TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

I have this thing with personal space. And I thought it was only me, being one of the many crazy Heather things that my husband says makes his life interesting. However, a few years ago on vacation, someone told me that I had to be an American because of the persistent chastising I gave my son, asking him to take a step back from the stranger in front of us in line. I'm not sure being an American is predicated upon not wanting your kid's nose near someone's rear, but fine, if that makes me an American, then Glory Hallelujah, pass me my apple pie.

I also wouldn't say it's a general fact the converse is true, either -- that non-Americans have no concept of personal space -- but I have traveled enough to know that it could be an accurate assumption. My first personal bubble popping experience was when I was an 18-year-old studying abroad in Italy, using a payphone to call home. I felt someone too close behind me, his jacket brushing against my back. After a few minutes of that, I was sure in certain parts of the world, and based on how close he was to me, we were technically married.

And the more I collected these sorts of experiences, the more I wondered if personal space wasn't a compulsion belonging only to me, but a cultural thing. Maybe that person in line with my children and me was right: I was a true American. If so, I don't mean to build up the stereotype that Americans think they're better than everyone else is, but I really do believe we nailed the personal space issue. How is it a good thing for strangers to touch bodies while waiting in line?

If I knew at 18 what I know now, and not have been such a naive, accommodating college student during that payphone call in Italy, I would've pushed that guy back. I mean, talk about a party foul.

That example, however, seems a clear societal no-no. I would hope even by Italian standards. But what about other personal bubble popping experiences? I just had one while on vacation, in the middle of our cruise down to Mexico. I was talking to a friend on my right when I felt someone press up against me on my left. I turned and found an elderly woman. At least it wasn't a guy. I quickly deciphered she and the younger woman beside her were speaking a different language, and coupled with her nonchalant attitude about transferring the cat fur on her blouse to mine, I assumed she knew nothing about my old-fashioned, American personal space.

However, my husband would've been proud of me: I did nothing to assert my bubble boundaries. Instead, I took a few seconds to visualize my happy place -- it includes me and 80 acres of solitude -- and then continued the conversation with my friend. Several minutes later, though, I felt my hair ripping from my scalp.

I spun to the elderly woman and we stood nose to nose.

"Oww!" I said. "Why did you do that?"

She blinked, bewildered, and then looked at the few strands of my hair in her hand. Then she said, in her best English, something to the effect that she thought my hair was hers and it was bothering her cheek. I stopped on the part where she thought the yanked hair was hers. I have long, black hair and she had two-inch length white hair.

Happy place, go to the happy place, I reminded myself.

Then, she tried subtly to let me know my hair shouldn't be so close to her face. To which I replied her face shouldn't be so close to my hair. "Which was here first," I added. Of course I had to add that. I'm trying to be a more demure Heather for the sake of my husband, but I'm only comfortable with baby steps.

That was on day one of the cruise and there have been numerous other personal space issues since. I stopped counting at 24. (Oops. I don't think I should've admitted that. My husband will say that's a two-step backward deal.)

At any rate, I'm still not entirely sure whether the space issue is my own little battle or whether -- as was suggested that one time -- it's an American battle. Either way, I'll keep my little bubble of distance and hope everyone else does the same. If not, I can always let my kids loose. They assuredly know no boundaries, and strangers in front of us will assuredly walk away feeling violated.

Heather Ijames is one of three community columnists whose work appears here every Saturday. These are the opinions of Ijames, not necessarily The Californian's. You can send email to her at heatherijames@hotmail.com. Next week: Inga Barks.