Right now in my Chicano’s Literature class, we’re reading "Under the Feet of Jesus." There was this line on page 26 that struck me; “…because your manitas aren’t strong yet”.
It struck me so much that I changed my bio on Instagram to that line.
I think it was during my first grade class — or was it kindergarten — that we were reading about hands. The book had said that your hands were your friends. I scoffed at that with all the infinite wisdom a five- or six-year-old has, and exclaimed that my hands were not my friends. I vaguely remember the teacher contesting that my hands were indeed my friends.
As we continued reading, the book gave reasons as to why your hands were your friends. Your hands helped you to do things. By the end of the story, I silently agreed. I was in awe that I never thought of it that way. My hands have helped me do so many things.
My hands are small. My fingers are slender and my nails are kept trimmed. My hands are softer than my father's, whose are nail-bitten and calloused, car oil permanently covering the lines of his hands. Those are the hands of a man who has worked hard.
My hands have never truly experienced what it’s like to labor like my father or my mother. And for that, I will always be thankful. But my hands have been useful in other ways.
My hands have helped me talk. They shield my face as I fight back tears. They cover my mouth when my laughter gets too loud. They wave in the air and flutter my fingers as I get excited when I’m talking.
They have held the hands of those that I have loved. They have helped comfort and love. And every now and then, the same is done to me.
During my first year here at CSULB, I knew a girl who said that she found hands attractive. She was about average height but had small, childlike hands. She had said that if a boy she was attracted to had small hands, that was a turn-off, and that his hands should be bigger than hers.
I never thought about hands being an attractive feature, but as she spoke, it made sense to me. She was right: I have small hands, and his hands should be bigger than mine. They should be able to engulf mine, fingers interlocked, rested safely in his grasp.
I think hands say a lot about person. A good pair of hands is honest. They are firm from the calluses of having experienced a day’s hard work. A good pair of hands holds the ones that they love when they are weary and need to feel someone else’s so that they could grip to reality. A good pair of hands knows experience. They know what’s it like to take care of themselves and others. Hands help us feed, clean, hold, love others and ourselves too.
My hands are always willing to help me love others. For that, my hands are my friends.
