of a couple’s inseparability, here we are. And it’s gross. And inconsiderate.
According to my mother, when I was a toddler I used to love PDA. Whenever I’d see two characters on-screen kissing, I would exclaim, “Look, Mommy, they’re married!” Had I employed the same prudish logic in my teenage years, maybe I would have surmised that my parents’ marriage wasn’t doing so well. They never kissed in front of us. Or said “I love you” in front of us. In fact, the words “I love you” were reserved for life-threatening occasions (i.e. air travel and accidents) and birthday-card signatures. There was no doubt in our minds that our parents loved each other, but if I were to evaluate my parents’ love based on their PDA, I’d think they were just above an arranged marriage.
My parents had other ways of showing their affection without openly fondling each other. They joked frequently and often made each other laugh. I think my mom made my dad laugh more, which I loved. Even now, our sense of humor is what binds us as a family. It’s how we express love. It’s the reason that I sit at the kitchen table for hours at a time when my four siblings are in town and just laugh and laugh. I don’t know that I’ve ever told any of my siblings that I love them, but if anything, my tearful laughter expresses that emotion on my behalf.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve found other ways to say “I love you” without saying those exact words that I have trouble saying it now. The words seem so unnecessarily dramatic. I would much rather be shown love than to merely hear the words. Not everyone agrees; some people won’t know it’s love until the expression of it is so obvious and public it’s displayed on Facebook. Really? Ifyou ask me, your unctuous displays of love should be kept to your damn self.
Growing up, the words “I love you” were a special gift, from me to you. I didn’t say it often and when I said it, I absolutely meant it. It was for you and only you at the specific time that I chose to utter it. Then I went to private school in Brentwood and befriended a bunch of white girlfriends who dished out those words as if they were meaningless.
“Ohmygodiloveyou.”
“I love you, you’re the best.”
“Can I just say that I love you?”
I would always just laugh it off, unsure of what to say in return, worried about being insincere. I watched as those words turned into public caressing and hand-holding and kissing and groping. It was almost as if they were checking to see if anyone was watching, hoping they were watching. Mini, preteen exhibitionists.
The first time I was both intrigued and repulsed by PDA was when my younger siblings and I took a trip with my parents to Paris. We were visiting my Tonton Bocar’s family and sightseeing. As we walked through some famous Parisian park that I couldn’t have cared less about—because I was ten and tired of walking and developing what would become a lifelong hatred for tourism—I spotted a couple on the open lawn, going at it. They were laid out on a blanket as the man kissed the woman’s neck and started to disrobe her. She stroked his back, her eyes thrilled and ecstatic. Then as I walk-watched, I swear I noticed her check to see if anyone was watching. Like, “Look at me and my adventurous sexual relationship. Look at ME, EVERYBODY!” And that , more than the public act of doing it in a park full of kids, was what disturbed and annoyed me most. How dare she?
PDA signals a desperate need for outside validation of one’srelationship status. “Look at how he kisses me in front of you all. Surely he loves me. Don’t you wish you had this?”
How ironic, then, that my very first kiss was a public display of affection. Well, not really “affection,” so much as “acquaintance.” A shameful display of acquaintance. I don’t know how it happened, but I was so proud of myself at the time. I felt so validated. It was the summer after sixth grade.
According to my mother, when I was a toddler I used to love PDA. Whenever I’d see two characters on-screen kissing, I would exclaim, “Look, Mommy, they’re married!” Had I employed the same prudish logic in my teenage years, maybe I would have surmised that my parents’ marriage wasn’t doing so well. They never kissed in front of us. Or said “I love you” in front of us. In fact, the words “I love you” were reserved for life-threatening occasions (i.e. air travel and accidents) and birthday-card signatures. There was no doubt in our minds that our parents loved each other, but if I were to evaluate my parents’ love based on their PDA, I’d think they were just above an arranged marriage.
My parents had other ways of showing their affection without openly fondling each other. They joked frequently and often made each other laugh. I think my mom made my dad laugh more, which I loved. Even now, our sense of humor is what binds us as a family. It’s how we express love. It’s the reason that I sit at the kitchen table for hours at a time when my four siblings are in town and just laugh and laugh. I don’t know that I’ve ever told any of my siblings that I love them, but if anything, my tearful laughter expresses that emotion on my behalf.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve found other ways to say “I love you” without saying those exact words that I have trouble saying it now. The words seem so unnecessarily dramatic. I would much rather be shown love than to merely hear the words. Not everyone agrees; some people won’t know it’s love until the expression of it is so obvious and public it’s displayed on Facebook. Really? Ifyou ask me, your unctuous displays of love should be kept to your damn self.
Growing up, the words “I love you” were a special gift, from me to you. I didn’t say it often and when I said it, I absolutely meant it. It was for you and only you at the specific time that I chose to utter it. Then I went to private school in Brentwood and befriended a bunch of white girlfriends who dished out those words as if they were meaningless.
“Ohmygodiloveyou.”
“I love you, you’re the best.”
“Can I just say that I love you?”
I would always just laugh it off, unsure of what to say in return, worried about being insincere. I watched as those words turned into public caressing and hand-holding and kissing and groping. It was almost as if they were checking to see if anyone was watching, hoping they were watching. Mini, preteen exhibitionists.
The first time I was both intrigued and repulsed by PDA was when my younger siblings and I took a trip with my parents to Paris. We were visiting my Tonton Bocar’s family and sightseeing. As we walked through some famous Parisian park that I couldn’t have cared less about—because I was ten and tired of walking and developing what would become a lifelong hatred for tourism—I spotted a couple on the open lawn, going at it. They were laid out on a blanket as the man kissed the woman’s neck and started to disrobe her. She stroked his back, her eyes thrilled and ecstatic. Then as I walk-watched, I swear I noticed her check to see if anyone was watching. Like, “Look at me and my adventurous sexual relationship. Look at ME, EVERYBODY!” And that , more than the public act of doing it in a park full of kids, was what disturbed and annoyed me most. How dare she?
PDA signals a desperate need for outside validation of one’srelationship status. “Look at how he kisses me in front of you all. Surely he loves me. Don’t you wish you had this?”
How ironic, then, that my very first kiss was a public display of affection. Well, not really “affection,” so much as “acquaintance.” A shameful display of acquaintance. I don’t know how it happened, but I was so proud of myself at the time. I felt so validated. It was the summer after sixth grade.
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