When I was a boy in short trousers; come to think of it, hold that thought for a sec and let me first give you the specification of a short trouser.
Every boy attending national school in those days wore short trousers. At the age of 15 or 16, amidst cries of ‘who lifted you into them’, the rite of passage of being able to wear long trousers arrived and this very much signified the start of the road to manhood.
Back to the short trousers: It came to within an inch of the knee, had buttons in all the right places; buttons for the braces to hold the trouser up, (no belts in those days) and buttons protecting the vital area which is zipped up nowadays. So far so good, but the pair of trousers was also equipped with attachments which proved as useless as the tail on a pig. I refer to the two trouser pockets!
For a start, we rarely had anything worth putting in a pocket. A scarred sponge ball was the height of it. The one thing that fitted nicely in the two pockets was my two hands – but the one thing you dare not put in your pockets were your hands!
‘Going around with your hands in your pockets’, was one of the worst crimes a young lad could be guilty of in Ireland back in those days. It was the trademark of a ‘sleeveen’ or a ‘corner-boy.’ ‘Get them hands out of yar pockets’, was the regular battle cry of my father if he saw me before I saw him. By way of penalty the order would be quickly followed up with; ‘and do something!’
It was much the same at school. The master had a strong aversion to his charges ambling in or out with hands buried in the trouser pockets. ‘Hold you head up and take your hands out of your pockets; we are a free country’, was the admonishment regularly delivered around the school yard.
So what was all this fuss in aid of and why were the hands in the pocket so venomously frowned upon? I think that Master Lawlor depicted the hands in the pocket as a sign of meekness and insecurity. His positive teaching was always enforcing the message that each one of us was as good as the next fellow. My mother chastised the pocket habit in her sons just as vehemently as the others. She viewed it as a sign of laziness, rudeness and disrespectful towards adults – more especially, visitors to our house.
I just so hope that the Lads in the pub reading this will now have a greater understanding of my fear of putting a hand in a pocket…
That was then – and this is now, and it appears to me as if the hands in the pocket are not the taboo that persecuted me in my youth. On the contrary, it seems to be cool to slouch around, hands buried deep in the trouser pockets. I see all manner of man, from youth to elders, at various types of functions, with both hands buried wrist deep in their trousers. This stance now seems to indicate a casual, relaxed and comfortable attitude. The fashion model I sleep with tells me that pockets in women’s clothes are very much the ‘in thing’. Pockets in trousers; pockets in blouses; pockets in dresses … and beautifully manicured hands in and out of pockets like a magician with a hat. These are the same Gorls who once upon a time would refuse to dance with a Lad who crossed the dance floor with even one hand in a pocket!
This more relaxed attitude to hands in pocket has led to a range of justifications. It’s a sign of seeking comfort or hiding anxiety. It’s a natural way to self-sooth in uncertain situations, according to psychologists. Oh Lord, if only I knew that and had that answer for Daddy. On second thoughts …!
Another opinion I came across is that burying the hands in the pocket indicates low self-confidence and a reluctance to engage. Fidgeting with hands in pockets (the upper end of the scale of my father’s intolerance) can reflect boredom or impatience and a desire to be elsewhere.
The bottom line (no pun intended) is that hands in pocket is interpreted differently across cultures and time lines. So – and not for the last time, it would appear that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!
Don’t Forget
We spend our lives trying to put money in our pockets, and then look back on the time we had none and call them ‘the good old days!’
