A few months ago, I was hanging alone with a sandwich while watching Atypical on Netflix. In the season 2 episode, “A Nice, Neutral Smell,” the main character, Sam, who is autistic, attends his sister’s track meet. Standing in the bleachers, a girl in front of him turns her head back and forth, her ponytail whipping Sam in the face. After he’s smacked a few times, Sam seizes the ponytail and doesn’t let go until his father intervenes.
Sure, this happens because of Sam’s autism. He doesn’t have the same concept of social norms that neurotypicals do. The thing is, when I watched this scene, I nearly spat sandwich all over my living room because I was cheering. More than once in my life, I’ve wanted to do exactly what Sam did.
Sitting next to strangers in public can be stressful. Some instances are mentally and emotionally taxing, detracting from the experience of whatever it is you’re trying to do. Maybe it’s reading quietly in the bus, or watching a movie at the theater. I’m not saying I can’t sit next to anyone while out in public. I’m saying a lot of people are shitty neighbors in public and their shittiness has an effect on anyone, but some of us are more sensitive to it. Unless the person sitting next to me is a good neighbor who respects the boundaries, I become extremely anxious and aggravated. I want to grab them by the ponytail.
This was really difficult during the years I lived in France. Personal space is not valued in Latin countries like it is in places like the U.K., or even more so in the U.S. Not only did I feel crowded most of the time, but I often misinterpreted it as aggression. Every nudge and shove had me feeling like, “COME AT ME, BRO.” This was compounded by the fact that I didn’t have a strong enough command of the language to tell someone to back the fuck off of me when they pushed me too far.
I had an experience in a Paris movie theater a few weeks after I moved there. I can’t tell you what the movie was that I watching, because all I remember is the man sitting nearby. Even though there was an empty seat serving as a buffer between me and this stranger, it didn’t stop him from stretching his arm out across that empty seat and rubbing my sweater-clad bicep with his fingertips for the duration of the film. I leaned away from him. It continued. That light rubbing on my sleeve. I wedged my coat between my arm and his hand… and I could still feel the slight movements of him fondling fabric. I leaned over and whispered to my husband (who was not my husband yet) that my neighbor was touching me, but he either didn’t hear me or understand. I felt trapped. I panicked. I felt angry, violated, and pissed at myself for not causing a scene, or having the French language skills to be able to tell this creep to fuck off and die.
After a while, my husband learned that I can’t just walk into a public situation and sit wherever. He knows I need to sit in the outskirts whenever possible. When we get in the bus, he automatically gives me the seat next to the window and puts himself between me and the other people. At the movie theater, we reserve seats in the back so no one is behind me and he gives me the seat next to the least annoying neighbor because like the Dark Knight, he can take it. In a restaurant, he takes the chair with his back to the door so I can have mine to the wall. This is done out of love and kindness, but also so we both can enjoy the film or the ride or the meal without me freaking out.
England is a nicer place to be when you value personal space. People here tend to value it as well, and offer a polite “excuse me” when they bump into you, as opposed to the French people who check you for the puck at random and don’t notice flailing bodies in their wake. But it’s not perfect.
A few years ago at the O2 Arena to see Louie C.K. (ugh, I know) the dude behind me kept pulling my hair. I gathered it together and pulled to one side over my shoulder to be sure it wasn’t hanging over the back of my seat. He continued pulling anyway. But, I do have a strong command of English, so I turned around and told him to knock it the fuck off. Which he did.
And what is the deal with the hair? When some weirdo’s not touching mine, some other character is trying to put theirs all over me.
During a bizarre one-woman show at the Brighton Fringe Festival, I was seated in my happy space against the wall. However, the girl in front of me insisted on sitting sideways in her chair, elbow hanging over the backrest while she played with her long hair that she’d dumped into my lap. I thought of my hero, Sam, and imagined grabbing a fistful of this chick’s hair and pulling her backwards, toppling her chair. Instead, I wielded my backpack as a weapon and repeatedly swatted her hair away until she got the fucking hint. Which, now that I think on it, was probably quite the Sam thing to do.
When I went to see Black Panther, the woman sitting next to me compulsively pulled strands of her hair toward me and combed it with her fingers, twirling it right next to my face to the point that her hand and hair was right next to my eye for most of the movie. But, what am I gonna say? “Stop fucking with your own hair and watch the goddamn movie.” Who does that? I mean, aside from someone like Larry David?
But, you know what’s worse than hair? Feet. A stranger’s foot not merely wandering over a little too close, I mean a strange man’s shoe repeatedly creeping into your buttcrack.
Last Spring, my husband and I took a short trip over to France to visit the relatives and decided to spend a day at the Roman Arena in Nîmes to geek out at a Spartacus-themed gladiatorial reenactment. Now, even though I become anxious and claustrophobic in crowds, I’m determined that it won’t stop me from seeing and experiencing things, especially things like people charging at one another with swords while on horseback. I’d already psyched myself up for the crowd, sun, and uncomfortable seating. I was willing to endure it all because swords. On horseback. Also, fire and chariots and shit.
The couple behind me insisted on using my seat as a footrest. She’d nudge my butt. He’d jam his toe into my ass, I’d turn around and ask him to stop. A few minutes later, I’d once again experience the unpleasant sensation of my ass cheeks being spread apart by doucher’s loafer. At this point, I wanted to challenge both of them to a match down in the sand of the arena. But lacking in gladiatorial combat experience (aside from several dozen viewings of Spartacus and Gladiator), I instead grabbed his foot, squeezed it, shoved it away, then did the same to her. Believe it or not, we engaged in this dance more than once as his girlfriend complained that I was unfair. Because a stranger’s ass crack should apparently be freely given to entitled people who whine a lot. I mean, if you’re sitting in a place where I want to put my feet, I should be allowed to because fuck you, I guess.
These situations, ranging from the tiny, unconscious infractions all the way to aggressive entitlement and assholery are difficult for some of us to manage and unnecessary for everyone. The world is becoming more and more populated. It’s important to be courteous of others and conscientious of personal boundaries.
At the extreme other end of this, when I’m out in public and am seated next to someone who isn’t a personal space invader, I notice them. I appreciate them and value them as a good neighbor. I feel the tiny glow in the center of my being that flickers now and then to remind me that most of the human race is kind and good. Part of me wants to thank them for making our short time seated next to one another that much more pleasant, for not touching my hair, or making me want to yank their ponytail. The little bald man who couldn’t stop laughing at the Marc Maron show and made the whole stand-up set even funnier. The goth kid with the pointy elf ears at the Nick Cave gig who was so elated that their joy was infectious. The enormous beardy man with the sleeve tattoos and man bun blasting Slayer from his headphones who was clearly making an effort not to get in my space on the bus the other day. I want to turn to them and say, “thank you” for not attempting to cram footwear into my butthole.
But, of course… I don’t. I leave them alone. Because I don’t want to bother my neighbor.