The first question in the latest quizmeme, which I caught via Dick Jones at Patteran Pages, is “Who is the last person you high fived?”
I've never been much for giving high fives. For one thing, I am not a team player, and part of the message conveyed by the gesture is "We're a team, and furthermore we're a winning team." This is not congenial to a congenital agin-er and loner-by-trade. A high five is given between team members when a goal is scored for "our side," when our side beats the other side, sometimes literally. I remember the video taken from a helicopter of some thugs high-fiving each other whilst they were kicking the shit out of some guy they'd dragged from a truck, during the "Rodney King" riots in Los Angeles. "Can't we all get along?" Not. I can imagine Dubya, Rummy, and Dead Eye Dick high-fiving each other, right after a tactical nuclear "insertion" between the goalposts in Iran. Touchdown!
I also recall an incident in high school when my history teacher handed back our graded semester tests. My grade was a 99. She had marked my answer to one question wrong. I knew this was wrong, that I had given the correct answer. I looked up the reference in the textbook, and with the arrogance of youth I corrected my teacher in front of the class, proving to her that I had indeed made the right answer, and she accordingly changed my grade to a 100. The no-brow thugs that populated the class exulted in her humiliation, giving voice like a pack of hyenas ripping into stolen carrion. I, who was normally treated as a contemptible but occasional dangerous Martian, was their hero—for a New York minute. These estimed classmates all wanted to give me high fives as I walked back to my desk, my arms tight against my sides, my crumpled test paper with a corrected score of 100 clutched in one hand, burning with shame.
I don't burn with shame very often.
To me, though I know most people mean no harm by it, and intend to express camaraderie and approbation, a high five is a gesture that embodies a certain fascist bonhomie- Bonhomie and vainglory. It is the informal ritual celebration and sharing of triumph, that blocks sight of the darkness, like Albert Speer's wall of spotlights at the Nuremburg rallies. There are too many triumphs in human history.
That was the one thing; this is the other thing: I'd kinda weird about who I touch and who touches me. When I am in direct physical contact with someone, I receive from that person a flood of unconscious and archetypal imagery. With some people this can be enjoyable and interesting—even fascinating. Touching many people is like being forced to watch the same episode of Gilligan's Island 25,000 times running in fast forward, intercut with the most grisly scenes from the crash film shown in High School Driver's Ed, that the coach who "teaches" the class naps through. The touch of some—few—people, mmm… Ever stick your hand into a bowlful of rotten meat squirming with maggots? You probably have but just didn’t realize it. I believe everyone has this facility of tactile image reception, but are unaware of it, or rather suppress their awareness of it, like people who don’t remember their dreams, and therefore claim they never dream.
“Is this then a touch, quivering me to a new identity?” Walt Whitman asks in Song of Myself. I’m already a whole army of identities all by myself. At times I don’t want to be touched by anyone, not even the people I love, because I have no vacancy, there’s no room at the inn—slouch on over to the next manger. This is why blogging often works better than real life for me. As Jesus said to Mary Magdalene, “Noli me tangere.” Like I tell Mrs. Dr. Omed, “Just because I can't stand to be in the same room with you right now doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” But a hug from the right person at the right time beats a high five any time.
