Throughout “I Want to Hold Your Hand (Reach Out)” by Yana Zgurskaya we watch a kind of balancing act, laid out and traced for us through the streets, through the maze of Grisha’s work and through both the stuffy air and open windows, silence and noise, tea and coffee, iPods and record players. As Grisha the little ping pong ball bounces nervously between worlds exhaustively expressing all of his thoughts and desires to us, but also hiding himself from us, we should ask, where in this contradictory yet compelling space does the reader fit in? 

I want to propose that the answer may be found through the choice of not only first person, but present tense and the two moments of vulnerability that the author carefully weaves in. 

Whereas the past tense lays out events which have transpired, where we expect the narrator has reflected, shaped and edited the story, in present tense the narrator cannot reflect on the events because they are still happening. He or she is moving currently, presently, propelling us with them into the future, step by step, and they cannot know what will transpire next.

Past tense stories make sense. We recollect the events of our day in past tense. Campfire tales and yarns, folk tales and ballads are told in past tense. Past tense is the natural way of telling a story. This happened, then this happened. What then does the present tense story model itself after? 

Nothing. There is no equivalent. Present tense narration does not reflect any natural storytelling technique. Speaking in present tense (what every student of a foreign language learns first, and which severely handicaps any real conversation), is unnatural and strange. Try it, I dare you: Speak to everyone you know for a day only in present tense. 

Why use it then? I would argue that there is a speed, an intimacy, and that the immersion of anxiety is heightened when we are reading each moment as it happens in this story. 

And in order to fully immerse the reader we are held in the story not only with present tense, never able to leave the moment we are in, but also in first person, never able to leave the narrator’s side. We are with the narrator, in the moment, at every moment. 

First person, by its very nature, is confessional. The narrator is directly addressing the reader, pulling us aside to admit what he or she wouldn’t say publicly, opening up, like a congregant in the dark box. Forgive me father for I have sinned, (am sinning?)

And yet as much as Grisha talks, rarely does he reveal much, keeping so much concealed even from the reader who he has invited to the table. Everything he hides, his drugs, his persona, his music, all seem to be in plain sight for everyone to find—even his private sanctuary at the museum is invaded regularly, by his peers, the cleaning lady, he exists amongst his books, an open book. Perhaps that is why Grisha admits to us, saying aloud, ironically, “I don’t need to talk.” 

He is like a parishioner who shows up to confession and only talks about the weather. We know he is holding back something much deeper than what is on the surface, and we wait to hear what it is. We must be patient. 

We don’t have to wait long. In that same sentence Grisha admits what he needs, as he states, in the one real moment of true openness in the story, “I need someone to grab my shoulders and tell me what to do.” He is lost and honest seeking guidance. 

But we are forewarned to the intensity of Grisha’s vulnerability. 

The title, “I Want to Hold Your Hand (Reach Out)” seems to exist as an extension to an unknown other. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” it says, admitting wanting to be united with that someone we read of later. Please hold my hand, grab my shoulders, tell me what to do. He needs someone, but then, it turns again, just as quickly and he says as if to himself,  hidden sotto voce in a parenthetical, in parenthesis, to “Reach Out,” to someone, anyone, maybe even to us.