“Grandma’s Hands” by Bill Withers

In a way, I’ve always known the importance of hands. The way they contribute to someone carving out a poem. The way a pair of hands can build a table for a family to eat. The way hands can build a nation for four hundred years.

The feeling I get from shaking a person’s hand is an intense feeling; I can feel the labor they have undergone. As a child, I remember all the times I wanted my hands to be rough, to feel as though I was a grown man.

And then I realized, a woman’s hand has been through the same pain, maybe more. A woman’s hand has been filled with splinters from hard work at a warehouse and packing products in cardboard boxes. Mothers have used their hands to stitch clothes for their children’s backs when buying them wasn’t an option. They have spent so much time in water washing dishes that they are more comfortable there.

I can still feel the warmth of the towels my grandmothers pressed to my forehead or body on nights I couldn’t sleep as my head rested in their arms or laps. Every time, with their hands, healing came over me. If I had a cold, or felt tired from the world, when I entered the space around them a sense of peace flourished through my body. They, without saying too many words, maybe a prayer or some humming, could bring my body back to life. I knew I could go to them to feel better.

With these truths I’ve known about hands, I had no choice but to run back the lines I heard by Big Krit on his song, “Soul Food.” As he opens up the song with, “Grandma’s hand use to usher Sunday mornings” a smile spread across my face. I didn’t let the song play much longer before I started it over. That line, for me, described my grandmothers perfectly.

But, even though I was a music fan, I was unaware that this line wasn’t originally his until years later. There has always been a weird connection with me and artists. I’ll sometimes spend months finding and rediscovering old songs from artist I know about. In this instance, that artist was Bill Withers. The classics by Withers have always been a part of me. I knew his biggest songs in the same way that I can recite John 3:16. Shuffling through his page led me to discover “Grandma’s Hand,” and it has become my go-to song.

It starts off with a feel of an old western movie with hay slowly rolling in the background and Bill’s unique voice creeping through. The voice of a man who really didn’t have to try too hard because a hard life was what he was accustomed to. His voice elevated the words like doves being released from a cage. As you listen you hear a since of truth and love that he had for his grandmother in this short but truthful song. As he sung the words,

“Grandma’s hands clapped in church on Sunday morning/ Grandma’s hands played the tambourine so well/ Grandma’s hands use to issue out a warning/ She’d say Billy don’t you run too fast/ Might fall on a piece of glass.”

He explains in less than three minutes the importance of a black woman’s hands that carry the burden of a neighborhood, family, and church. The hands that I’m sure are worn out. The hands of a woman who has raised and cooked for a family every day. The hands that have wiped tears away from hurting daughters. The hands that have stretched little to no food to feed a tribe as if they were Jesus. The hands that laid punishment on us with the nearest belt or switch in hopes that they can discipline us before the cops could. These are the hands that I’ve known my whole life. Hands of healing. Hands of sacrifice. Hands of pain. Hands of love.

I reckon not everyone sees hands in this way; but I wonder, did Bill feel guilt like me and realize the power that a man’s hand can truly possess? Each time that he strummed the string of his guitar with his fingers, or before the success, when he was an aviation mechanic and picked up a wrench to tighten a bolt on an airplane; did he recognize what his hands could do? I imagine he did but chose to tuck them inside of his pants pockets instead of reaching them out. Therefore, I couldn’t picture him writing one line if the song started out saying, “Grandpa’s hands.” It wouldn’t have been realistic or relatable. What I am learning, and always knew in some amount, is how effortless the selfless act of some women to reach their hands out to be used and how most men would rather cut ours off before lending them out.

I have come to the conclusion that he did know, and that this was the reason he made the song “I Can’t Write Left Handed,” a song about young soldier who lost his right arm in a war, and needed to contact his mother, a lawyer and a reverend to pray for him. This song was simply about the limbs we can lose in a violent way but doesn’t seem to be able to extend to a more emotional or supportive way.

I often think of how the black woman is portrayed in society. She must be tough and fierce. She’s not allowed the same emotional outlet as a white woman or another woman of color. In workplaces, her confidence and personal space are viewed as an attitude. I stare at the image of Harriet Tubman and look at how stiff her face was, and try to picture her with a slight smile, but that smile may have been costly. Joy to a black woman can be taken advantage of or stolen away. There is something hidden in society where the black woman must be serious in order to get things done. Basically, superheroes who cannot take off the cape.

Since the beginning of the pandemic of Covid-19, I have been blessed to be able to still be around my grandmothers, but at a distance. The first week, I spoke to them through a screen door and sat in a chair outside on the porch. The following week, I worked my way inside of the house, but made sure to sit far away and try not to touch anything. Even though I am at peace with knowing I can be around them, it still doesn’t feel the same knowing I can’t touch or hug them. Hearing the words, “everything will be okay,” is a comforting thing within itself, but being hugged or patted on a back adds security to it. And, right now, I feel the world needs their hands.

The problem is, I imagine their hands are worn out. Their hands have had to carry so much weight until now, I’m sure they need what is left of the magic pulsing through their fingertips to heal their ailing bodies. I sit and watch as they rub on their hips and knees in agony, but I still wonder if there is enough power in there for me and everyone else. My family still clings on to them in hopes to hold us together.

And, in a time with a deadly virus, police brutality on the high, and unemployment numbers reaching over forty million, to be covered by our grandmothers’ hands are what the world needs most. But, there is only so much a black woman can handle. They have seen death of their loved ones from foolish murders. Each line inside of their palm tells a story of grief that is not theirs. Their hands need rest.

Now, with our grandmother’s hands not in our reach, many black men whose hands are still in perfect shape will have the opportunity to use them in a different way from the only two ways we’ve known our whole lives: physical labor and physical touch. I wonder at the centerpiece of this growing movement of black people fighting against systemic racism around the world; will us, black men will realize the power of our hands? Our hands can do more than fulfill the tropes society has placed on them. Our hands are made for more than our selfish desires. They are made for more than just physical labor. Our hands are meant to unhook the capes off black women and let them know they do not have to be heroes all the time anymore. They can simply be a woman who is vulnerable in the world and wants to be protected. They can know that they can use their own hands to wrap around their own body and learn to love and put themselves first. The lines in their palms can ultimately tell stories of peace and moments that they found joy in.