Once a Leftie,

It must be noted that I am not at all talking about my political leaning. While I consider myself being mostly apolitical, I still cannot bring myself to trust someone with an overpowering gift of gab. Like a magazine, everyone can talk – I just want see substance underneath all the glossy cover.

Here my preoccupation lies in knowing very late in life that I am lefthanded. Correction, I was lefthanded. All the while, I don’t have any inkling as to this fantastic discovery because the thought had never presented itself to cross my mind. Recently however, a series of events provided that pivotal moment of epiphany that led me to question the opaque truth.

First, I observe Sadia’s natural inclination to use her left hand for play and eating. I had even inquired my husband if there is any leftie in his side of the family. He replied in the negative and knowing how observant he is, I could then narrow the search to my side of the family.

Secondly, the knee injury that I had sustained in early July confounded my familiar sensations and subsequently confirmed my suspicion, lying latent in the deep recesses of my mind. I have always handled Sadia with my left hand. If she falls asleep in my arms, I’d always position her with her head nestling comfortably within the crook of my left arm. I carry her with much ease utilizing the left part of my body – shoulder, hand and arm.

Also, the tendency to use my left hand for mundane tasks like picking up items, texting on the cell, and drinking offers an obvious hint to this innate ability.

Indeed, the tell-tale signs were nagging me since Sadia’s arrival but I never gave this possibility much thought. It was just like background noise. Until of course, the fated injury.

While the husband was away on business in mid-July and we – Sadia and I – stayed ay my parents’ place, I casually slipped in the question to my mother during one of our normal chats. “Ma, was I lefthanded?” Her emphatic Yes didn’t come as a surprise. In fact, it seems like I had fully anticipated the answer. It merely affirmed that long-held (yet dormant) belief that I was born a leftie.

I asked her the reason behind her conditioning me to be a rightie. She explained that she was afraid that I might have problems with eating and ‘cleansing’. Looking at her guilt-stricken face, I know she meant well and for the life of me, I’d not hold her accountable for the ‘handy’ change.

Now, at least, it makes perfect sense why my handwriting is so atrocious and looks beyond legible. If you get the chance to see my paper scribbling, you would definitely think you are looking at a doctor’s illegible nonsense – you know, the one you would normally see when the doc writes down your prescription.

I can vividly recall how bad my handwriting was in secondary (high) school when my Form teacher called me aside and advised me to improve my script lest it would be held against me in the exams, particularly the SPM! After that, I took extra precaution, not to mention effort, to write more neatly and unhurriedly during the examinations. While it worked for SPM for the most part, my barely readable scrawl must have shared the blame for my poor results in the 1119 exam.

I remember the pressure to complete the darn paper within a strict time constraint and how my handwriting suffered from the very ordeal. I bet the Briton-based marker wasn’t too pleased to see the ‘chicken scratches’ littering the answer sheet! If 1119 is a reliable indicator of one’s mastery of English, I must say I’m utterly doomed.

The closest person who can fathom my doctor-like scribbles is none other than my husband. There were however countless occasions that both of us couldn’t make sense what I had written less than 12 hours before! How funny and embarrassing at the same time.

With the full knowledge of my leftie imprints, so to speak, I am now at peace with my handwriting. Now I know why my twin sister writes neatly and almost typewritten-like whereas I struggle to a level of comprehension. To be sure, I do write relatively neatly if I pace myself and take the extra effort. But with my ‘unnatural’ right hand, patience gives way to clarity of thought and passion trumps over impassiveness.

Befittingly, I celebrate my scrawl by jotting these thoughts the old-fashioned way – with a hand-held instrument – that is strongly advocated in some literary circles. They say it pools one’s imagination into the safety net of papyrus, thus liberating oneself from the shackles of electronic persuasion.

While the jury is still out on that suggestion, I do relish using this paper medium which has seen me at my best and my worst.