There are few things more powerful than human touch.

In the world we live in today, we are kind of desensitized to one another. Flesh is everywhere, and sex is everywhere, and mothers don't hold their children, and how many people really recognize what just a simple touch means? Or maybe they realize its power, but only in the wrong ways. Not wrong--maybe just different.

Honestly, though--that actual physical connection between one human and another (and maybe another and another) means so much. That feeling of being just close to someone, even if only for a second--maybe you walk past someone on the street and you bump shoulders, and in that moment there's a little spot of lightning. Or maybe it's someone you're close to for a long time--maybe you fall asleep with somebody's arms around you, and the whole time you can feel your skin prickling, like electricity. Imagine that--imagine if there really were sparks you could see from outer space, wherever there was that electric touch, and they'd be out there in the space shuttle and see the whole world lighting up all over.

It is rare to find something more comforting, more comfortable than human touch--finding some way where you and somebody else fit perfectly into one another, like you're pieces of a jigsaw puzzle: how your chin fits on someone's shoulder, how someone's arm fits around your waist. I wonder: if everybody could find the way their bones locked into somebody else's, and it would be like a (how many people did I say there were on earth? Six billion-ish?) six billion-ish piece jigsaw puzzle. I wonder what kind of mosaic that would look like--I wonder if we really all do snap together, so perfectly, so easily. I think we should try it sometime.

"What's in a name?"

"That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet."

Someone just told me that it was strange to hear me say their name. And I thought about it, and really I feel strange whenever someone uses my name. I answer to it, of course, but somehow I don't consider my name a part of me. It's not as though it's a terribly unfit name; it's not a name I especially dislike--I just don't identify myself by my name. It doesn't seem to have anything to do with me as a person--it's just what I am called.

There have been studies showing that a person's name has a significant effect on their personality. I assume this has mostly to do with mispronunciations of the name, misspellings, nicknames, etc. Except I wonder how deep the effect is--as far as I can tell, my name hasn't shaped me very much. But perhaps it has, beyond what I consciously acknowledge. I've tried to think of ways my name is me--connections between myself and what I am called.

My first name, Mary, means "sea of bitterness." I don't think of myself as an especially bitter person, but perhaps I am, deep down. My middle name, Hannah, means "grace." I'd like to think I have an amount of grace, but I suppose there is a lot of evidence to the contrary.

As far as other aspects of the name go:

I have a somewhat cumbersome last name, one that is usually confusing both to say and spell. I can't think of how this may have affected me, but maybe it has. I go by my middle name rather than my first name, which has also proved a bit of a burden. I endured years of--well, I am still enduring, actually--plenty of "Hannah Banana" comments, and now that there's some T.V. show called Hannah Montana, I get that, too. Of course, a person gets tired of laughing politely each time she is placed alongside a fruit (for some reason, people seem to think it's an original joke, one no one has ever said before), but I can't think of any truly distinct effect this has had on me as a person.

Sometimes, though, people's names fit them perfectly. And you wonder if that's just by chance--just a good choice on the parents' part--or whether that person is who they are because of the name. (Which came first, the chicken or the egg?)

One of my very favorite books--it's not about names, but it has to do with them--is Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. In it, the title character--yes, her name is Stargirl--changes her own name periodically. Her original name is Susan, and over the course of her life she changes from that to Mudpie, to Pocket Mouse, to Stargirl (maybe there are a couple more in there I forgot). She says that her name is like a shirt, and when it doesn't fit her anymore, or it gets worn out, she throws it away and gets a new one. I think that's a sensible philosophy on names--your name is, essentially, what defines you in the world; shouldn't you be able to pick it out? Of course, it could get confusing with everyone changing their names all over the place, but really, it makes sense.

I wonder, though--would it really make a difference if people named themselves? I doubt that I would feel my name was any more a part of me if I chose it. That's simply because I think of myself as more than a name; a name is external (for its general purposes), and being inside myself, I imagine myself as so much more than a combination of six letters. Or four letters, or ten, or however many. I don't think of myself as Hannah, or Mary, or Mary Hannah--I think of myself as a thinking living breathing human being, as all the thoughts and feelings I have. Not as a title, not as a name.

So, I wonder, really--what IS in a name? Does your name affect who you are? Does a name have any more significance than a number, really? I think it does. Names have meaning, at least--I think that names do mean something. But does a name mean more to the person who carries it, or the people who use it? Would that which we call a rose by any other word smell as sweet? I wonder.

