Right-handers Have Little Idea How 10 Percent of the Population Struggles To Conform Every Day

WELCOME TO MY LEFT-HANDED LIFE

Lefties Know Handwriting Will Remain Their Dirty Affair Forever

By Tom Owens

“If they put your brain in a bird, it would fly backward!”

This smart-assery came from a cool kid in sixth grade commenting on my left-handedness. In front of the whole class, of course.

Being the butt of a right-handed joke may have been the least of my problems as a left-hander.

Year after year in elementary school, female teachers were thrilled at the opportunity to magnify my messy handwritten assignments.

“Tommy has challenges with neatness,” wrote one teacher to my parents.

“I’ve never seen such a smeared paper in my life!” said another.

I enjoyed printing, then handwriting. Words seemed easier for me.

What wasn’t easy was how my left hand betrayed me at every line.

As soon as I jotted down a great sentence, my left hand followed the fresh pencil marks across the page.

Instant smearing.

“Tommy, go wash your hands now,” barked a teacher.

My hand was like a sponge. From my pinky finger down past my wrist, the sooty blackness may have gotten me a job as a Mary Poppins chimney sweep.

At last, one teacher said, “Tilt your hand away from the page. That should keep your page cleaner.”

The teacher seemed right. Kind of.

I’d place my left hand on the paper as I thought about what to write next.

Oops!

The worst side effect was that I kept losing my grip on the pencil.

Loosen Up, Lefty!

I squeezed the pencil tighter and tighter. A spot on my left middle finger started hurting.

My Dad looked at the finger. As a factory worker, he knew about calluses.

But this wasn’t a hard, rough bump. The spot got puffy and tender.

An infected boil.

Years later, I’d learn that such a problem got nicknamed “Writer’s Bump.”

A young doctor assured my parents that little boys never wash their hands enough.

But my teacher seemed worried when I got back to school with a finger resembling a gauze-wrapped lollipop.

She became less demanding about my penmanship. When the bandage came off, my teacher spent extra time showing me how to be gentle with my pencil grip.

No more pus-filled fingers!

Lefty’s Fingers Become Bilingual

In second grade, I started to get the idea that I was different.

I wanted to cut my construction paper as neatly as anyone. But soon, everyone knew I wasn’t like anyone.

“We have one pair of LEFTY scissors,” called Mrs. Reimers. “Those are for Tommy. He’s the only left-hander in the class. He needs them.” All eyeballs were on me.

I watched how the scissor blades were reversed. I could see the line I was cutting better as I kept the paper flatter.

Instead of bothering teachers, I taught myself to move my wrist to make right-handed scissors.

Coincidentally, a teacher asked me once “Are you sure you can’t use the NORMAL scissors?”

Penmanship Gymnastics Await

In fifth grade, a substitute teacher paused before scolding me for poor penmanship.

She claimed posture would make a difference. This teacher drove me into my seat like a large screw.

Next, she told me to point my left elbow at the ceiling. Then, tilt my paper so far to the right that the kid one row to my right could read every word.

The bell rang. Everyone headed for recess. A teacherly hand on my shoulder was followed by “We’re staying inside, to practice.”

I felt like a pretzel.

“Again!” commanded my teacher.

Giggles drifted in the door.

There seemed to be a half dozen students who thought that watching me get tied in knots would be more fun than the playground.

My teacher said, “That’s it. Out to recess, Mister Owens.” She marched out the door as my audience scattered.

Curse of the Left-Handed Diner

I tried to teach teachers about my left-handedness each day for lunch. I’d ask to sit on a table end, so my left elbow stuck out for passersby, instead of my fellow diners.

I learned about this need for proper dining angles years earlier during a summer family vacation. At a roadside diner, I was squeezed into a tiny booth with my dad to my left.

After getting prodded and interrupted a third time, I shouted, “C’mon Dad. I eat with my left hand. Stop it!” I was sure he was teasing me.

When my dad realized that the whole café had stopped eating to peek at the tabletop drama, he switched our seats.

I thanked him. “Dad, now my left elbow will only hit people walking close to the table. Like our waitress!”

My mother overheard. She stared at the ceiling and shook her head.

Somehow, I slipped through junior high school without making a left-handed spectacle of myself.

Conquering the Right-handed Car

In high school, driver’s education was the first reminder that I was a minority.

My teacher ignored my outstretched left hand. He pushed the key to the class car into my right.

When I got in and sat down, I realized how much cars and the rest of the world were designed for righties. The keyhole hid below the steering wheel to the right.

My right hand was my slacker hand. It assisted my left only when necessary. As in carrying a full sack of groceries. When I knew I must entrust car-starting to my right, I became fumble-fingered.

I picked up the dropped keys.

“Are you too excited to drive today, Tom?” my teacher asked.

“No, sir. I’m too left-handed.”

I tried golfing in high school. Of course, there were no such things as left-handed clubs. My Dad’s two friends invoked a mercy rule. The only reason I avoided a triple-digit score was my fellow linksters stopped counting after nine strokes on the 9-hole course.

I haven’t kept score of all the advantages society gives right-handers. Indulge me with just a few random complaints:

• I tried helping my mom bake. She asked me to read how much milk was in the measuring cup.

“I can tell you in milliliters,” I said. “Really! No joke.”

The metric system fills the entire left side of measuring cups. Only righties are entitled to “ounces” and “cups.”

• A three-ring or spiral notebook caters to right-handers. Lefties bang into the notebook spines on every line.
• Check out the design of hand can openers. A lefty must contortionize himself to make the device work.
• My biggest nightmare? The right-handed desks in school.

“Sit in your seat correctly!” barked a teacher.

I showed her how my left arm hung in mid-air. I showed her happy, productive righty students. They could sit naturally, with the right arm and hand resting on the desk surface beneath them.

“Fine, then,” she snorted. “Just don’t cause any more trouble.”

Of course, the teacher was another unaware right-hander.

Righty Parents Seek Sisterly Help

My right-handed parents did consider how backward I felt as a preschooler. My Mom told me that I was unable to tie my shoes. They had tried to teach me, but they were doing it in their usual righty way.

“I’ll ask my sister to come!” Mom suggested.

Aunt Bernice knew about my present and future left-handed challenges. She started school during the Great Depression.

My grandparents (her mom and dad) gave her handwriting teacher strict orders.

“DO NOT let her write left-handed!”

Mom said Bernice told her how the teacher would yank the pencil from her left hand and then use her adult hand to wrap Bernice’s right fingers around the pencil.

Mom was unsure if worse methods were used. Research indicates that rapping the knuckles of a student’s left hand, or even tying his left hand down, got tried in the conversion of lefties.

Eventually, Bernice developed a beautiful cursive signature.

“It makes sense,” my mom said. “That teacher practiced her hard with right-handed writing.”

Bernice got the last laugh on her parents, though.

Everything else she did, from cutting to sewing to tying her shoes, got done with her natural, preferred left hand.

Legend has it that I picked shoe-tying immediately, taught from one lefty to another.

In the years since I’ve coped well enough with being a leftist. Outside of the classroom and kitchen, I blend in.

Just proceed with caution when choosing a seat for me at your dinner table.

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Left-handed Tom Owens is a regular on wisdom Twitter at @domorebemoreNOW. He writes about fleeing his ordinary day job for all kinds of creative projects. Plus, he shares tips and techniques for others wanting to escape Job Jail.