Hugs Not Slugs

I tried to institute a new family tradition this past Easter: male hugging.

You see, I’ve been involved with the church choir the past few years, and one of the major features of the group is hugging. The ladies hug the ladies. The ladies hug the guys. And, yes, you guessed it, the guys hug the guys.

At first I was really uncomfortable. Guys hugging guys? We don’t do that in New England. Up here in the chilly Northeast we’re reserved and unemotional. In this part of the world, when you greet another guy, you shake hands and mumble, “’sup?” (Full translation: “What is up with you, my good man?”)

If the other guy is a very close friend — say, a twin brother you haven’t seen in a decade, or someone you fought side-by-side with during a war — you demonstrate your affection by punching him in the upper arm and saying, “Hey, how ‘bout them Red Sox? If they get a little more pitching, they might go all the way.”

My initial reaction when I encountered the friendly choir people was to run for the parking lot, but my wife assured me we were not in the midst of an alternative lifestyle religious splinter group.

Surprisingly, after a while I got over my huggaphobia and realized it was a wonderful way to greet friends regardless of gender. So, a brilliant idea occurred to me: this would be a great thing to do in my family when we all got together at Easter.

We arrived at my mom’s house on Easter Day, where all the usual aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, in-laws, and outlaws had gathered. I walked into the living room and gave my mother a kiss and a hug. No problem so far. Even we chilly New Englanders agree it’s OK to kiss your mom.

The first guy I came to was my brother-in-law, Lumpy, the truck driver. He reached out his right hand and mumbled, “’sup?” I ignored his hand, threw my arms around him, and pulled him toward me. Suddenly my chin was on his shoulder and we were standing there chest-to-chest. I cheerily said, “Happy Easter, Lumpy!” 

Lumpy began to quiver in terror. He broke free and stepped away from me, glancing around the room to see of anyone had witnessed what had just happened. The room was silent, with every mouth frozen in mid-sentence and every eye staring straight at us. Lumpy looked like he was about throw up. He finally offered me a timid smile, punched me in the arm, and blurted out, “How ‘bout them Red Sox?! Tied for first place!”

“It’s March,” I said. “The season hasn’t started yet. Everyone is tied for first place.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lumpy said, not hearing a word, “If they get a little more pitching, they might go all the way!” He turned and ran to the kitchen to get a beer or two or twelve.

Moments later, after hearing a quick summary from Lumpy, my father walked in from the kitchen. He said to me, “Son, we don’t do that around here.”

“But Dad, what’s the big —”

“Son,” he said firmly, “We’re saving that kind of behavior for a special occasion.”

“Huh? What’s more special than Easter?” I said.

“When the Red Sox win the World Series later this year,” he answered.

“Yeah, right,” I said sarcastically. “You mean later this century — maybe.”

“Now don’t be like that,” my father said, his voice becoming more pleasant. “If they get a little more pitching, they might go all the way.”

He smiled at me, and then to let me know everything was all right, he clenched his fist and affectionately slugged me in the arm.