I grew up having to hold the hand of my grandmother and mother learning to cross the streets of Brooklyn. I can’t remember when I finally was allowed to cross the street alone, sans-hand holding with an adult, but I believe it must have been such a right of passage. That moment feeling like growing up and into some kind of adulthood. There is nothing that initially made me want to share this photograph at the time of making it, and for many years it remained deep in the reject piles of my archive. But time and perspective shifts have taught me to keep looking back over things and discover them differently. The idea of holding another human hand at this moment in time, post-COVID-19, is such a social transgression, that I already lament to see this happen once again.
