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There was a time in my life when I thought I was left-handed. Frankly, I'm not certain anymore. When I take on a new task, something new to be learned, more often than not it's something I generally use my left hand for, a computer mouse for example. I began to use computers in earnest in the early 90s (as did most of us), and the mouse just felt awkward in my right hand.
My mother tells me that when I entered school (I'm not sure if it was kindergarten or the first grade), the teacher asked if I was right or left-handed, at the first parent-teacher conference. My mother's response? "I was hoping you were going to tell me."
When they tried to teach me how to write, the teacher found maddening. Now this, I do remember; it was Mrs. Blau, so that would make it the first grade. She had very clear ideas on how handwriting was supposed to look. Southpaws always wrote with a back handed slant. The paper was tilted one way for right-handed writers and the opposite way for left-handed. The first week we were being taught how to write cursive, the woman was at my desk every 5 minutes. A typical five-year-old, the pen kept moving from one hand to the other, when I decided it just didn't 'feel right', and because she was very clear that the slanted in one direction or the other was mandatory, my shifting the pen back and forth made the poor woman crazy. By the end of the week, she tied my left hand to the side of the desk. The die was cast. I was going to write with my right hand, come hell or high water. (I actually did learn to write with both hands. Writing on a horizontal surface is more comfortable with my right, on a vertical surface (i.e. a chalkboard) is more comfortable with my left.
My late uncle and godfather decided when I was a high school sophomore it was time for me to learn how to golf. Diligently I was there every Saturday and much to his chagrin, my progress was poor at best. Then he caught me in their kitchen slicing myself a piece of rye bread, the serrated knife where it usually was - my left hand. The light went off in uncle Morty's head.
"You're not right-handed! Why am I teaching you golf right-handed?"
"Um they're your clubs."
The following weekend, a set of left-handed clubs had materialized. Six weeks later my uncle came to the conclusion not only was I not right-handed, I wasn't left-handed either. My tennis instructor, my freshman year in college came to the same conclusion even more quickly than my uncle did.
So today, some 50 years after the schoolteacher asked my mother which hand I preferred to use, I still don't have an easy answer. It depends. At this point, clearly there are things I prefer to do with my right hand, and others with my left. I really can't say I'm ambidextrous. I have been dealing with psoriatic arthritis for the last 20 years, most predominantly in my hands. It behaves like a milder form of rheumatoid arthritis, with redness, pain and swelling that comes and goes. There are times I have to switch hands, given which finger or which wrist is flaring at the moment. No matter what, switching just feels awkward which is why I don't accept the label of ambidextrous.
Earlier this year someone gave me a desk calendar. You know the kind, with tear off sheets. I've had similar ones in the past, one year a sudoku puzzle every day, another year a Far Side cartoon. This year it's a left-handed calendar, chock-full of left-handed factoids. With my mental steel trap for trivia, I find some of them interesting.
I think I'll start posting "southpaw factoids".
My mother tells me that when I entered school (I'm not sure if it was kindergarten or the first grade), the teacher asked if I was right or left-handed, at the first parent-teacher conference. My mother's response? "I was hoping you were going to tell me."
When they tried to teach me how to write, the teacher found maddening. Now this, I do remember; it was Mrs. Blau, so that would make it the first grade. She had very clear ideas on how handwriting was supposed to look. Southpaws always wrote with a back handed slant. The paper was tilted one way for right-handed writers and the opposite way for left-handed. The first week we were being taught how to write cursive, the woman was at my desk every 5 minutes. A typical five-year-old, the pen kept moving from one hand to the other, when I decided it just didn't 'feel right', and because she was very clear that the slanted in one direction or the other was mandatory, my shifting the pen back and forth made the poor woman crazy. By the end of the week, she tied my left hand to the side of the desk. The die was cast. I was going to write with my right hand, come hell or high water. (I actually did learn to write with both hands. Writing on a horizontal surface is more comfortable with my right, on a vertical surface (i.e. a chalkboard) is more comfortable with my left.
My late uncle and godfather decided when I was a high school sophomore it was time for me to learn how to golf. Diligently I was there every Saturday and much to his chagrin, my progress was poor at best. Then he caught me in their kitchen slicing myself a piece of rye bread, the serrated knife where it usually was - my left hand. The light went off in uncle Morty's head.
"You're not right-handed! Why am I teaching you golf right-handed?"
"Um they're your clubs."
The following weekend, a set of left-handed clubs had materialized. Six weeks later my uncle came to the conclusion not only was I not right-handed, I wasn't left-handed either. My tennis instructor, my freshman year in college came to the same conclusion even more quickly than my uncle did.
So today, some 50 years after the schoolteacher asked my mother which hand I preferred to use, I still don't have an easy answer. It depends. At this point, clearly there are things I prefer to do with my right hand, and others with my left. I really can't say I'm ambidextrous. I have been dealing with psoriatic arthritis for the last 20 years, most predominantly in my hands. It behaves like a milder form of rheumatoid arthritis, with redness, pain and swelling that comes and goes. There are times I have to switch hands, given which finger or which wrist is flaring at the moment. No matter what, switching just feels awkward which is why I don't accept the label of ambidextrous.
Earlier this year someone gave me a desk calendar. You know the kind, with tear off sheets. I've had similar ones in the past, one year a sudoku puzzle every day, another year a Far Side cartoon. This year it's a left-handed calendar, chock-full of left-handed factoids. With my mental steel trap for trivia, I find some of them interesting.
I think I'll start posting "southpaw factoids".
