Limited Glory

Summary

The author recounts their childhood struggle with cursive handwriting and their eventual success in a national penmanship contest before entering junior high school.

Abstract

The narrative describes the author's experience with the annual National Penmanship Club contest during their grade school years. Despite repeated attempts and the natural prowess of their female peers, the author consistently failed to excel in cursive writing, which was a source of distress. In the sixth grade, facing their final opportunity to win the contest, the author managed to overcome their previous shortcomings and was named a winner, only to revert to their usual, less elegant handwriting afterward, jokingly considering that such writing might be suitable for a career in medicine.

Opinions

The author views their own cursive handwriting as inadequate and describes it as "awkward" and resembling "a harry claw."
There is an evident gender divide in the author's perception of handwriting skills, with girls being seen as naturally adept at producing "beautiful curvaceous slopes."
The author expresses a sense of pressure and finality about the sixth-grade penmanship contest, considering it their "last chance in life" for such an achievement.
The author's success in the contest is attributed in part to the teacher's distraction, which allowed for extra time to complete the entry.
After winning, the author humorously suggests that their standard handwriting, likened to "hieroglyphics," could be acceptable if they were to become a doctor, where "chicken scratch" is often tolerated.

Some things are hard to do, then they disappear.

When I was a child in grade school, they had a yearly contest that targeted cursive handwriting—the pain of my early life.

It was called the National Penmanship Club.

I entered every year just like all other students, and I always failed to make the grade.

I was not considered one of the national penmanship champions.

My cursive was awkward; it looked like a harry claw wrote it.

Girls seemed to be naturals.

They would write those beautiful curvaceous slopes that would qualify them year after year.

In the sixth grade, I had my last chance to become a member. The club did not carry over into Junior High school.

It was making or breaking time for me.

I was ready. My pen dipped into the ink well-loaded. I thought to myself. “I must not have an ink blob on my paper this time. I must be perfect. This is my last chance in life for this prestigious honor.”

The 6th-grade teacher looked at her watch and held up a finger. She flashed a signal, pointing her finger down. She said, “All right, everybody. Start.”

I started writing with the other kids. I glanced around the room. I could see all the girls making their fingers move gracefully across their papers, assuring another win.

I told myself, “Don’t rush it. Be calm. There will be enough time to finish.”

Fortunately for me, the teacher was distracted, so then time ran a smidgen long. I was able to finish my curvy and fat last letter before she shouted halt.

A week later, the results were in. I scanned the list, and there was my name along with the other winners.

The handwriting was on the wall, as the saying goes. I would now revert to my standard hieroglyphics.

Perhaps I would qualify to become a doctor. Everyone will then accept my chicken scratch.