A few weeks ago an article appeared on the front page of the San Jose Mercury News. And it’s bugged me ever since. The article was titled: “Cursive’s Days Numbered.” It stated that handwriting—as a subject taught in California schools and as a useful tool in navigating one’s life— is biting the dust.
Schools used to teach proper pencil grip, writing posture, and letter formation. But that “old fashioned” teaching fell by the wayside. Currently the State of CA mandates that handwriting be taught in third and fourth grades. But “by fifth grade the students switch to focus on composing and formatting MS Word documents.” UGH.
The article continues: “When a skill is not regularly practiced, educators say, students tend to revert to what they’re most comfortable with.” Which is not writing script, but PRINTING instead. In addition, not only are students shunning writing in longhand, they have trouble even READING it!
This is TERRIBLE news. High Tech wins out over High Touch. The idea of “machines” replacing the human hand once and for all is revolting. Handwriting is an expression of one’s personality—like the clothes you wear. Or the way you talk. It’s part of you. It says who you are.
I’ll even go one step further: Penmanship is an art.
Beautiful handwriting is like a beautiful painting. It’s nice to look at. It’s personal. It has meaning.
Why would the schools (and society for that matter) want to eliminate this? Because typing is faster? Faster isn’t always better. As the loss of penmanship goes, I fear the end altogether of personal correspondences written by hand. In the article, Amy Gibson, Fremont High School English teacher is quoted: “I think we’re seeing the end of pen-and-paper writing, and that makes me sad.”
That makes me sad, too, Ms. Gibson. I’ll never give up script writing nor personal letters sent via snail mail. You can call me a behind-the-times frump on that matter. That’s a title I gladly wear.
P.S. I think Ms. Joseph would agree with me, too. Her wonderful poem appeared in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
Elegy for the Personal Letter
by Allison Joseph
I miss the rumpled corners of correspondence,
the ink blots and crossouts that show
someone lives on the other end, a person
whose hands make errors, leave traces.
I miss fine stationary, its raised elegant
lettering prominent on creamy shades of ivory
or pearl grey. I even miss hasty notes
dashed off on notebook paper, edges
ragged as their scribbled messages—
can’t much write now—thinking of you.
When letters come now, they are formatted
by some distant computer, addressed
to Occupant or To the family living at—
meager greetings at best,
salutations made by committee.
Among the glossy catalogs
and one time only offers
the bills and invoices,
letters arrive so rarely now that I drop
all other mail to the floor when
an envelope arrives and the handwriting
is actual handwriting, the return address
somewhere I can locate on any map.
So seldom is it that letters come
That I stop everything else
to identify the scrawl that has come this far—
the twist and the whirl of the letters,
the loops of the numerals. I open
those envelopes first, forgetting
the claim of any other mail,
hoping for news I could not read
in any other way but this.
["Elegy for the Personal Letter" by Allison Joseph, from My Father's Kites. © Steel Toe Books, 2010. Reprinted with permission (for The Writer’s Almanac – and hopefully my blog, too?)]
My partner and I received a huge amount of pleasure from reading your blog posts. To return the favour, we believe that you will delight in this little quote – “A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882)