by Kate Wyver
This is how everyone should be introduced to every new city. You should get off a train, close your eyes and when you open them there should be a stranger standing before you with their hand outstretched. They should look kind and a little bit odd. They should say, ‘please can I hold your hand?’, and they should lead you round their city. You should get all of their warmth and their knowledge and you should know that they are protecting you and that they are showing you the ropes and it should feel like nothing in the world could hurt you.
Rosana Cade’s Walking:Holding is a trust exercise, a therapy session, a social experiment and a play. It is really something quite intimate and quite beautiful. (And it’s free).
As I walk along the streets of Stoke-on-Trent, holding hands with various strangers, self-consciousness gradually fades. At first I think how people might see us- what relationship they put on us- but after a while I stop caring. I notice everyone else who is holding hands. I want them to notice us too.
We went on stranger danger days at school. I wonder what my teachers would say as I walk around a new city with people I’ve never met before. I’m pretty sure this isn’t following their instructions. These people aren’t actors, just locals who were willing to do something a little strange, to put their trust in a project and to reach out to strangers. We look at ourselves in shop windows and mirrors. We look at graffiti and signs as if they were written for us. We talk about lunch and life and Stoke and London and theatre and my future and their past and their future and holding hands and intimacy and love and loss and it just feels so open and warm even though it’s beginning to lash with cold rain. We joke and talk deeply and move subject swiftly as I’m handed from one stranger to the next. This is a movie, scored by the street performers and surrounding chatter.
The strangers I walk with are at once entirely individual and a representation of everyone. They are a mixture of ages, genders, disabilities, races, heights and chattiness-es. They all wanted to hold my hand. Some hands are cold and some are warm and some are so soft and some are courser with a firmer grip.
(We go from having our hand held as a child to holding the hand of the person you love to holding an elderly hand with the roles reversed. When was the last time you held someone’s hand, properly?)
An old man leads me through a pub and out into the sunlight on the other side where a marching band passes. We talk about love. He says when his previous wife died it was like when you’re holding hands and let go, and then something stops you from being able to hold hands again. But then he met someone else, who I also have the privilege of walking with. And he learnt how to hold hands again.
Walking:Holding makes you understand the power of a team. The solidity of someone standing by your side as your own little army makes you stand a little taller. It makes you want to cry. It makes you feel so valued.
My hands feel so soft and warm and strong. My cheeks ache from smiling.
Please can I hold your hand?
[Experienced 27/08/16. I went to Stoke-on-Trent for it specially, and it was worth every second of the journey.]