hullo. “Hey,” I said, bear-hugging the
man. “How’ve you been?”
But instead of reciprocating the hug, he simply stood there, arms by his
sides, glaring at me. There was no hugging back. Greeting this man was
like embracing someone who’d recently suffered a terrible stroke;
there just wasn’t any motion in the arms. After letting go awkwardly,
we just stood there in mute silence for a while. Then I stared at the
floor. “Men don’t hug,” he finally said, firmly. “Men
shake hands.”
This was news to me. In my immediate family, my mother taught us always
to hug. As a child, even if I ventured to the grocery store across the
road, my mother would hug me—almost suffocate me—presumably,
in case we got hit by a car, or hailed down with bullets. Because she
grew up with death in her family, Mum expected death at every corner,
and made us say daily goodbyes like they were our last. Admittedly, it’s
a weird way to live.
Either way, I had always assumed hugs were the standard salutation in
non-professional, non-work-related situations. But I’ve had enough
experiences now—including the one with my uncle—to know that
they’re not. Most of the times, I’ve simply misjudged the
situation, and have gotten furrowed brows. That’s when I ask where
the drinks are.
But there’s another problem, too: in Australia, we’ve yet
to develop a shared, tacit, universal standard. My Spanish friends will
kiss me on each cheek every time I see them. South Africans peck on the
lips without fear of slipping in the tongue. Maoris bravely slather their
excess noise sebum on one another’s faces with affection and aplomb.
Even Letterman has introduced the talk-show standard: a manly back-slap
hug combination: shake hands, slap back, touch the shoulders, but not
the lower torso.
But there’s no standard here. As a result, we have a delightful
moment of strange panic every time we see someone we don’t know
well. Just after saying hello, we’re reduced to a primal moment:
we lean in, watch closely other person for bodily cues and signals, weight
one another up. It’s like we’re animals meeting for the first
time in a David Attenborough documentary. Will they hug! Will they kiss!
Will they attack! Not even we know what’s going to happen next.
It’s riveting.
According to my local etiquette expert, there are no hard and fast rules.
She does insist it’s important not to run screaming towards long-lost
family members at funerals expressing how great it is to see one another.
(Apparently this is common.) In standard social occasions, though, she
says there are two things we should keep in mind. One: it’s always
appropriate to shake hands. Unless you have some excess sweat problem,
extend the hand. Two: if you see the other person hesitating, take initiative
and decide on the greeting. Mentally prepare the other person for your
physical attack.
No one wants to offer their outstretched hand, only to find it firmly
wedged in the matronly jelly bosom of a woman expecting a hug. It’s
not necessary. So the next time I see my uncle, I’m going to take
the initiative again. It’s etiquette, after all. But I’m still
weighing up what will be appropriate. Offering arms for a hug is off limits,
but offering my hand for a handshake is so formal, isn’t it? Perhaps
I will offer him a fist. In the face. Men don’t hug, apparently.
But I know they fight.
Last
Updated :: 01 May 2008
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Benjamin Law 2008