I think it was probably a week or so ago now that a colleague told me that handwriting has been taken out of the curriculum. When it sunk in, slowly, I began to feel more and more personally rejected by the world. The sense was growing in my chest that I wanted to cry. I called a mutual friend and left her a voice mail message, taking things to an extreme (as I usually do), I pronounced that all further communication between us would be carried on via smoke signal. Interesting that when this genteel form of communication was announced as dead, I went even more primitive.
I thought of the letters. Not letters of the alphabet, but the letters I have written in my lifetime. The letters that have gone from my hand or come to my hand. I thought of my grandmother's tiny, perfect words, and how in the long parade to the grave of people I have loved... how when they are gone, I have found scraps of their handwriting and held them dear. Tangible evidence of relationship; limited time only. I have loved, even, the fact that I could identify any scrap of paper found in all the homes or rooms I have packed up and cleaned out.
It, at the very least, felt like there is another parade going on. The parade away from my experience, my values, my treasures. Makes you want to put both your arms out in front of you and yell "STOP!!!" at oncoming traffic. Then plead, 'just wait a minute!" And finally beg "slow down...before you throw the baby out with the bathwater for the love of all things holy, consider...."
Consider what? That handwriting teaches patience. That handwriting teaches attention to detail. That handwriting is evidence of the human. No more pens? Well, for me, you might as well be saying "no more paintbrushes." Okay , fine, I'll call my friend up again. This time I will say "from now on... fingerpaints!" Again, you may note, I have gone primitive.
I start the mental leap-frogging: Primitive. Cave painting. Well, it's all the same to me. Take handwriting away and it feels like you should empty the museums and burn all the books, for nothing now could ever come to any good. It's all sacred, I think to myself, this house of cards. Take hold of one, grasp and pull, and watch it all crumble. I close my eyes, give a quick "what are ya gonna do?" nod to the universe and soldier on, but if I ever have anything to do with it.... If anyone ever asks me, I will say it has its place. And its place is in our hands.
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[Neolithic cave paintings found in Tassil-n-Ajjer
(Plateau of the Chasms) region of the Sahara]
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