Meredith’s Musings: Little Man Hands

By Meredith McKinnie

Yesterday, I left my parents angry. I still remember my mom and sister cackling, as I slammed the door. They thought it was hilarious. We had just finished lunch, a typical Sunday, and my sister commented on how fat Mom’s munchkin cat had gotten. I should say been; he’s been fat, for years. And out of nowhere, Mom mentions an ex-man friend of mine. She and my sister make eyes and they laugh, both holding up cupped hands. I didn’t get it at first, but I soon realized this had been a joke behind my back, his little man hands. Sure, he was 5’4, and quirky, and he wore a fedora, and he spoke with a northern accent. He had a Master’s degree from William and Mary, but they only remembered his hands. His tiny man hands. I never noticed.

But the more they cackled, the angrier I became. He wasn’t there to defend himself. And while it wasn’t aimed at me, it was aimed at a human, and particularly a human who had been nice to me. It was petty, trivial, and they were mocking someone for something beyond his control, something that frankly doesn’t matter. I kept noticing my dad in the corner, an innocent bystander, also a whopping 5’4, and the irony of it all, but the implication is what angered me. His tiny hands make him what, less manly? What does that even mean? I thought of the comments on the campaign trail, as if a man’s hands dictated someone being presidential. It’s laughable when we think about it. He was different; I’ll give them that. But I don’t remember his hands. I remember his kindness, and at a time in my life when I most needed it.

He used to laugh all hearty like, the kind of laugh that makes people turn to stare in a movie theater. He would describe all the places he’d lived and visited, and he always spoke with his hands. I never thought of them as small, just well-traveled. He had a way of discussing politics where I always felt his opinions were more pronounced than he let on; he was sympathetic to the struggles of those less fortunate. He had a huge heart and impeccable manners that would rival any Southerner. He always held the door for me; few men do that anymore. He always was pronounced in his speech, caring little what people thought. And he had an odd sense of humor, where his jokes were always a bit mistimed, and I was frequently laughing at the absurdity of it. He laughed with me, and he was too smart to not know I was amused by the miss. But I was always laughing and smiling. He never made me cry.

I was used to men making me cry. Or perhaps I made myself cry, banking on unrealistic expectations. But then he came along, and while it didn’t work out, and it shouldn’t have, he taught me the value of kindness. It seems obvious, finding a man who is nice to you, who values your opinion, but we often settle for less. And while I now have a man who is kind to me, who values me, I’m not sure if I would value his kindness without the experience. I will always be grateful for that original kindness, for that primary example of manliness that has nothing to do with size.

A man’s hands or height does not determine his character. Manliness shouldn’t even be a thing anymore, but rather humanity. The irony of my now Husband being 6’4 is not lost on me, but the two men are more the same than they are different. If the day comes when I have to miss Husband, it won’t be his big hands. I won’t say, “He was so tall.” I will remember his character, his goodness and how fortunate I was to know I deserved it. I’ll thank the quirky one for that. And while Mom and my sister may only remember the shallow physical details, they sure missed out on his spirit and the gift of his kindness.