I drive alone through crowded streets, glancing at the drivers who share my stoplight and then glancing quickly away when they see me looking. The female employees of a grocery chain, chastised for not smiling enough, sue their employer; they claim that smiling at men gives men the wrong impression. So they keep their eyes forward, like mine. Eyes down. Eyes inward. Hands in pockets. Hands in fists. Hands holding keys spread between the fingers, ready to attack, to strike, scratch, maim.

We learn early not to make eye contact with strangers, not to smile, not to greet. We are taught to mind our business, to be sure strangers mind theirs. We are taught not to invite, not to suggest, not to give a wrong impression. This is minding our manners. Don't sit so close, we are told, and tell in turn. Don't lean on me, don't hang on me, don't cling, take turns. I only have two hands. We are taught to protect our personal space, to respect that of others, taught not to invade, not to invite. On elevators, buses, subways, in theaters, always a seat or two in between, always space. We instruct our children to say "thank you" and then not to say hello. Do not touch. No touch. Bad touch. Beware. Here be dragons.

I grieved, watching my daughter's shy reaction in that roomful of loving women -- those women willing to reach out to an unknown girl from another country. I wanted her to look up, reach out in turn, be willing as well. But I'm the one who taught her to be careful. I'm the one who taught her to walk quickly with her head slightly averted in a crowd, so as not to catch men's eyes. I'm the one who taught her to keep her head up, looking past the stranger coming toward her on the street. I taught her by doing it myself. I taught her not to touch, not to stop, not to make conversation. At the same time, I taught her how to talk back when she most needed to do so -- in strong words, loudly, insistent, for others to hear. Not to greet, but to repel.

In the melodious voices of a thousand strangers, I hear her silence still. I've learned to happily return the murmur, smile at the giggles my bad accent and mistakes create. She is still shy, unsure. I know it is a learned habit, an American way of life, this withdrawal, this personal space. I see her clumsy uncertainty in the softly perfumed, warm arms of these women and know that it is because she is rarely hugged by any woman but me. Even my closest friends, who have known her all her life, rarely hug her, out of respect. Out of caution. Out of habit. She is 15, she is growing up; we respect her privacy, her personal space. We give her so much room.

She still hugs me, brushes my hair, pats my arm. Still lets me hold her hand when she is tired. But these are private matters; the time when we walked through stores holding each other is gone. In each foreign place we've gone, I've pointed at mothers and daughters strolling arm in arm, hand in hand, and said, "See?" See. See the strangers who greet each other without thought, continually, ritually. "Buenos días." "Ni hao." "Permiso." It's rude not to notice each other. Rude to brush by, eyes down, hands held back. See, I tell her, it is we who are strange. It is Americans who are crazy. See? We are dying from privacy, from our own protection, from the vacuum of all that space.

Today I say hello. I say, "Good morning." I smile. I make eye contact. I startle people, who are looking down, intent on a list, hands in pockets. A man smiles broadly, turns, and suddenly I think he has taken it as invitation, intends to come closer, to enter my private, lonely space. I drop my eyes, keep walking.
salon.com | April 22, 1999

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