Yesterday I wrote about some of my experiences as a Catholic school girl. Today I’m relating another of those experiences. I’ve always prided myself on my handwriting – it’s unique, virtually illegible, and very me. I learned how to write in cursive in the second grade. I remember having those lined tablets with humongous lines for writing practice.
When I learned cursive, I couldn’t wait to start perfecting my signature and personal way of writing. I toyed with different versions of my signature for years before it became what it is today. I’ve always written hastily, resulting in quite a few people commenting that my handwriting, especially my signature, looks like ‘doctor writing’.
I’m almost rebellious when it comes to writing. I spent so many years defying the hateful nun, who was the principal at my grade school, by ignoring her handwriting tips, that my writing became almost ridiculous. I still have to focus really hard to write legibly, even when I print.
I began to defy the nun’s orders when she jerked me out of class – in the second grade – and made me sit alone in the cafeteria, practicing my cursive D’s, preferably until she was satisfied with my effort, according to her. I recall actively thinking that I was going to write my D’s however I wanted to, regardless of the nun’s instructions.
I recall the nun leaving me alone for stretches of time and then coming over to me with her fake smile to check my progress. She advised me on exactly how my D’s should look each time. I continued to write them quickly and how I wanted to. Finally, after probably thirty minutes of her attempting to force me to write the perfect cursive D, the nun gave up, sent me back to class, and never harassed me about my handwriting again.