Washington Square Park, New York City. September 2017.
I’d just had lunch with my best friend and her fiancé. It was the first time I’d seen Annika in almost two years, and, sadly, it was time for a dramatic goodbye; she went off to meet with the wedding planner while I ran across the park to meet a friend for some frosé (ah, the zeitgeist of late summer ’17). We jump into the biggest of hugs - a good hug that would not necessarily have been memorable except…
I felt something...skin...that was cold and…clammy…slide across my back. I knew it wasn’t Annika’s arm, and I knew it wasn’t her fiancé’s (and why was it so wet?) so I looked up. Standing there, joining our embrace, loomed a very tall, saggy, exhausted looking man. He was wearing what looked like distressed workout gear from the 90’s: a large Hello Kitty on a gray, war-torn sweatshirt, sweatshorts that were too short for comfort, an adorable kitten on his lavender baseball cap, and his whole face was enough to prove the law of gravity. He was so tall, and so close, that when I looked up and realised it was he who had wrapped his arm around my back (why was his forearm wet?) I was looking more at his chin than at the rest of him. I found it easier to make eye contact with Hello Kitty.
Annika and I backed up and I uttered some form of “What the fuck?!” He looked down at me with his big droopy eyes and said, “Do I get a hug too?” Now, this was just downright laughable considering the kind of “nice guy” fuck boy we are way too used to hearing this lame line ooze out of. This was not coming from some dude in his Vans and plaid button-down with half-assed puppy-dog eyes, this was coming from…this giant of an old man in single-handedly the most absurd outfit I’d ever seen…WITH HIS COLD WET FOREARMS. Horrifying! So, rewind, he says “Do I get a hug too?” to which I respond “NO!” with all of my LIFE in my voice. I didn’t have the chance to glance over at Annika’s expression, which is devastating since I’m sure it was priceless. Looking at the most absurd man I’d ever seen, I couldn’t imagine the interaction having any more to add. Yet, as soon as he hears my “no” he very slowly and quietly leans down over me (obviously this happened in slow-mo) and states very softly, with superb enunciation: “…then you’re not who you say you are.” He swiftly turned and rounded the corner.
“…then you’re not who you say you are.”
It just hung there in the air.
Now, let’s just take a moment and say - WHAT A GOD DAMN LINE! I can still feel his breath like a Dementor as all of New York City stood still.
I had so many questions. He seemed so unfazed by my answer and had the perfect response - was this practiced? Did he engage in this frequently? Joining group hugs? Getting rejected? Was he on his way to some crumbling YMCA for a little afternoon Zumba? Did he realize how profound that line was, “you’re not who you say you are”???? This mechanism of rape culture, this pseudo-profound response to rejection thrown haphazardly around in the street! It got me. And WHY did I stop and think about what he was actually saying??? Why am I still thinking about it? I mean, I love to give hugs. I also love autonomy, the right to say no, to choose, to stomp on toes with a kick to the balls just to top it off. But HOW had this man gathered what type of person I said I was? Of course, he hadn’t. That’s the point. There were layers of whirling gender theory spinning through my head surrounding constructs of masculinity and defining the feminine and on and on and on, but all I felt was baffled and delighted. It was indicative of so many facets of identity politics, but all I could reconcile was that it was downright hilarious.
Dementors in America in this millennium are enormous men with kitten hats asking for hugs. I said it.
By Laken Sylvander
Images by Laken Sylvander
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