Hugging and Kissing

One of my husband’s favorite stories is when I met his dad for the first time and I opted out of the introductory handshake instead going in for my native hug-and-kiss combo. His dad, a pretty reserved, old-school Southern man, recoiled in shock. Old habits die hard and it’s taken me almost 30 years to adapt to an awkward, across-the-room wave hello when I greet my father-in-law.

I come from a place where hugging and kissing is the norm: southern Louisiana. New Orleanians, and those of us from the surrounding areas, greet family, friends, and first-time acquaintances with a hug and kiss. A nod to the region’s French roots, it’s kind of like the kiss hello, but for efficiencies’ sake we skip the second cheek (and sometimes go straight for the lips). We’ll complete the greeting with a hearty, front-facing hug. We do not insult people with a side hug.

Thanks to my parents’ NOLA upbringing, I was born with the hugging gene which was kept alive by cultural norms. My New Orleans grandmother, who we adored but who lacked an equally adoring grandma name like Meme or Gigi so we called her Grandma Grob, would be waiting on the sidewalk when we’d come for a visit. Her perfectly round permed gray hair, her rayon flowery shirt, her tea rose scent and her red-lipsticked lips would engulf us while demanding, “give me some sugar.” We obliged, feeling fully loved and slightly terrified at the same time.

Beyond mere actions, the hug and kiss permeate our language too. The NOLA alternative for a standard “how are you doing” greeting is, “how y’all makin’ out?” I can’t help but wonder if somewhere in there the originators of the phrase were thinking about making out.

All this to say I’m a hugger, and in COVID times, I’m suffering. Elbow bumps are insufficient. Socially distant air hugs are just stupid. Blowing kisses should be reserved for babies.

Back in May as we were emerging from the initial lockdown, the national news was clamoring for feel-good stories. One segment touted the inventiveness of a family who had created a “Grandma hugger”: a plastic shower curtain contraption with plastic arm sleeves where emotionally deprived children could safely hug their grandparents again. I watched feeling equal parts “that’s brilliant” and “what in the fresh hell have we become?” Grandma Grob’s enthusiasm would have been no match for such a cheap imitation of affection.

This summer, we finally drove to Louisiana to see my mom at her retirement community. After two months of strict lockdown made tolerable only by the nightly cocktail cart, she was free. We ventured out for a small backyard visit with family and upon arrival discovered they had created a physical barrier of benches, tables, and coolers separating us to opposite sides of the deck. It was a study in knowing thyself — our primal hugging instincts could not be trusted.

And in the fall when my college-aged kids were reunited with their adoring younger cousins, they were reduced to masked side hugs where typically we’d find little cousins dripping from the older ones.

These are tough times with tough questions and a lack of clear answers, but one thing I keep asking myself is, “when can we hug again?” All I know is I’ll be lined up for the vaccine so I can get back to it. My DNA requires it. My soul feeds off it.

And I imagine a city full of New Orleanians will do the same so they too can get back to hugging and kissing. Well, that and Mardi Gras.