Let me set the stage properly so that Y’all understand the level of crisis we’re dealing with. I am a Black woman. I am a germaphobe. And I do not believe in god.
Which means when I tell you that I have found myself whispering prayers, chants, affirmations, and whatever else my spirit can cobble together before shaking somebody’s hand . . . you need to understand how dire the situation has become.
Because nothin’, and I mean NOTHIN’, will make your soul try to leave your body faster than a moist handshake. Not danger. Not chaos. A moist handshake.
And the worst part is, I travel. A lot. For conferences, keynotes, workshops, panels, meet-and-greets. So I experience a rotating carousel of human beings walking up to me with outstretched hands and absolutely no regard for the emotional journey I’m about to go on. So now I’ve developed a ritual.
Right before contact, there’s a pause. Consider it a brief, sacred hesitation. In that moment, I am centering myself. I am breathing. I am chanting. I am grounding. I am centering. I am preparing. I am trusting. I am believing. I am releasing all expectations. I am accepting outcomes. I am protecting my spirit. I am calling in dryness. I am rejecting moisture. I am resisting dampness. I am aligning with a firm, respectful, fully dried handshake.
I am calling on every ancestor, every molecule, every scientific principle I vaguely remember from middle school. I am . . . safe. I am . . . calm. I am . . . ready. “Please,” I whisper internally, despite my atheism. “Let this be a dry exchange.”
Sometimes, I even smile. Because the person on the other end has no idea that I am about to risk it all. And then, we make contact. And that’s when I realize, once again, that America is filled with people walking around with moisture they have no business carrying.
Now, over time, I’ve come to understand that not all moist handshakes are the same. No. There are categories and distinct species. Each one with its own personality, its own backstory, and its own ability to fuck up my day.
There’s the one I call the “Freshly Washed But Didn’t Dry.” You can tell the person just came out the bathroom. You can feel it. There’s a cleanliness to it, sure, but also a wetness that feels incomplete.
Because here’s what gets me Y’all, this is preventable. This is not a medical condition. This is not an act of god. This is a towel situation. A paper towel. An air dryer. Hell, your own damn pants if you’re in a crisis. You had options. But instead, you walked out into society with unfinished business on your hands and chose me—ME—to complete the cycle.
Now I’m in it. My hand is in it. And I can’t even react in that moment because we’re still making eye contact, still smiling, still pretending this is a normal, civilized exchange.
Meanwhile my soul has already left my body and is standing in the corner like, “This is what we’re doing today?” And I’m standing there thinking, “Sir. You were this close to being a good person.”
Then there’s the “Naturally Damp Hand.”
This one confuses the hell out of me just on a biological level. There is no visible reason for the moisture. Ain’t no heat. No exertion. No stress. Just a steady, baseline dampness, like their body has decided that “slightly wet” is its default setting.
You shake their hand and immediately want to check the weather. “Is it raining? Did I miss something? Or are you the source?”
And then, Black Jesus take the wheel, you run into the “Cold and Wet Hand.”
This one right here is spiritual warfare. Because now the hand is not only moist, it is chilled. Refrigerated. Like they’ve been holding a ghost’s hand just moments before yours. You don’t know whether to ask if they’re okay or if you should be. Your brain short-circuits. Your soul whispers, “This ain’t right.”
Then there’s the “Grip and Slide.”
This person doesn’t just shake your hand, they fully commit. They hold on. And while they’re holding on, their moist palm slowly shifts against yours like a windshield wiper. Back and forth. Back and forth. And you’re trapped. You can’t pull away without causing a scene. So you just stand there, smiling politely, while internally you’re negotiating with the universe. “If you get me out of this,” I think, “I will become a better person.”
Next up is the “Finger-Only Dampness.”
This one is particularly disrespectful because it defies logic. Now, the palm is dry. But the fingers the fingers . . . moist AF. Why are your fingertips sweating independently of the rest of your hand? What kind of internal committee approved this? I don’t trust it. I don’t trust you.
Then we have the “Confidently Moist.”
This one scares me the most. Because they have no shame. They step forward with full eye contact, a firm grip, leadership energy, and a hand that feels like it just finished a light jog. You ever shake somebody’s hand and feel your fingers start folding inward like your knuckles are collapsing one by one? I can feel the architecture of my hand rearranging itself under pressure. And the whole time their hand is moist.
So now I’m trapped in this paradox. I’m being crushed and marinated. And I’m standing there thinking, “You knew! You knew your hand was like this and you chose violence anyway.”
At this point in my travels, I’ve started adapting. I carry hand sanitizer like it’s holy water. I’ve mastered the strategic half-wave. I’ve developed a quick nod that says, “I see you, I respect you, and I will not be touching you today.” Sometimes I fake a cough just enough to signal, “You might not want this.”
And still, people reach anyway. Because for them, it’s just a handshake. But for me it’s a gamble. A risk. And a roll of the dice that could leave me questioning everything I thought I knew about humanity.
And here’s the thing Y’all, this is not just about hygiene. This is about trust. When we shake hands, we are entering into a silent agreement. A social contract. A damn omertà. We are saying, “I have prepared my hand for this moment. I have considered you. I have respected the sanctity of this exchange.” And some folks are out here breaking that covenant with reckless, moist abandon.
Because nothin’, and I mean NOTHIN’, will make your soul try to leave your body faster than a moist handshake. Not danger. Not chaos. A moist handshake.
