Cursive Lessons

I first knew I liked to write when I was in the third grade. So please, allow me to set the scene for you.

It was a solid 90s year, cordurory was in, all I could think about was my next birthday party, I was the only lefty in the class and my teacher’s name was Mrs. Frasier.

I was the slowest writer in the class, but it was my favorite part of the day. For some reason I always used twice the amount of spare erasers that all of the other kids did. Mrs. F would walk around the room and critique the curves of our capitol letters while kids asked “why do we have to learn this anyways?”

I mentally scolded the children who asked this because, what did it matter? We got to write and not think about math for half an hour — that was the bright side of cursive for little kid me. (Anything that wasn’t math was the best part of the day in my opinion.)

My teacher came around, put her hand on my shoulder and said, “wouldn’t it be easier if you wrote with your other hand?”

“I could try,” I said, “but my sister is right handed so I think it’s best that I’m a lefty.”

It was in these thirty minutes of the school day where I didn’t have to feel inferior to any kid smarter than me and where I could day dream about anything not related to school.

Even third graders need safe spaces.

Thanks, cursive lessons.