As I started preschool, pre-kinder, or whatever the hell it was called, we had various writing exercises. At the beginning of the structured writing time (albeit it wasn't so structured), Mrs. Margo and company passed out the little booklets--I was always (in the beginning, at least) ecstatic because I liked personalization and, darn it, that book was mine. So far, so good, right? That's why my four year-old brain thought. Well, my friends, I was wrong; and if you answered yes to my question, you were wrong as well, but I digress.
"Five-four-three-two," yelled Mrs. Margo (or was it Ms. Margo? Well she's Mrs. this story), and all of us children looked politely and diligently toward the front of the class as if we were thinking what the hell does she want now?. "Mrs. Jordan and I will be walking around to talk to you about your letters." Oh boy!, I thought, We're going to talk about the letters like Patti Labelle did on Sesame Street (What can I say? I have a mother that's forty years older than me).
This was no singing special. Mrs. Jordan came over to my section of the severely damaged faux wood table and started talking to me about my writing.
Now, readers, I feel as if I need to itemize those questions. In the brief conference time Mrs. Jordan and I had, she asked more questions than Sarah Palin at a Common Sense Museum. Here's what my early childhood brain came up with:
1) I don't know. I just feel like switching hands. I write good with both of them.
2) Like I said before, I like writing with both of them.
3) I'm four, it all just kind of shoves in
4) My mom is too busy for me to look at how she writes and when my dad is around, I want to spend time with him--not his writing
Okay, so I'm ambidextrous. At the time, that was my least concern. After all, it was mid-morning and I didn't even know what we were having for lunch later. I thought this was just another one of those things that "grown-ups" needed to mention. Boy, was I wrong. Before I knew it, they had brought in the writing specialist. While my memory is a tad fuzzy, I vaguely remember sitting in a little office type room with a lady who asked me why I liked to use both hands. Again, I gave her the same answers that I gave Mrs. Jordan. She didn’t find them nearly as funny as I thought they were. Instead of laughing, she called my mother whom apparently said she’d be in to talk with the specialist and the principal after work.
In the same manner as everyone had grown accustomed to, my mother arrived on the West side of the school to relieve the after school program college students from their duties. Sure, I was a nice child and all, but they had Baywatch and beer; there was clearly no competition. When my mother walked into the school, the specialist and the principal quickly glided her into the school’s office. What did I do now?, I wondered. A few minutes passed (which seem like hours when your mother is in the principal’s office) and my mother, the specialist, and my principal came out laughing and talking. At this point, I surely was not in trouble.
“Cornell, come on. Let’s go home! Thank you all for your help. I’ll be sure to assess that with him tonight,” bellowed my clearly stressed but calm mother.
And, we left. While we were in the car, my mother broached the writing subject again.
“Cornell, I didn’t know you like to write with both hands. When did you start doing that?”
“I don’t know, mommy. What are we eating for dinner tonight?”
“I’m not sure, honey, but I was talking to you about your writing. If you had to pick a hand could you choose one?”
“I guess so, mommy, but why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Lloyd 6
“Son, even though I don’t think it’s a big deal, the schools think it will be easier if you pick a hand to write with.”
By this time, we were pulling into the long driveway to our home. As went into the house, my mother went straight for the pencil and paper. She laid the paper on the dining room table and handed me the pencil. Now that I think about it, I am sure she was wondering what hand I would pick it up with.
“Try writing some letters on the paper for mommy. I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner if you need me.”
“Okay!”
Mom cooked dinner and we ate well as usual. Maybe it’s something about single family homes that makes dinner bring two people closer together, but my mother knew that if she was to convince me of something, it would be during or directly after dinner.
“Son, now that we’ve eaten, let me look at the paper you have next to you,” my mother convinced me as I was clearing my plate. “Hmm, which hand did you write this with?”
“I wrote it with this hand,” as I pointed to my right hand.
“Okay, that’s your right hand. It looks like that’s the better hand to write with, even though you can write well with both. Can you write with just that hand when you’re at school?
“Yes, mom.”
I went to school the next morning and everything seemed to be fine. My mom dropped me off at the door, so I’m guessing she must have called the school on her car phone (yes, car phone, it was as big as a horse). School progressed fairly quickly that day, and before I knew it, it was time for handwriting. She’s gonna yell at me about my writing, I was sure.
“Here’s your book, Cornell. Are you having a good day, today?” asked Ms. Margro?
“Hi, Ms. Margro! It’s a good day!”
At this point, it truly was a good day. My mom was able to drop me off at school without any problems, and my teachers finally left me alone about my writing. In fact, they permanently left me alone. It was indeed a good day. We might have been at the beginning of a short war, my mom and dad weren’t getting along, and we were looking at moving, but I was four years old living in the moment. Who knew the alteration of one’s writing hand would cause so much hell.
