My Signature Flaw
My father’s name has nine letters and it’s only with considerable effort that four of them make their way into his signature. I can tell from a good distance away when he’s signing his name because his delivery has a longer windup than Satchel Paige’s. He’ll fill out a form just like anyone else, but when it’s time to sign he has a ritual.
He takes a strong stance, one foot in front of the other, about two feet apart. He leans over the document, his left hand supporting his weight. He holds his pen an inch above his intended target. His eyes narrow and he pauses pensively. Then, with intense concentration and speed, he scratches out those four letters just like he has a million times before.
I never understood this growing up, and as I developed my own signature it more resembled my mother’s — all five of the letters in our own names plus five of the nine letters we’d acquired from my father.
This proved to be an ominous decision as time passed into the digital age and letters turned into emails, checks into online payments, notes into documents; my already mediocre writing skills dwindled away. My hand began to cramp within minutes of taking notes at lectures or meetings and on the rare occasions when I had to sign my name, my signature was rarely consistent.
I’ve never found this to be a problem in the US, where signatures are rarely scrutinized for consistency since there are so many other ways to verify someone’s identity. But there is one place where despite government documents, photographs and personal identification numbers, the consistency of my signature still matters:
An Indian bank.
I recently found myself in a [brand redacted] branch attempting to get my account reactivated after a period of neglect. Following some very complicated explanations, they convinced me to open a new account, which of course required multiple forms (each with multiple signatures), multiple copies of multiple forms of identification (each with a signature across it as verification).
As I completed each signature I felt increasingly anxious. I could feel my hand starting to tire and I could see the slight but noticeable variations between each signature and the previous one. As three pairs of hands placed form after form after xerox after form in front of me I found myself concentrating harder and harder on each new signature, pausing to take a breath, attentively rounding curves and squaring corners in just the right way.
Finally after about twenty-five signatures it was over. Of the ten fingers capable of competently guiding mother-of-pearl saxophone keys through choruses of jazz solos, three had been ignominiously defeated by their owner’s identity.
The bank officer took all of the papers into the back office, emerging a few minutes later with a single form. “Sir,” he said, “your signature doesn’t match. Please sign this signature mismatch form to explain.”
I stared up at him in disbelief and slowly rose from my chair. Taking the pen from his hand I took a strong stance, one foot in front of the other, about two feet apart. I leaned over the form, my left hand supporting my weight. My eyes narrowed and I paused, concentrating on the location on the piece of paper. Taking a breath, I scratched out two sets of ten letters.
They matched perfectly.
