There is no way to step back from the orgy of kisses without offending

Led by Virgil to the shores of Mount Purgatory, Dante sees a ship of souls arrive at the beach and, among the crowd of those saved and about to undergo the rituals of purgation, he recognizes his old friend, the musician Casella. The two meet and try to embrace, but Dante finds himself hugging thin air: Casella’s soul is immaterial. The gesture, however, both for Casella and for Dante, is instinctive. As men brought up in the exuberantly sensual Florence, they want to touch the person they love, in the spirit and in the flesh.

The codes of touch vary, as we know, from culture to culture. Returning to her English village and meeting her parents after an absence of two years, my ex-wife was greeted with a happy smile and a nod and “How was the ride?” as if she’d been away on an afternoon outing. My partner and I, arriving in Buenos Aires where I wanted to introduce him to my family, were received by a stampeding crowd of ten or twenty relatives, all eager to hug, kiss and muss up my partner’s hair, joyfully ignoring the signs that asked them to stand behind the customs barriers. The meeting of a Canadian and an Argentinian produces an interesting exercise in choreography. As the Argentinian approaches to embrace the Canadian, the Canadian starts retreating, and they end up performing a sort of pas de deux across the room until the Canadian is cornered, back to the wall, the Argentinian holding him firmly in place by gripping both his arms.

In Argentina, acquaintances with fierce colds, runny noses and hacking coughs will feel offended if you don’t kiss them twice or even three times on both cheeks. During my stint as director of the National Library, where we had a staff of almost nine hundred, I was kissed (and kissed back) twice daily, on arrival and on departure, by everyone, young and old, male and female. Every day my adopted Canadian heart trembled in fearful anticipation of the ritual, especially in winter.

Different cultures have different rules regarding contact. Monarchs in the eighteenth century were not supposed to be looked at straight in the face, as with the women of certain Islamic sects. Cloistered nuns and the guards at Buckingham Palace when on duty mustn’t be spoken to. Orthodox Jews won’t be touched by a woman who is not a relative, and the Brahmins of India won’t touch a member of the Untouchable caste. The rule in table dancing venues is that which Christ set for doubting Thomas: noli me tangere. In other words, the customer must refrain from touching the performer.

And yet sight, speech, touch are the instruments we use to communicate with one another: language consists of an interweaving of all three. How we look at someone, what tone we use when addressing that person, how close we bring our body, our hand, our face to him or her, carry as much meaning (sometimes more) as the words we use. But the person who addresses and the addressee can interpret that meaning in wildly different ways.

Walt Whitman spoke of the human need to touch the other, a need that acknowledges the other’s physical existence.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all
over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead
it harmlessly through me.
I merely stir, press, feel with my
fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some
one else’s is about as much as
I can stand.

Decades ago, a friend of mine was teaching at a rural school in Ontario. Many of the kids came from difficult homes and several suffered abuse at the hands of their parents. One day, a young boy arrived at my friend’s office weeping. The rules of the school were strict: no teacher was supposed to be in a room alone with a student unless another adult was present. So, instead of immediately holding the weeping boy and consoling him, my friend got up and went to find a colleague, and only then attempted to console the child by holding him in his arms. Of course, in today’s climate of reported child abuse, in the aftermath of horrendous revelations in sports venues, churches and other institutions, the rules that forbid physical contact with children are necessary. But what happens to the child in this instance, twice neglected?

And what of the teacher? There is a much-anthologized story by Sherwood Anderson, “Hands,” in which a teacher, accustomed to pat and hug his students while in class, is accused of molestation and has to change his name and leave the town forever. The teacher acted out of friendly fondness for his students; his gesture was misread and the consequences were tragic.

I suppose the question is: who decides on the meaning implicit in the contact? Who determines that a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek is a sexually charged, non-consensual act, an infringement on someone else’s private space, or something entirely different, an acknowledgement of the other’s presence in the world, a demonstration of care and kindness towards the other? Obviously, any act of communication, however innocent, can be tinged by the knowledge of the power held by the one who initiates the contact. A child’s kiss is not equal to an adult’s, especially not that of a teacher, a priest or a coach. Even though a child can experience early sexual stirrings and consciously or unconsciously attempt a gesture of seduction, the adult, as adult, must stand back because of the imbalance in that particular relationship. I know that was true of me when I was as young as eleven or twelve and was angry when I felt that an adult ignored my advances. However, because of the power conferred by age, the adult is obliged to be cautious in the approach, trying to see the encounter from outside, as it were, attempting to read whatever might be misinterpreted in an innocent gesture, according to the circumstances and the particular cultural context.

Joe Biden is, by all accounts, a friendly man, accustomed to hug, kiss and pat everyone. As a candidate for the American presidency, however, he should know better and force himself to find a balance between his physical shows of affection and a precautionary stance regarding the possible reactions of the people he meets. That is hard to achieve, both in the North American culture that maintains a large “no trespassing” circle of privacy around its members, and in a culture like that of Argentina which considers lack of physical contact proof of haughtiness and disdain.

In my case, whatever my Canadian caveats, I had no way of stepping back from the orgy of daily kisses at the National Library without offending anyone, and custom overrode prudence. I’ve come away from my many experiences of social encounters, both in Canada and in Argentina, with no helpful guiding answers, except an exaggerated alertness that tries to gauge the other person’s reaction as I approach, hands stretched out or arms wide open, to communicate with my fellow human beings. As Diana Ross so movingly sang:

Reach out and touch
Somebody’s hand
Make this world a better place
If you can…