The first thing I noticed about my high school boyfriend was the tortured posture he adopted while writing. I sat next to him in Latin class, and when he took notes, he hunched over in his seat, right arm curled over the top of his paper, approaching the left side of the page almost upside-down. Later when I got to know him I asked him why he sat like that, and he told me that he had been a natural lefty, but his parents forced him to switch to dextro from sinistro, because, you know. The left hand is the devil’s hand.
Unfortunately, this coercion was not uncommon practice in the rural parts of that Pennsylvania county, fifty miles northeast of Philadelphia, just down the road from Medieval Times (the period, not the theme restaurant). Since my boyfriend’s parents were already correcting his toddler self for the grave fault of being differently-handed, you can imagine how they reacted later on to his atheism and recreational drug use. Good times!
I think of that sometimes when I see Aitch writing his letters. He’s been left-handed ever since he learned to hold a spoon. The doctor told us that children often switch hands, but his left-preference has never wavered. That didn’t surprise me, though, because somehow he just feels like a lefty. He’s never been a traditional learner. He’s never hit a cognitive milestone on time: he didn’t wave bye-bye, play “so-big,” use signs, put two words together, use pronouns, etc. at the designated timepoints. He’s not a typical visual learner, and he isn’t necessarily auditory either; his style is more social/experiential. He dislikes being taught and really has to arrive at a solution in his own way. His approach has always been oblique, but it gets him there. What other five-year-old is so accomplished at complimenting women on their pedicures?
Minor, on the other hand, was completely neurotypical. It wasn’t until we had him that I realized how oddl Aitch had been. Minor learns by observing and imitating, like most kids. He doesn’t plug up his ears if he suspects you’re trying to teach him something; he loves to try new things. So I was surprised when he, too, turned out to be a lefty. His preference never seemed to be as marked as his brother’s. Minor would, for example, hold his fork with his left hand, but pick up odd bits of food with his right. We called him “Ambrosedextrous,” but whether it was that or pure slovenliness, I can’t say. For awhile I was convinced that he was just using his left hand in imitation of Aitch. But now he seems to be favoring his left the majority of the time, and when he plays soccer he naturally kicks left.
Husband and I are tickled at the thought of having two lefties. I’m not sure why. I suppose we’ve bought into the notion that lefties are more intellectual and artistic. Maybe we just appreciate the slim odds of two southpaws, especially since they aren’t even genetically related. I mean, how lucky are we? Two kids with the devil in ‘em!
BTW, if the post title reminds you of a certain television story arc circa 1980, I offer my kudos on your misspent youth.