Instead, he wants to be on me when I read to him. My 7-year-old son thinks sitting next to me is too great a distance. I still feel touched out, years past my extended periods of breastfeeding. Having kids often exacerbates my aversion to physical contact, too. It’s no surprise that I really don’t like being touched. I’ve been commuting on jam-packed subways in the crush of rush hour for almost 20 years. There were about 35 students in my classes until I got to college. I shared a room with my younger brother until I was in my teens. Growing up in New York, personal space was rarely an option. It takes a village, and I need my village to do more than simply ask their children to keep their hands to themselves.
But as parents we both know we can’t do it alone. My partner and I, as caregivers tasked with raising kind, empathetic, respectful human beings, tell our kids these things, we refrain from corporal punishment to prove our “no hitting” stance, and we want to believe we are modeling respect for others. They had to learn they can’t snatch toys away from others, and that they can’t run up to other tots on the playground and smooch them, no matter how cute this display of affection seems to us, their parents. My children were toddlers and had to learn that we don’t hit. I know that kids are all taught to keep their hands to themselves, and they don’t. She, and she alone, decides what happens to her body. That is why, every morning before she leaves for school, I drill into my 10-year-old daughter’s head that she is not to let anyone touch her, no matter how fuzzy her sweater is, without her complicit consent. Whether it’s through lewd comments, unwanted touches, or slanderous graffiti scribbled in the bathroom stalls, no one, let alone a child, should be a victim of this kind of harassment. I’m glad the tolerance for that kind of behavior has decreased, but, like most parents, I wish for a world where it wasn’t even an option for kids to harass others. It was, simply, the way it was, and I was often reminded that girls like me were "lucky" we didn't have it worse. Of course, the operative word is “caught,” which means the victim, or a witness unafraid of siding against a bully, must report it. Kids have to sign contracts, and suffer warnings and more dire circumstances if they're caught bullying another student. The Department of Education in New York City goes to great lengths to make our community understand there is no place for bullying in our schools. There’s this story about a mom’s fantastic reaction to her daughter’s school faculty, after the girl punched the boy who snapped her bra. However, I have started to notice a shift in society’s reaction to unwanted touching, at any age. I don’t see a vast improvement of behavior from boys, especially if it's based on what I’ve been witnessing on the playground these last 10 years. Now that I have children roughly the same age I was when a boy kissed me without my permission, I'm worried. I'm not sure if the "subway" faces helped. I was living in New York City in the '80s and '90s, so I was constantly told that choosing to walk around our Queens neighborhood by ourselves meant knowing to keep our keys in our fingers, and our “subway” faces on: a scowl meant to thwart strangers from messing with us. It was, simply, the way it was, and I was often reminded that as girls we were "lucky" we didn't have it worse. Some parents might have reprimanded them at home, while others chose to use the classic explanation of “ boys will be boys" excuse and remind young women like me that, hey, this means someone actually liked us. Three decades ago, these boys would get chastised with the standard “keep your hands to yourself” line from faculty and staff.
But they also pulled hair, snapped bras, and scooped handfuls of their female classmates' asses as they ran back to their friends to boast how they “touched it!” They were pretty good students, polite to parents, and mostly just got into trouble for burping the alphabet. The fact that they were taught to keep their hands to themselves didn't matter. He was one of many boys who touched me without consent when I was a child. I’m annoyed, but we get back to playing, and by the time his mom has picked him up after dinner, I’ve moved on. He looks a little surprised, but he rolls with it. He trots over, leans in close to my cheek… and kisses me. “I have to tell you a secret,” he says from across the monkey bars.
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