I’m a bit late but better that than never. August 13th was International Left Handed Day. Being a lefty I feel obliged to acknowledge it; tell my tale of left handed woes. Funny how times change. A century back I might have been burned at the stake after being accused of dabbling in witchery and today I’m slapped on the back for my right brained talents that flow from my left hand.
It wasn’t long ago I was being beaten across the knuckles with a ruler, yard stick or blackboard pointer, whatever was the closest grab. All in the name of being forced to conform to a certain way of holding a pencil. The same ancient school spinster beat my left handed father as well. She was extremely unkind, I never saw her smile until graduation day, probably formed from the joy of getting rid of another classroom of disgusting little seven and eight year olds. Someone once said she hated children and my experience pretty much backed that up.
She was a breaker of spirits that one. If she couldn’t strap the boys into submission it wasn’t from the lack of trying. I saw more strappings that year than all others combined. Spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be her mantra that she practiced often. This gal was so mean my mother used her as incentive for me to study. She’d say, “You don’t want to have her as a teacher again do you?” Boy, such a contrast from today. No one would allow a brute like that in the school system.
On several occasions her stern look almost caused my bladder to empty. The thought of repeating the year under her tutelage was enough to cram in what I needed to know for a passing grade. The terror I felt as I opened my report card to see whether or not I was doomed for another year of grade three hell, could have been mistaken for a palsy.
Irene Ernst, the name still makes me quiver. They say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I would really like the chance to talk to her and ask "What were you thinking?" She stigmatized me so badly I never took a left handed seat for the rest of school. I hid my difference from the world and unless you were paying attention you would never have noticed the flowing letters on my scribbler came from a lefty. Miss Ernst tried her damnedest to break me, forcing me to hold my writing utensil in the most uncomfortable way, but I rebelled, took the strappings and to this day, my penmanship is as good as any right handed person.
My dad was a lefty and from an early age I realized his writing was illegible. Other than his signature, I couldn’t discern a single word. How he was the secretary for the United Church was astounding because I’m sure no one could read the minutes! Poor dad, beaten and conformed, he spent his life with wrist bent in the most awkward of positions just to write. I on the other hand was stubborn enough to resist, although at the time I didn’t think of myself that way. I truly was frightened, but the agony of conforming was physically real. While she watched I suffered the archaic belief that we lefties had to do it her way or the highway, and behind her back did it my way.
When I was caught I suffered the whacks and the looks with those piercing eyes over the spectacles and meanness that spewed from her mouth. I was like a little left handed bug waiting to be crushed by that massive hulk of a woman. Even though decades have passed, I often think of her as my letters flow across the page. Some will ask, did a teacher ever change your life? Well, yes they did, although in a very negative way.....although it had a positive outcome.
And now we have a special day to commemorate our left handedness....how positively wonderful!
It wasn’t long ago I was being beaten across the knuckles with a ruler, yard stick or blackboard pointer, whatever was the closest grab. All in the name of being forced to conform to a certain way of holding a pencil. The same ancient school spinster beat my left handed father as well. She was extremely unkind, I never saw her smile until graduation day, probably formed from the joy of getting rid of another classroom of disgusting little seven and eight year olds. Someone once said she hated children and my experience pretty much backed that up.
She was a breaker of spirits that one. If she couldn’t strap the boys into submission it wasn’t from the lack of trying. I saw more strappings that year than all others combined. Spare the rod and spoil the child seemed to be her mantra that she practiced often. This gal was so mean my mother used her as incentive for me to study. She’d say, “You don’t want to have her as a teacher again do you?” Boy, such a contrast from today. No one would allow a brute like that in the school system.
On several occasions her stern look almost caused my bladder to empty. The thought of repeating the year under her tutelage was enough to cram in what I needed to know for a passing grade. The terror I felt as I opened my report card to see whether or not I was doomed for another year of grade three hell, could have been mistaken for a palsy.
Irene Ernst, the name still makes me quiver. They say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I would really like the chance to talk to her and ask "What were you thinking?" She stigmatized me so badly I never took a left handed seat for the rest of school. I hid my difference from the world and unless you were paying attention you would never have noticed the flowing letters on my scribbler came from a lefty. Miss Ernst tried her damnedest to break me, forcing me to hold my writing utensil in the most uncomfortable way, but I rebelled, took the strappings and to this day, my penmanship is as good as any right handed person.
My dad was a lefty and from an early age I realized his writing was illegible. Other than his signature, I couldn’t discern a single word. How he was the secretary for the United Church was astounding because I’m sure no one could read the minutes! Poor dad, beaten and conformed, he spent his life with wrist bent in the most awkward of positions just to write. I on the other hand was stubborn enough to resist, although at the time I didn’t think of myself that way. I truly was frightened, but the agony of conforming was physically real. While she watched I suffered the archaic belief that we lefties had to do it her way or the highway, and behind her back did it my way.
When I was caught I suffered the whacks and the looks with those piercing eyes over the spectacles and meanness that spewed from her mouth. I was like a little left handed bug waiting to be crushed by that massive hulk of a woman. Even though decades have passed, I often think of her as my letters flow across the page. Some will ask, did a teacher ever change your life? Well, yes they did, although in a very negative way.....although it had a positive outcome.
And now we have a special day to commemorate our left handedness....how positively wonderful!
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