I was not raised to be a feminist. I had to develop those sensibilities all on my own. Both my parents were born during the Great Depression and became “young adults” during the early 50’s. Back then, girls were “ladies” who wore hats and gloves and were discouraged from pursuing a career except as a last-ditch option when marriage didn’t make itself available. Boys were “young gentlemen” who got an automatic Get Out of Jail Free card that came in the form of the boys will be boys double standard.

My parents were very traditional people and I was raised, along with my sisters, to be a female person rather than just a person and the rules for being a girl were mostly about keeping a smile on your face while serving others. To put yourself before others was to be selfish and selfish was always bad. Unless a guy was being selfish and then it was conveniently called something more positive…such as “driven” or “self-motivated”. I had no brothers and so I never really understood the duplicity of those two gender worlds until I left my parents’ home.

Despite all of this, my father insisted that his daughters learn to shake hands upon meeting someone. Anyone. A firm, strong handshake was the first impression you gave a person upon making their acquaintance. Because Dad’s alma mater became our alma mater and that university championed a long tradition of “whipping out” (shaking hands) with strangers, friends or family, the notion of a woman with a strong grip did not seem unnatural to my father in the least. Unfortunately, upon graduation, we entered a world that didn’t share our father’s sensibilities or our alma mater’s frenzied obsession with shaking hands. And it was frustrating.

I still meet men, particularly those from my father’s generation or older, who won’t allow me to shake their hand. Some grasp my outstretched hand and turn it over as though they intend to bow and kiss it, which no one actually does. Some give me a weak-as water handclasp, as though I’m made of glass. Others will not allow me to grasp their entire hand and so they wind up daintily gripping the last two digits of my fingers. And the women of that generation often falter or stare at my hand as though they weren’t sure how to proceed. Clearly, they did not get my father’s memo about first impressions. The men from my own generation are better about accepting my hand, but some of them still let their hand go limp in mine…like a dead fish.

At times, when in the throes of one of these wimpy handshakes, I feel driven to use my left hand to anchor the handclasp so as to drive my right hand more deeply into a grip that allows the webbing between my thumb and finger come into contact with the same spot on their hand.

Because I share my father’s philosophy about the handshake and the initial impression it conveys, I have to wonder what lesson I’m supposed to take away from a man who will not accept my hand in the same manner he would that of another man. Is he merely weak himself or is he sending me the message that I am, in his eyes, not worthy of the real thing? That there are limitations in my access to his personal demonstrations of welcome and good faith? I don’t want a bone-crushing handshake. I just want a sincere and enthusiastic gesture of acquaintance. And frequently, I’m disappointed.

It’s one of the minor reasons I’m glad I don’t have daughters. Sure, there are many more important reasons that I’m not interested in raising a daughter, but most of them have to do with the fact that I still don’t have a great deal of understanding as to why a woman’s handshake doesn’t carry the same significance as a man’s. The same thing comes to mind when the removal of a man’s hat is a sign of respect when the American flag is present, but women stand around like a bunch of clueless dolts. Removal of our hat isn’t important. These are, as I’ve said, minor issues. But if I can’t find a way to explain their stupidity or change them in my own life, how can I expect to prepare a daughter for those situations? You can trust me when I say that it’s more important than you think. In fact, let’s shake on it.

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