Comfort

So a lot of what I've been thinking about here has been how separate each person is from one another, how we really are each in our own unrelated universes. But the thing is this: while we are all so separate, we always have an inevitable relationship with each person we pass on the street, simply because we are humans. I feel some kind of connection with each person I encounter simply because of this: he or she is a thinking, feeling, living being--someone who eats and laughs and falls in love, who dreams and yawns and understands--and so do I. Of course there are things that separate us, things that make us different, but those qualities--the ones that mean human--we share those. And everything comes back to that--comes back to the things that are just there, the things we can't control or comprehend, the things that maybe we are a little afraid of, and everyone else is a little afraid of too. We are all just trying to make it through today.

It's comforting to think about--the idea that every person on this Earth is enduring basically the same struggles, has basically the same happinesses--that in that sense, we all understand each other. There's not much that's more powerful than the human touch--someone else's fingertips on your shoulder, their arms wrapped around you. It's strong. But sometimes it doesn't even have to be that--sometimes it's enough just to know that other people exist.

This is what I like about cities, and why I want to live in one: it's the perfect place to be alone without really being alone. I like being alone a lot of the time, but not in solitude. A good bit of the time, I don't want to touch people or talk to people or anything--but I hate feeling like I'm absolutely by myself. That's frightening to me. Total loneliness, isolation. The perfect comfort for me is being alone-but-not-really. It's enough--plenty--just to realize that other people are there, without actually having to interact with them. Strangers will never disappoint you, and they're all the same, and there are times, I guess, where everyone wants to be just another stranger--nothing more and nothing less.

Dropping Eaves, and the War Hero

When I'm out by myself, and there are people around me having conversations, of course I can't help but listen in a little bit. I don't think it's really an encroachment on their privacy--if it's a conversation they can have in public, it can't really be that private, right? Anyhow, usually the conversations I hear are fairly dull--teenage girls harping about their boyfriend problems, older people exchanging stories about their kids and grandkids, college students discussing homework.

Recently, though, I was sitting outside on the patio of Barnes & Noble, drinking a cup of overpriced coffee and doing homework, when a group of people sat down at the table behind me. I couldn't see them, but I could hear everything they said.

First, two men sat down--one much more talkative than the other. The chatty one was saying things like, "Well, he should be here soon. Do you want a pretzel? This is a great opportunity. You're comfortable with this, aren't you?" The other man just mumbled short responses, most of which I couldn't understand.

Then a young woman came up to them with three coffee cups. "Here you go," she said, "and this one's mine, and--Shawn, do you want one?" Shawn mumbled. "What was that?" "He doesn't want it," translated the talkative man. "Shawn, are you sure?" Shawn mumbled again.

At this point, a man, a woman, and two kids--a boy and a girl--turned up at the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I heard the talkative man stand up. "Hello," he said. "I'm Cal, and this is my fiancee, Anna, and this is my brother, Shawn." The other man--who hadn't sat down yet--said, "Yes, good to meet you. I'm Mark, and this is my wife Lisa, and these are our children." I don't remember the children's names; they mostly just chased each other around the patio. "Shawn, glad to finally meet you. How are you doing, son?" I heard Shawn stand up. "Fine, sir." He sat down again.

Cal said, "Shawn's been looking forward to this, haven't you, Shawn?" I didn't hear Shawn say anything. "He's been doing very well since he's been home with us. He's been walking for a good long while now, and he's actually learning how to drive again--he wants to buy a truck. We were out looking at trucks just today, in fact." Mark laughed. "A truck," he said. "Is that right, Shawn?" "Yessir," Shawn said. "I've got a truck myself--one of the new Toyotas. They're nice to have."

They all made small talk for a while--trucks and the weather and other things. The women talked about kids for a while. The men talked about their wives/fiancees. Not much was said for a while. Finally, there was a pause, and Mark spoke.

"Look, Shawn. What I'm asking from you--and I hope you'll be comfortable with this--is to let us tell your story."

Shawn was silent.

"It's an important story to tell, Shawn. It's important for people to hear. For these young kids--these ones who are just getting ready to go over there--they're a little unsure, Shawn. It's scary. You remember that, I remember that. But your story is inspiring--it will inspire them, Shawn, and that's important. This is an important story for these young soldiers to hear."

