 This blog is for all the people that think it is more of a hindrance than a help to use their left hand for crafts. I’ve written about this topic back in 2014 for International Left-Handed day, a special day reserved for roughly 10% of the population that are left-handed, and after last week’s comments from two customers browsing in the studio, I thought I’d revisit the topic at hand, pardon the pun.
I have this corny line I use on new visitors to the studio asking in a cajoling way “Are you hookers or lookers?”. A conversation always ensues. I am delighted when I hear, “Yes, I’m a hooker” and we chat enthusiastically about what is on our frame, but if they say “No, I’m not a rug hooker.”, I hear wistfully that, “I’ve always wanted to try.” or, “My grandmother did it.” or, “I admire rugs.” but sometimes I hear, “I’d love to learn but I’m left-handed so I can’t do it”. Sadness and indignation well up in me. I’m so sorry for anyone that’s been led to believe that they can’t do something solely on their left-handedness. It’s not like we are attempting brain surgery, it is rug hooking. We are colouring with wool, following the precursor of colouring with crayons. How unkind to be told they are incapable because of the dominant hand they use. These statements start early in life stealing one’s confidence or failing to build it up in the first place. Being a left-handed person myself, I have never been told I have a useless appendage so I never thought twice about attempting new things. It is absolutely ludicrous that someone might struggle to complete a task because they use what is perceived as the wrong hand. I’m here to tell you, STOP THE NEGATIVE DIALOG IN YOUR HEAD, IT’S A BALD-FACED LIE. Now, I will admit that both right- and left-handed people may struggle with a craft. I’ve taught enough students to know that rug hooking is not for everyone but the success or failure has never been dependent on the hand they use. It might be a lack of patience, a clumsiness in the hand eye coordination, arthritis, allergies to wool, some of the more common handicaps that thwart the efforts but, I’ve never failed to teach and not make an impact because of left handiness. Many of my students have been left-handed and astonishingly, I once taught ten beginners and the entire class was left-handed! No one failed that day and what they produced in class held promise for future projects. At this time, I would like to send out this promise to anyone thinking that they can’t rug hook because of their “southpaw” to come and see me and I will show you how utterly simple it is to excel. Little tricks about how to hold your hook can be all it takes to master the technique. I will encourage you and praise you, as we climb over the fence to the green grass on the left-hand side. The personal anecdote I like to use to explain how negative comments can impact on how we think is my inability to swim. I can do a mean froggy dip in shallow water but I can’t seem to stay afloat in water over my head. I’ve almost drowned three times, once after foolishly jumping into the deep end of the town pool, it looked so easy what could go wrong? I was hauled to the side with a life ring while the little kiddies stood along the deck staring at me like I was from another planet. I am physically fit. As a matter of fact, I have a lot of upper body strength from years of hard work, stirring and lifting dye pots to the sink, gardening and all the other labours that require those muscles. But, put me in the ocean and my limbs go rigid, taking me directly to the bottom like a downward torpedo. How can this be? Why can’t I at least float, especially in salt water? Why can’t I use my arms and legs to push my way to the surface? I’ll tell you why. FEAR. INSTILLED FEAR. Fear is what immobilizes me, telling me I can’t do it and turns my physical body into a sack of rocks on a one way trip to the bottom. Interesting, one evening in my early twenties I drank a bottle of beer and not having done much elbow bending I was pretty tipsy. A bunch of us were hanging out at Clearland lake and someone said, lets swim to the raft. Inebriated I ran into the water and swam like a mermaid alongside my friends to the middle of the lake. The beer killed the part of my brain that told me I couldn’t do it, the fear melting away like ice in the sun. Even thru the alcohol haze I was amazed. Obviously, physical ability wasn’t holding me back, a mental road-block was. That evening provoked self analysis and a memory floated to the surface. I remembered, as a small child, how my family always went to the beach Sunday afternoons with a picnic lunch and Dad’s guitar and mouth organ. What a grand time we had building sandcastles, collecting seashells and dipping our toes in the surf with a backdrop of Dad’s country serenades. All was wonderful until we ventured further out in the water up to our calves. The music stopped, Dad was on his feet cupping his hands to his mouth to megaphone the warnings, “Don’t go out any farther, you’ll drown and I won’t be able to save you!”. Dad’s toes would cramp and curl in the cold water. He never had the fun of playing in the ocean and now he was killing our fun as well. To him the ocean depths meant death, drowning our fun without even getting our bathing suit wet. Even today from beyond the grave, Dad is still quelling my ability to swim as his warnings play on a loop in my subconscious. So, it makes me wonder what happened to these left-handed women that think they can only sit on the sidelines and admire what others have done. I have lost count of the number of times this has been confessed to me. I’m shocked momentarily and then my mouth is in gear sharing the knowledge that I am left-handed and don’t really see any difference between the outcome of using either hand to complete tasks. There is no difference, I’m proof of that and because we lefties draw literally and figuratively from the creative, right side of the brain we are apparently gifted. I launch into all the reasons this is an ugly rumour that needs to be relegated to the dust bin of history. These mental blocks start in childhood and stay insidiously with us into the present, perhaps with a little ill-placed discouragement from parents and teachers that didn’t understand how to help and encourage our abilities. Perhaps their righthandedness confused them when teaching a left-handed child for example, to knit or play guitar, perhaps they gave up leaving a lasting imprint on the child’s mind. Left handiness has had centuries of negative connotations, built on tales, not facts, but its time to bust that myth and show the world we also rule. Another customer told me last week that in elementary school she was forced to keep her left hand behind her back as not to be confused while forcing the dominance of her right hand. The customer told me she became so distraught that at one