When we read Sherwood Anderson’s story “Hands,” I found it interesting that only a couple of other students in the class pitied the main character like I did. I suppose touching people a lot when you speak to them can be creepy, but I know a lot of older people that I interact with that like to set their hand on your head or arm when they tell you something they really want you to get, to understand. It’s like creating an extra connection, confirming that they have their listener’s full attention and emphasizing how important it is that the listener truly hears what they have to say. I also know that some people use their hands to express themselves, like another form of speaking when the words don’t cut it. No, I don’t mean like sign language, but rather like my autistic sister that flutters her hand across my thigh when she tells me something she’s super excited about, or stroking my hair, back, or arm to let me know how she’s feeling. It’s like she’s trying to send her energy and emotions into me so that I understand her better and empathize with her. She can’t always control it, and if she tries, her hands shake so badly, she starts panicking. I guess having these experiences influenced my reaction to the story. To me, the character just seems misunderstood. His nervousness and always hiding his hands in his pockets made me feel for him. I understand that people will always see something else other than what he means, no matter how good his intentions may have been, and I feel sorry that he has to live his life scared and uncomfortable. Of course, this is all assuming his intentions truly were good. And that’s the real problem. There’s no good way to know for sure, so suspicious squints it is.
