NuclearBonfire @DavisMoodest - Twitter Profile

In America, a young man at the coffee shop extended his FIST toward me, and I stood before it with no protocol whatsoever. A closed fist. Offered gently. Hanging in the air between us. Patient. Expecting. In my training, a raised fist has a short list of meanings, and none of them end in friendship. But his face was open and pleased — he had just handed me my order — so I understood this was a CEREMONY, and that I was failing it in real time. I did the only correct thing I could think of. I clasped his fist in both hands, as one accepts a precious gift, and bowed over it. He laughed — kindly, I want that on the record — and said, "No man, like this," and guided me: knuckles meeting knuckles. One soft tap. Then his hand sprang OPEN as it withdrew, fingers spreading, with a quiet sound: "Pssshh." THE EXPLOSION. There is an EXPLOSION at the end, America. Completely optional. Completely essential. And not one document in your entire country warns a foreigner about it. In Japan, our greetings have been codified for centuries. Depth of bow, position of hands, duration — written down, teachable, examinable. Your greetings MUTATE FREELY between coffee shops, and every citizen somehow knows all current versions: the fist bump, which is respect; the high five, which is triumph; the handshake, which is a contract — see Kenneth — and the bro hug, which is a handshake that collapses inward into a single back-pat, and which I am told I am not ready for. I agree. I am not ready. The fist bump is the haiku of the set. Minimal. Perfect. Two warriors touching armor. A man does not ask the fist what it wants. He answers knuckles with knuckles, and detonates on schedule. I returned the next day. Same young man. His fist came up immediately, eyebrows raised — a test and a welcome in one. Knuckles. Tap. "Pssshh." Both of us. Full explosion. He turned and announced to the entire kitchen: "HE'S GOT IT NOW." The kitchen CHEERED, America. Three strangers in aprons celebrated my education before the milk steamer finished. I bowed to the room. The young man bowed back. Badly. With enormous heart. Cultural exchange is complete when both men perform the other's ceremony wrong, together, on purpose, every morning at 7:40. We are at that stage now. There is no higher stage.

japan_nobunaga's tweet photo. In America, a young man at the coffee shop extended his FIST toward me, and I stood before it with no protocol whatsoever.

A closed fist. Offered gently. Hanging in the air between us. Patient. Expecting.

In my training, a raised fist has a short list of meanings, and none of them end in friendship. But his face was open and pleased — he had just handed me my order — so I understood this was a CEREMONY, and that I was failing it in real time.

I did the only correct thing I could think of.

I clasped his fist in both hands, as one accepts a precious gift, and bowed over it.

He laughed — kindly, I want that on the record — and said, "No man, like this," and guided me: knuckles meeting knuckles. One soft tap.

Then his hand sprang OPEN as it withdrew, fingers spreading, with a quiet sound:

"Pssshh."

THE EXPLOSION. There is an EXPLOSION at the end, America. Completely optional. Completely essential. And not one document in your entire country warns a foreigner about it.

In Japan, our greetings have been codified for centuries. Depth of bow, position of hands, duration — written down, teachable, examinable. Your greetings MUTATE FREELY between coffee shops, and every citizen somehow knows all current versions: the fist bump, which is respect; the high five, which is triumph; the handshake, which is a contract — see Kenneth — and the bro hug, which is a handshake that collapses inward into a single back-pat, and which I am told I am not ready for. I agree. I am not ready.

The fist bump is the haiku of the set. Minimal. Perfect. Two warriors touching armor.

A man does not ask the fist what it wants. He answers knuckles with knuckles, and detonates on schedule.

I returned the next day. Same young man. His fist came up immediately, eyebrows raised — a test and a welcome in one.

Knuckles. Tap. "Pssshh." Both of us. Full explosion.

He turned and announced to the entire kitchen:

"HE'S GOT IT NOW."

The kitchen CHEERED, America. Three strangers in aprons celebrated my education before the milk steamer finished.

I bowed to the room. The young man bowed back. Badly. With enormous heart.

Cultural exchange is complete when both men perform the other's ceremony wrong, together, on purpose, every morning at 7:40.

We are at that stage now. There is no higher stage.

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NuclearBonfire

@DavisMoodest

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@kenobi_gyn @Mikehomeseller I remember in the mid 90’s being accosted by some older teens wearing all black and JNCOs while I was wearing my older brothers Green shirt. They told me REM sucked. I just laughed and walked away.

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