At this point, Mark's son ran past me and up to his father. He asked him for money, and then ran off to buy hot chocolate. Mark laughed, and watched him run away. "He wants to join the service someday," Mark said. "He's a very patriotic kid. That American flag pin on his collar--he wears it all the time, every day."

Cal laughed. "Good kid."

"Yeah," Mark said. "But look, Shawn--the important thing is that you're comfortable with us sharing your story. You have to be comfortable with it--if you're not, we won't do anything. But I'd really like you to consider it."

Shawn cleared his throat. "I don't know," he said, "if I'm--comfortable. With it."

"Well, first," Mark said, "let's make sure we're on the same page here. Let me recount the story as I understand--from talking to your brother here on the phone--and you make sure it's accurate.

"As I understand it, you were in Iraq. You and some other men were firing from inside a building that was under attack--what kind of building was it?"

"It was--a government building," Shawn said. "I don't--I don't remember."

"And you were inside this building, and somebody had to go up on top of the roof to throw a grenade to a certain point, and your general was on his way up there, the thing in his hand, and you stopped him--you stopped him and you said that he had a wife and kids, to let you go up there, it was too much of a risk for him. And you took it from him, and you went up there, and you did what had to be done, and you were shot several times, and even as you were down on the ground--even as you lay there, bleeding, you still tried to get up and keep fighting. You kept on going. Is that right?"

Shawn cleared his throat again. "Yessir. And I was up there on the--the--what is it called?" "The roof?" "No." "The--elevation?" "That's right, the elevation. And some other men came up, to try and help me, and I wanted to keep fighting, and they pulled me--they pulled me down inside, off of the--what's it called again? I can't remember." "The elevation." "They pulled me off the elevation, and I went unconscious down there."

"You saved a lot of lives that day."

Shawn didn't reply.

"Do you think you'll retire soon?"

Shawn coughed. "I want to go back."

"Pardon?"

"I said, I want to go back."

"We all want to go back, Shawn. I want to go back, and I retired three years ago. From what your brother tells me about your condition, you may not be able to go back."

"I don't care. I still want to go back."

"I understand. Shawn, please--share your story. I want to allow all these other kids to have that same feeling--that same passion for it. But only if you're comfortable with it. Think about it."

Shawn was silent for a minute. "I want to share it."

"I'm glad, Shawn. You're a hero. You are truly a hero."

Cal stood up. "I think we have to go--we're supposed to eat dinner with my mother. She's been--I don't know. We saw that war movie the other day, the Clint Eastwood one, what is it? Flags of Our Fathers? And she just wouldn't leave Shawn alone--'Are you sure you can handle this, Shawn? Are you okay?' And I just wanted to yell, 'Ma! Let him watch the movie!'"

Everyone laughed. There was an exchange of "Nice-to-meet-yous" and "Hope-I'll-see-you-agains," and Mark told Shawn one last time, "You're a hero, Shawn. Don't forget that."

They all walked past me to leave, and I could pick out Shawn because of the strange way his arm was shaped, because he had an odd limp, because his head leaned to the side. And I thought, that man is a hero. I'm not interested in war, I don't think it's right or noble--but as I watched him walk away, I could only think, that man is a hero, and I wanted to shake his hand or kiss his cheek or just tell him thankyouthankyouthankyou. But I didn't--I just watched him walk away, and went back to my homework and my coffee.

Iceberg Effect

A thought: many people believe that upon being photographed, part of their soul is stolen. If this is true, my observations, speculations, etc, will prosper once I find myself a good camera (by that I mean a film camera--there's something so nice about that authentic "click" noise when you take a picture). Just a note.

I haven't been doing much in the way of conscious observation lately; no really recent stranger speculation--been so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But of course, I'm still watching. There's no way not to--everywhere you go, there are people and they're all talking laughing yelling crying dancing tripping falling. Just seeing how the people around me interact with one another, how I interact with them--it's still interesting.

The thing is this: I'm not sure how normal it is, but I can't simply hold a conversation with someone. No matter what we're doing, what we're saying--I always wonder what is going on in everyone's head. It's strange to think that everyone is always thinking, just the way I am. I mean, not just the way I am--but that other people are not just what they say or do. They are everything underneath. I know I never say everything I'm thinking--other people must be the same way. Whenever I'm around people, I am picturing the insides of their heads: I am thinking of gears turning and typewriter keys clacking. I wonder how other people think--if it really is the same way I think. It's distracting sometimes--overwhelming. If you're trying to imagine what's going on in the mind of every single person you encounter, every single moment of every single day--it's a lot. It has to be.

