I used to dread the day whenever an assignment was due. Mainly because of two reasons, one because I had shifted schools and was unhappy with my school so much that I refused, simply refused â€“ to study, to do homework and all the other routine schoolkid chores, and the second reason was my handwriting â€“ to come right to the point, it was pathetic.
My mother has an absolutely beautiful script and I always love to read whatever she writes, so much so that I always relate the word calligraphy to her handwriting. She was popular in her office for her beautiful handwriting and everyone knew her by the curves and the loops in her alphabets. Now, to this lady is born Me, whose notebooks look like ants dipped in a bottle of ink have scurried about. It was pathetic, and embarrassing.
In my 7th standard began my redemption. There came a teacher who taught something I liked, who spoke things I loved, and who cared for even unruly kids like me. No prizes for guessing what she taught. Yeah, English.
What happened later I do not know, but I do know the end result. I changed, my handwriting changed, yeah it actually began to look decent. What I did not know was, my handwriting began to look like hers, I copied her style unknowingly so much so that even she remarked once that I wrote exactly like her, the dots on the iâ€™s and the jâ€™s, the loops of the fâ€™s and the gâ€™s, all of it.
But then, as I grew up and my school-life progressed, my handwriting continued to evolve. Every year, there would be a teacher who would inspire me, move me or touch me in ways no other teacher had, and every time a teacher like that crossed my path, I took something from them, rather they passed on a bit of themselves to me. It has mostly been in the form of handwriting for me, and now when I think of it, they have always been English teachers.
Today, I like my handwriting. It may not be very pretty, but its legible and I do get positive feedback about my script. But my reasons are different, for me, it is a symbol of those great teachers who have touched me, and moulded me into what I am today.
Is there a story to your handwriting? I would love to hear it.
As I was reading Meenaâ€™s post today on how a teacher helped improve her handwriting, I was reminded of my own story, and hence this post. Donâ€™t listen to her if she says hers is not a pretty one, ask me, I love it. Absolutely. But donâ€™t tell her that I love it all the more because it resembles mine a lot.