You steadied my chubby hands as I wrote, carefully distinguishing each block letter. You guided my pencil to make sure that I could hold it with a perfect grip. You gave me stern reminders not to slouch while writing; that it was an age old practice that deserves respect. Week after week, I memorized the letters, just as I learned to sit up straight. I learned when to pick my pencil up and how not to smudge the graphite while writing quickly. I was so excited that I would know how to write before everyone in my class. I used a ruler in the beginning, without your knowledge, to make my lines look straight. The ruler met my hands with a smack soon after you found out.
After I could write without looking at the letter guide, you berated me for not knowing how to space out my letters evenly. After I learned spacing, you called my pencil grip an insult to evolution. When I got blisters from writing so much and begged you for a break, you told me that unless I made sacrifices, I would never get anything in life. So I wrote. It didn’t matter which teacher called my printing beautiful, it had to be up to your standards.
But it still wasn’t enough for you. After I learned printing, you made me learn how to join letters together in cursive. You made me practice drawing uniform circles and ovals every day so that every word looked even. You taught me how to make my letters slimmer and neater, how not to pick my pencil up at all. You made me work on making sure that all of my words were the same height. It was a disgrace that I had to use lined paper; I had to be able to write without looking at it all.
Day after day and page after page of practice, I thought that my handwriting had finally improved. But you didn’t think so. You pushed me, saying that I had the potential to write neater than type. I fought back, saying that my handwriting was neat, just not good enough for you.
After I moved away, every letter and card that I sent you was met with remarks of how my handwriting was deteriorating. I tried my best with every letter and punctuation mark, but you always had something to say. I admire the clarity of my handwriting and am thankful for your early intervention. But I am left wondering, did we take it too far? I received every award for my penmanship, and I always gave you credit, hopeful for appreciation which I never received.
Now, I try to steady your hand, guiding your pen as you sign. You cast me glances of hatred as my hand shakes, but we both know that this is best for you. I feel a salty tear well in my eye, the kind that you told me would smudge my ink into illegible hieroglyphics. How did we get here? I wish that it could be different. I wonder whether I could have done more, but I know that I tried my best.
You will have fun at the care center. You can meet people your own age. I sign my name at the bottom of the form, relinquishing my rights to be your caretaker. Your eyes meet mine once more, desperate to know why I’ve done this.
I whisper, “You’ll never have to look at my handwriting again.”
Ananya Mandrekar is from New Jersey and is a freshman in high school. Her work has previously won at the Scholastic Arts & Writing Contest amongst others, and has been published in many different literary magazines, including the Milking Cat, Young Writers, and Teen Ink.