Man Hands
"The best rooms have something to say about the people who live in them."
-David Hicks
Suddenly, a scream. A startled, staccato shriek.
Looking out the window I see my Airbnb guest, hand to chest, shaking her head.
“My God,” I say, “Is everything okay?”
She laughs uneasily, like someone had jumped out to scare her and she is pretending it’s funny instead of annoying.
“I’m fine. That creepy hand in the window scared me a bit.”
Oh that.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and offer a conciliatory frown.
Only, I’m not sorry. Not at all.
Just a couple of creepers standing sentry
My entire life, I’ve never met a woman with larger hands than my own. A taller woman, sure, though most aren’t. A physically stronger woman? Definitely. Though most aren’t. Obviously I was teased about this coming up. My big hands and big feet and big strength. “MAN HANDS! MAN HANDS! MAN HANDS!,” the playground sang. I internalized this message: I was a girl with man hands, and I felt ashamed at the wrongness of me.
As a coping strategy, I invented theories about my hands. For years I was convinced that hand size was directly related to chest size. It would be one of those odd symmetrical body pairings, like the equivalency of height and wingspan, or the way a foot matches the length of a forearm. I thought surely my breasts would grow to fill the fullness of my hands. I decided since I had huge hands, I would also have huge tits, and at least there’d be that! Then I would make sense. I would be proportional, and most important, I would be desirable.
Other than false future body speculations, my comfort came in the form of a large porcelain hand my grandmother, (the one and only Barbara), kept in the guest bedroom of her home. This same heirloom now greets (and often shocks) the guests arriving at my own home. The hand is an antique glove mold, used to construct and stretch gloves. Each time I visited Barbara growing up, I measured my hand against the mold. As long as my hands never got bigger than the statue, I reasoned, I wasn’t a total irredeemable freak.
For years I resented my hands, my strength, what I interpreted as an overdose of masculinity. I saw myself as too loud, too dramatic, too big, too sweaty, too strong, too much. I lived for so long in that anxiety, the “if only I were…” space. When I was young I wanted to be one of the halftime dancers, adorned with an irresistible, delicate femininity. Instead, I was the basketball captain, smashing into other players and fouling out of most games.
Eventually I learned to embrace and celebrate these strong hands. Mostly I am amazed at their capability, the hits they take and the beauty they build. My heart aches for that little Jessica who felt ashamed of herself for so long. Today I’m so grateful for who I was made to be, and how hard I’ve worked to love myself as I am.
I believe the best interior decorating tells the story of who you are. Highs, lows, doubts, triumphs, my favorite designs are curated exhibitions of lives lived. They are breathing reflections of an individual’s story. Where have you been? Where are you going? What broke your heart and made you stronger? Design is about meaning, not revolving style trends. Of course aesthetics are important. I wouldn’t dare add an object in any room of my house that doesn’t adhere to my strict color palettes. But for me, it’s important to exist in a space that reflects my personal evolution.
When I look at that porcelain hand I see a lifetime of insecurity and also the joy of self love. I see how far I've come, how far there is to go. And being that these big man hands run in my family, when I look at that antique hand I see the people who made me, the people who are a part of me. I look at the hand and I see my grandfather’s athleticism, and I see grandmother’s unapologetic confidence. I look at the hand and I see my father’s fortitude. I see my mother’s strength. Today I measure my own hands against it, and I am not sorry.