And the worst part is, I travel. A lot. For conferences, keynotes, workshops, panels, meet-and-greets. So I experience a rotating carousel of human beings walking up to me with outstretched hands and absolutely no regard for the emotional journey I’m about to go on. So now I’ve developed a ritual.
Right before contact, there’s a pause. Consider it a brief, sacred hesitation. In that moment, I am centering myself. I am breathing. I am chanting. I am grounding. I am centering. I am preparing. I am trusting. I am believing. I am releasing all expectations. I am accepting outcomes. I am protecting my spirit. I am calling in dryness. I am rejecting moisture. I am resisting dampness. I am aligning with a firm, respectful, fully dried handshake.
I am calling on every ancestor, every molecule, every scientific principle I vaguely remember from middle school. I am . . . safe. I am . . . calm. I am . . . ready. “Please,” I whisper internally, despite my atheism. “Let this be a dry exchange.”
Sometimes, I even smile. Because the person on the other end has no idea that I am about to risk it all. And then, we make contact. And that’s when I realize, once again, that America is filled with people walking around with moisture they have no business carrying.
Now, over time, I’ve come to understand that not all moist handshakes are the same. No. There are categories and distinct species. Each one with its own personality, its own backstory, and its own ability to fuck up my day.
There’s the one I call the “Freshly Washed But Didn’t Dry.” You can tell the person just came out the bathroom. You can feel it. There’s a cleanliness to it, sure, but also a wetness that feels incomplete.
Because here’s what gets me Y’all, this is preventable. This is not a medical condition. This is not an act of god. This is a towel situation. A paper towel. An air dryer. Hell, your own damn pants if you’re in a crisis. You had options. But instead, you walked out into society with unfinished business on your hands and chose me—ME—to complete the cycle.
Now I’m in it. My hand is in it. And I can’t even react in that moment because we’re still making eye contact, still smiling, still pretending this is a normal, civilized exchange.
Meanwhile my soul has already left my body and is standing in the corner like, “This is what we’re doing today?” And I’m standing there thinking, “Sir. You were this close to being a good person.”
Then there’s the “Naturally Damp Hand.”
This one confuses the hell out of me just on a biological level. There is no visible reason for the moisture. Ain’t no heat. No exertion. No stress. Just a steady, baseline dampness, like their body has decided that “slightly wet” is its default setting.
You shake their hand and immediately want to check the weather. “Is it raining? Did I miss something? Or are you the source?”
And then, Black Jesus take the wheel, you run into the “Cold and Wet Hand.”
This one right here is spiritual warfare. Because now the hand is not only moist, it is chilled. Refrigerated. Like they’ve been holding a ghost’s hand just moments before yours. You don’t know whether to ask if they’re okay or if you should be. Your brain short-circuits. Your soul whispers, “This ain’t right.”
Then there’s the “Grip and Slide.”
This person doesn’t just shake your hand, they fully commit. They hold on. And while they’re holding on, their moist palm slowly shifts against yours like a windshield wiper. Back and forth. Back and forth. And you’re trapped. You can’t pull away without causing a scene. So you just stand there, smiling politely, while internally you’re negotiating with the universe. “If you get me out of this,” I think, “I will become a better person.”
Next up is the “Finger-Only Dampness.”
This one is particularly disrespectful because it defies logic. Now, the palm is dry. But the fingers the fingers . . . moist AF. Why are your fingertips sweating independently of the rest of your hand? What kind of internal committee approved this? I don’t trust it. I don’t trust you.
Then we have the “Confidently Moist.”
This one scares me the most. Because they have no shame. They step forward with full eye contact, a firm grip, leadership energy, and a hand that feels like it just finished a light jog. You ever shake somebody’s hand and feel your fingers start folding inward like your knuckles are collapsing one by one? I can feel the architecture of my hand rearranging itself under pressure. And the whole time their hand is moist.
So now I’m trapped in this paradox. I’m being crushed and marinated. And I’m standing there thinking, “You knew! You knew your hand was like this and you chose violence anyway.”
At this point in my travels, I’ve started adapting. I carry hand sanitizer like it’s holy water. I’ve mastered the strategic half-wave. I’ve developed a quick nod that says, “I see you, I respect you, and I will not be touching you today.” Sometimes I fake a cough just enough to signal, “You might not want this.”
And still, people reach anyway. Because for them, it’s just a handshake. But for me it’s a gamble. A risk. And a roll of the dice that could leave me questioning everything I thought I knew about humanity.
And here’s the thing Y’all, this is not just about hygiene. This is about trust. When we shake hands, we are entering into a silent agreement. A social contract. A damn omertà. We are saying, “I have prepared my hand for this moment. I have considered you. I have respected the sanctity of this exchange.” And some folks are out here breaking that covenant with reckless, moist abandon.
So I’m asking, no, I’m begging. Before you extend your hand to another human being, take a moment. Reflect. Check yourself. Dry your hands! Because somewhere out here, there is a Black woman, a germaphobe, an atheist, whispering prayers she doesn’t even believe in. She is just hoping that when your skin meets hers, it won’t be wet.
Thanks for reading. If this piece resonated with you, then please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Paid subscriptions help keep my Substack unfiltered and ad free. They also help me raise money for HBCU journalism students who need laptops, DSLR cameras, tripods, mics, lights, software, travel funds for conferences and reporting trips, and food from our pantry. You can also follow me on Facebook!
We appreciate you!
