Remember handwriting? That thing that was somewhat important before computers, emails, instant messaging and our immersion in the age of technological communication? Well, mine sucks. It’s been called a lot of things, but chicken-scratch seems to be a favorite of the critics. In elementary school, I was always behind in the writing exercises and suffered from an easily cramping hand. Supposedly this was due to the fact that I held my writing utensil improperly.
To save the day, the elementary school, after discovering I had been suffering writing-induced cramps for three years, generously gave me a squishy, blue device to fix my “problem.” When slipped onto the pencil and positioned so as to accommodate the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger, the device claimed to be able to establish a proper grip. After ten unenthusiastic seconds, I tossed it into my backpack, hoping everyone else was as willing to forget about it as myself.
That moment wasn’t my best, but it was a defining one. Once the squishy, blue enemy was dumped, my scrawl was destined to painful illegibility for the rest of my life. That decision has cost me much over the span of my academic life.
On countless occasions I’ve found myself trying to explain to teachers the scraggly intentions of my writing. The word “try” is crucial there because sometimes I can’t decipher the code myself. One high school instructor courteously requested that I type my handwritten, in-class essay after school since he couldn’t read it. I understood his position, especially after sitting for an hour trying to decipher the foreign lettering.
Poor penmanship does have its perks, though. Not once have I ever been asked to take notes for anyone in class. And if somebody comes to me to copy notes, I wish them the best of luck and nod understandingly and somewhat apologetically when they return a few short minutes later having given up. Perhaps they can transcribe a few words, but these usually prove to be incorrect translations. Occasionally, some have viewed my handwriting as a challenge, staring at the page, straining to read. If they do make out a few sentences, I ask them to summarize what they read. Most haven’t a clue.
Nowadays, my poor penmanship is not unique. When glancing at the notes of fellow Hoyas, I happily realize, “Hey, I can’t read that scribble!” If you can still write legibly, then it’s my belief that you are one of the few. If you’re like me, then you’ve probably received complaints, but you also know how unimportant handwriting is. Why write when you can type almost as fast as you can think? This is my favorite defense for those who ridicule my sloppiness. Sure, my mom can draw pretty letters that make legible sentences, but my words-per-minute count is far superior in our high-tech world.
Only when an in-class essay rolls around do I think back to that squishy blue device, now lost forever. Will handwriting suffer the same fate? Perhaps it will spiral into the abyss as a useless form of communication.
Do you disagree with this belief? If you do I’d love to hear about it, but please don’t write me a letter because chances are I won’t be able to read it.