point she wrote an assignment backwards, from right to left. I can’t even imagine what traumatic rewiring was created in her brain. What a horrible message she received, alienating a part of her body that was naturally dominant. In my childhood tale of woe, my left-hand knuckles were whacked with a ruler as a sharp reminder to stop what I was doing naturally to conform to a certain way of holding a pencil in grade three. I was forced to position my left hand in a very uncomfortable and sometimes painful way but at least the misguided teacher allowed me to use my left hand. My dad, also a lefty, was punished by the same old spinster decades earlier to conform to her demands. He unfortunately did and his writing was a mess, other than his signature we couldn’t make out a word that he wrote. Being the secretary for the United Church, I’m sure all the minutes were illegible, basically on par with trying to read a foreign language. Being singled out, my shy demeaner took a hit in front of the classroom and I was left stigmatized from the trauma. I felt like the freak of grade three and I never took a left-handed seat for the rest of my elementary years, hiding my difference in an uncomfortable right-handed seat. A century back, I might have been burned at the stake after being accused of dabbling in witchery. A complete contrast today from being slapped on the back for my right brained talents that flow from my left hand. “Educator” and spinster, Miss Ernst was a breaker of children’s spirits. If she couldn’t strap the boys into submission, it wasn’t from a lack of trying. I saw that leather strap come out more in grade three than all others grades combined. Spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be her mantra that she practiced often. No one would allow a brute like that in the school system today. Any teacher that can empty a child’s bladder with a piercing stare shouldn’t be in charge of their young, impressionable mind. The shaking that initiated from the fear I felt as I opened my report card at the end of that long year to see if I graded out of her class, could have been mistaken for a palsy. How many children did she crush with her cruel, archaic ways? Miss Ernst tried her darndest to break me, but I was able to secretively rebel, not because I was strong willed, because it physically hurt to use my right hand and what came off the end of my pencil was hen scratch at best. Some will ask, did a teacher ever change your life? Well, yes, they did, although in a very negative way, but luckily it had a positive outcome for me. Others haven’t fared as well. It’s ironic, all these years later we now have a special day to commemorate our left handedness. So, I get a little perturbed when I hear the stories of others that received the same fate with varying outcomes. I feel so sad for those that feel they are incapable of rug hooking or knitting or any of the fiber crafts that bring us immense pleasure. I send out this pledge to anyone that feels they are limited by their left hand. Come to see me and I will do my best to stop this negative dialog and show you that the left hand can fulfill your will and erase all the negative aspects of why you feel challenged. Unless you have a physical impediment, if you can brush your teeth, write your name and put a fork up to your mouth you should be able to push a hook down through a hole and bring up a loop. Let me show you how.  As I perused the store shelves for a new iron, it struck me that I seem to be doing this often, perhaps every two years? How many irons have I owned since I realized the merit of being neatly pressed? It seems they have a limited lifespan, either wearing out or falling to a shattering death. Of all the appliances I've used, the iron is a constant fatality for me. This new one should be afraid, yes, very afraid.
The last time I was in need of a replacement, Covid was raging so I sent hubby out to do the shopping. They all seemed to do different things and confused the poor guy but I said I wasn’t fussy, the only function necessary, besides steam, was an automatic shutoff. There is nothing more anxiety inducing than coming home after work to find the iron has been left plugged in and hot as hades all day. So, I had to splurge for yet another iron. This one replaces the huge, heavy one hubby bought me the last time. He figured bigger was better in his attempt to please me. I said nothing, after all I gave him the go ahead to make the decision, it just isn’t fair to criticize after the fact. Unfortunately, I couldn't see how much water was in the tank. There was a line drawn that said Max Fill but I couldn't see the water level through the opaque plastic and unless I shook it, I couldn’t tell if it had water in it or not. And, the stream function button was on the right side of the two buttons on the top, one for spray and the other for burst of stream. The previous iron had the steam button on the left which worked well, my thumb lined up perfectly. It’s a small nit-picky thing that plays with my ‘I hate change personality’. Quite frankly, it was an iron for a man, big and heavy and awkward, the reason it fell off. Top heavy and tippy, it fell to its demise from a light jiggle to the board as my hip brushed against it. I picked up its shattered bones and wiped up the spilled water bleeding all over the floor. Irons aren't cheap. They range from a low bells and whistles price tag in the high twenties to over one hundred dollars. The less expensive ones had little heft similar to a plastic toy and the higher end one was heavy in the box. I don't need anything fancy, just a steam and shut off function so I chose one in the medium price range of forty something. The bottom has a shiny and smooth coppery metal plate. An iron for a crow like me, blingy and awesome, fits in my hand like a glove, the buttons are all in the right place and I can see the water in the tank. I used it and had a fabulous experience. We were made for each other and I’m in love with yet another inanimate object. If all goes well, this could be the iron I end my life with. Hopefully it lasts longer than two years! Thinking back, I don't remember my mother ever needing a new iron and after she passed, her old faithful was still ready for service. It landed in a yard sale and is probably still accommodating the new owner. At the time, I didn’t realize the struggles I would have with irons or I would have snapped it up for me. Everything was made better back then and sadly, today’s appliances are all throw away, used for a short period and then into the land fill they go. |
Christine Little has been ranked #5 out of the 60 top rug hooking bloggers by Rug Hooking Magazine!
 
Max Anderson, Australia, recipient of my Nova Scotia Treasures rug. An award of excellence for promoting Canada through his writing.
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