Having Bad Handwriting
The good, the bad, and the illegible.
I have always had bad handwriting. As my friends’ penmanship advanced from grade to grade, I still struggled with coloring inside the lines on kids’ menus.
When the cursive unit began and my sloppy handwriting became more and more apparent, my parents enrolled me in a program for kids with learning challenges, mine being handwriting.
Every Tuesday I sat in a sterile room with an instructor, picking up beads and drew circles in an attempt to strengthen my fine motor skills. The underdeveloped mind of a third grade Danny Conway never questioned why I went to this program. I just assumed that it was for gifted children like myself who needed an extra challenge.
Despite going to the after school program for years, my handwriting remained horrible and will likely remain that way until the day I die. As I lose mobility as I age, I imagine my penmanship deteriorates. I may eventually only be able to write letters with little to no curves like L’s and I’s. I will not be able to make any capital letters.
Bad handwriting is both a blessing and a curse. I’ll never be able to write a love letter, because the recipient would assume it was from a child. But, on the other hand, if I choose to journal teenage angst thoughts, which I haven’t done so far since my hands get so damn tired when I write, my middle aged self will never be humiliated.
And because my teachers are accustomed to my handwriting, I can use it to my advantage by scribbling nonsense on homework assignments, which then they assume is correct because they are too tired to try and decipher it, but, because I am such a likable kid with clear challenges, they don’t want to question.
I’ve come to have an appreciation for my bad handwriting, it’s part of who I am, wether I like it or not.
