My Pencil
How something so insignificant, could mean so much
On any given day if you looked at my desk you will see only a few items — a computer, a mouse, my notebook, my ruler, a cloth to clean my glasses, and a pencil. But of all those things, it’s the pencil that matters.
I wonder how many people know what that pencil means to me.
To be exact, it’s a Dixon Tri-Conderoga #2 black grip, with black eraser. A pack of 6 costs $4.19, but for me they are priceless.
It began when I was 12.
There was blood everywhere. I got in a fight with my brother. He had locked me out of the house and was taunting me from the other side of the door window. So I punched through the window to try and hit him.
I’ll never forget looking down at my hand and seeing all of the blood. The glass had sheared all the way through my hand, straight through my wrist, and had nearly cut off two of my fingers. My brother immediately came to my help, wrapped my hand up, and we got to the hospital.
My hand, my left hand, my dominant hand, was paralyzed.
I still remember the doctor saying that they hoped they could save my hand. After an 11 hour surgery, I woke up and saw a horrific contraption attached to my hand. I had what looked like wire hangers coming our of my arm, then reaching down like claws holding up my fingers. They said it was to re-stretch the tendons they had sowed back together.
But my left hand remained unfeeling, unmoving… useless.
The doctor told me that I’d have to learn to become right handed, to re-learn writing, eating, everything. I remember one of the hardest things to swallow was that he told me that I would no longer be able to play piano. It was my dream to be a pianist like my father.
It was a lot for 12.
It took months to get any feeling back. Longer to get any motion. And longer for hope to take root. But I didn’t give up and eventually I did learn how to be right handed, I did play sports, and I also re-learned how to play piano.
Today, I look back at that 12 year old and I’m in wonder.
I know that I picked myself up, I know that taught myself to be right handed, that I made it through the toughest moment in my young life, but it seams slightly unreal for me. That kid, the scared one inside me, didn’t give up and found a way to make it work.
But the one thing that ended up defining me was writing.
While I did learn how to right with my right hand, it became something of a life challenge to learn to write with my left hand once again. After years of therapy, including experimental electric shock torture, I did it. It wasn’t pretty, and I’ll never win an award for calligraphy, but I fucking did it.
And the crowning moment of my achievement came in my sophomore year of Catholic high school. That’s because being left handed in a Catholic school got you a ruler smack, so during class, specifically religion class, I was forced to write with my right hand. But at home, I’d re-copy my notebook using my left hand. And I’ll always remember the pure joy I had handing in my religion notebook to Ms. Dietz, a notebook with an obvious left handed slant.
She failed me.
And it was great. In fact, it was the first time I had ever heard my Mom cuss. And after a brief, but joyously wonderful “discussion” between Ms. Dietz and my Mom, I ended up getting an A instead. I look back now and realize that the moment I decided to re-own my left-handedness, was the moment I started being me. It taught me never to give up, never to let random events in life define my life. What defined my life was what I controlled.
Now I look back and I think about all the things I’ve done.
- I got my first girlfriend in 7th grade despite having that contraption on my hand
- I re-learned piano my way and I recorded my first symphony at 19
- Today, I own my own concert grand and compose my own music
- I learned every sport right-handed, except shooting a gun (go figure)
- Followup note, I still suck at all sports but I think that’s more because I actually just suck at all sports
- For years I could never have anything touching my left hand because of all of my nerve weirdness, but now there is one thing that can— my wedding ring.
But of all my accomplishments, I’ve always felt like re-owning writing on my terms was the one that meant the most to me. It’s still not perfect. My handwriting still looks like an octopus fell out of a tree. I still can’t grip just right. Sometimes when I try to write the letter “g” I get an “h” instead. I still can’t write for very long before my handed cramps up. I still sometimes get emotional when I want to write, and I can’t. But regardless of all the faults within my writing, it has the one thing that matters me above all else.
It’s mine.
And when I went to choose a writing instrument for me, I wanted to choose something that fit. I knew I needed something that would help me grip it. I knew I’d be making a lot of mistakes, a pen was out. But I knew I wanted to have something that looked normal, that wouldn’t advertise my defect.
After nearly a half year of searching I found my pencil. It may look normal, but it’s not. It’s shape is different. Where most pencils have 5 sides, this one has 3 sides, forming a triangle, which is the natural shape your three fingers make when pressed together to hold a pencil. And it’s this shape combined with the super-drip grip texture that’s applied to only this pencil that enables me to grip it without dropping it. In addition, it has a super strong black eraser that more cleanly removes mistakes — the one’s I’m sure to make.
So when other people look I my desk and see what they think is a normal pencil, it’s exactly what I want them to see. A normal pencil, used by a normal person — someone that doesn’t have a handicap. A person who never needed to go through what I went through. A person that needs no special attention, no help, and especially no one feeling sorry for them. It gives me the ability to deal with my disability, without disabling me. It is the symbol, the power, and the instrument that gives me the only thing I ever wanted since the accident happened.
To be normal again.
