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Looking back 

		at my boyhood, 
		I have almost no memories 
		of my father touching me 
		other than to discipline and punish. 
		
		I have no memories of him 
		running his hand through my hair, 
		holding my hand, 
		or holding me in his arms.
		
		
		
		On those rare occasions
		when he was required to touch me,
		I have retained only the memory
		of his haste and awkwardness.
		
		I have a particular memory
		of sitting in the bathtub one evening,
		when my father decided to dispense a lesson
		on how to properly clean one's face.
		
		He grabbed the washcloth
		and proceeded to scrub my face
		as if he were scouring a dirty skillet,
		leaving it scarlet and stinging.
		
		Of course, at the time I didn't realize 
		that my father was afraid to touch his son
		with any degree of delicacy or tenderness,
		this being, to him,
		less than manly.
		
		So this tiny moment became a subtle lesson
		about touching another person's body.
		
		I understood that it was something 
		vaguely unpleasant and shameful,
		something mildly repulsive,
		something to be executed with haste,
		and avoided 
		if at all possible.
		
		
In contrast . . .