When you think about it, really, isn't it strange to imagine other people having the same kind of thoughts you do--racing, incoherent, a lot of things that never make it out but may be important nonetheless? Isn't it strange to think that everybody is this churning, feeling, constantly goinggoinggoing being just the way you are--that everyone around you is living and breathing and whole; that there's a whole world inside of them that there's no way for you to penetrate? It's so frustrating, being around people sometimes--I sort of want to shake them and yell, "What's going on in there? What are you thinking for REAL?" I just want them to spill it all out. But of course I don't ever do that. Because they never ever would. There are some things, I suppose, that just have to be secret.

Consider that, though. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next conversation--think about all the things that aren't being said. Think about people as people; think about yourself as just a person. It'll change the way you think--I promise. Or maybe you already think that way--there's really no way I can know, is there?

At Skates 280

Skates 280 is this rollerskating rink off the highway with a dirty sign and a dark parking lot; a popular place for drug deals and elementary-school birthday parties. On a Friday night, it's full of people: little kids whose skates are too heavy for their skinny ankles; inexperienced skaters with one hand on the wall for support; show-offy almost-middle-aged men skating too fast or backward.

When it gets too hot to skate and my hair starts sticking to my neck, I usually go stand outside the rink, amongst the beeping, blinking arcade games that are lined up against the wall, and watch. It's interesting, observing the constant stream of people, coursing in circles, around and around and around under disco balls and smoke machines and spinning colored lights.

I was at Skates 280 a couple of weeks ago, and there was a group of boys--almost men--gathered in the center of the rink. It was five or six black boys: skin like night, shaved heads or cornrows, long sinewy muscles. They were performing all these crazy stunts like you'd never seen before--handsprings and backflips and all of that, fancy dance moves that not many people can pull off--but all on roller skates. They were graceful and dangerous, strong and a little beautiful. Funnily enough--they all looked more like the kind of thugs that you see standing on the street corner before you cross to the other side, all in their baggy jeans with chains and basketball jerseys to their knees, their heavy silvery jewelry, their do-rags and sideways caps. Stereotyping: it's bad--I know it and you know it--but everybody does it. We all feel guilty afterward, but we do it all the same. All of us. That's not really the point here, but it's interesting nonetheless.

I would have liked to go up to these boys, ask them to teach me something about grace and strength and acrobatics and general coolness, or maybe just tell them I was impressed--but I didn't do that. I couldn't do that. It would be against the rules. I'm only observing, remember?

The Secret Lives of Strangers

There are six billion, five hundred and sixty eight million, five hundred and fifty seven thousand, eight hundred and eighty three people on planet Earth at this moment. Some of us are mothers, fathers, poets, preachers, killers, waiters, dreamers, lovers. All of us are strangers.

You're driving down the highway, you stop at a red light. Maybe you turn and look through the window of the car beside you--and there's somebody in there; a man or a woman, someone young or old, and in this moment, you are in the same place at the same time, so very very close. But then the light turns green again, and they drive away, and you drive away, and chances are they never even know you noticed them; they'll go home to their family--or maybe they live alone (you have no way of knowing)--and never think about you again (maybe they didn't even think about you in the first place). And you'll do the same thing. The two of you converged at that single point in space and time, and now it's over; it will never happen again. This is the way things work: we are each the center of our own universe. And if you think about this--that that person in the car next to you, and all the people on the road, and all the people in the world have their own universes at the center of which they stand, and you have no place in most of them--that feels so strange. This one, single planet pulses with the heartbeats of six billion, five hundred and sixty eight million, five hundred and fifty-seven thousand, eight hundred and eighty three separate universes, the majority of which will never even consider each other's existence.

My project is this: to hypothesize about these other worlds, the ones I will never see. I will observe, and I will imagine; I will watch people and contemplate their histories, their sadness, their joys, their secrets. I will not ask questions--I will only contemplate, speculate. I will wonder if people are watching me the same way. After all, there are six billion, five hundred and sixty eight million, five hundred and fifty seven thousand, eight hundred and eighty three people in the world at this moment, and always as many possibilities.