I recently stood in a line-up. The socially dictated lineup
of a receiving line. I don’t like them. I don’t really know anyone who enjoys
standing in a tidy row as everyone else walks by to a) make some level of
physical contact and b) mumble scripted praises or condolences. And as much as the
banal socially scripted interchanges are irritating and boring, the opposite
can be worse in the receiving line ritual. That one person who stops in front a
specific person in the lineup and dives into a heartfelt conversation. This isn’t
the ritual and everyone is left uncomfortably flat footed while traffic
progressively backs up on down the line.
This is an odd ritual when you think about it. Most people
don’t enjoy the process whether in the giving or in the receiving of the scripted
touch/remarks. But it happens anyway. Most often in funerals and weddings. Two
of our biggest rites of passage are marked by receiving lines.
The people in the lineup are on display and the people who
come to have a look carry their own expectations of what they want/need to see.
These expectations are distinctly driven by culture and tribal protocols and it
took me a few minutes to realize I was breaking one. My own discomfort with
being on the display line blurred over into small gestures of discomfort on the
other end so I didn’t catch it right away. It was a well-attended funeral, I
had a lot of time to figure it out. In polite society the cues signaling
awkward discomfort are less blatant. People smiling or tilting their heads in
gestures of familiarity with fleeting bracing at the jaw. One shoulder tipping
away, or making eye contact but breaking it and looking quickly down or off to
the side to the next person in the line. To name a few.
The offending gesture was me extending my hand out for the
expectant physical contact. I did not know 98% of these people and the
obligatory hugs are generally held for people who can at least demonstrate a
degree of facial recognition. Some of the elderly women reached for the pat-pat
hug anyway. They skipped right over my extended hand. Okay. No problem. But the
other two responses were most dominant and followed the rules of polite,
Southern, conservatively religious society. Don’t touch the strange woman.
Particularly the men. My extended hand was usually ignored
by the men. When it was received there was no handshake. Take just the fingers,
hold them for just a moment, release them. It took a particularly awkward guy
for me to realize I was the source of the discomfort specifically – beyond the
general no one wants to be here
business.
Oh. I get it. I’m doing this wrong. That was the revelation –
I can be a bit dense sometimes.
The rest of receiving line wasn’t any more comfortable but
at least now I had something to do. Try and read the body language ahead of
time. Who is going to shake my hand, who isn’t? This is not a place to trot out
personal expectations.
On the long ass drive home the next day, I had a lot of time
to think. A question materialized.
When is tacit consent [to a tribal protocol] and act of
kindness and when is it conspiracy?
The receiving line at a memorial service is a no-brainer.
This isn’t about me. It’s not about acknowledging women as equal partners in a
productive, advancing society. Forcing the men to shake my hand just makes me
an asshole.
What about in other environments? Just taking the handshake
rule, male uncomfortable touching female = no handshake. Reading the body
language that says “this is wrong” gives me, us, a choice. I can extend my hand
and leave it out there and the person who doesn’t take it is the asshole. It’s
obvious if not to anyone else but the two of us. How do you choose? Who’s the
asshole? I have answers and places I use the handshake rules as a litmus test.
It is an instantaneous data dump about the other person. Will they shake my
hand? At what level of grip? What level of contact? For how long? What’s the
eye contact? Posture? Structural positioning? So much information.
There is a new series coming out – don’t remember which
network is producing it. The title is The Handmaid’s Tale. Based on a book* I
read well over a decade ago. Disturbing book. Disturbing because it takes this
gray zone decision making and demonstrates what happens when tacit consent to a
protocol/rule/expectation slowly becomes conspiratorial agreement to
participate. It’s not unconscious. The monkey self-justifies the agreement. Go
along to get along. Don’t make waves. It won’t be that bad. This isn’t a hill
to die on.
And then we wake up one morning and discover the entire
social structure has shifted and to go back on that conspiratorial agreement
will cost you everything. The book is disturbing because it is entirely possible.
Which hill you die on, is your decision. Key word here –
decision. It’s a choice. Your choice. If you, me, if we don’t take the time
when time offers itself up for a good think – if we don’t take the time to
consider the hills, and upon which ones we want to battle to the death, gray
zone ambivalence wins. And like it or not, whatever shackles you find about
your ankles, you agreed to it.
*The Handmaid's Tale was published in 1985. Author: Margaret Atwood.