When Left is Right

I grew up left-handed in a family of righties.  I was not immediately recognized as “otherwise-abled” until I reached elementary school.   Well-adapted to the right-bias of my parents, I learned to wield a Crayola in my right hand, scribbling to color within the lines like a conforming, obedient child.  One day, my second grade teacher was watching me color a turkey drawing for Thanksgiving.  When I finished the large areas, I switched the Crayon to the other hand to finish the finer work.  She called my mother that evening in alarm.  “Your daughter is left-handed!” she cried.

Once you go left, you’re forever more deft.  Thus, my life began to flourish.  I became more artistic, and developed good penmanship—things that in those days won the favor of elementary school teachers.  These days, nothing short of solving quadratic equations raises the eyebrow of a second-grade teacher, but back then a student who could write a page of identical capital Gs could punch their own ticket.  My left-handed printing was so clear I was even allowed to copy assignments on the blackboard for all to see.

My mother tolerated my left-handedness, but only so far.  She explained that left-handed people were awkward, often turning their arms back on themselves to write.  She wanted me to conform rather than stand out; I was taught to hold my arm straight, pushing the pencil across the paper.  As a result, I was forced to lay my head on the desk to write, the only way possible to see what I was writing in a language that reads left-to-right.  This worked fine until I was placed in Mrs. Zigman’s fifth grade class.  This teacher demanded that her students use cartridge pens for all work except math.  I spent the entire year with smudged papers and the telltale stain of peacock-blue ink on the outside of my hand.

At the dinner table, left hand dominance was not tolerated.  My mother explained that it was inconvenient to have a lefty at the table.  I would have to eat right-handed for everyone else’s sake.  I was coordinated enough to manage at a young age, when my food was mostly cut up for me.  As I got older, my piano training helped me develop right-hand dexterity—allowing me to “pass” as “normal” at crowded holiday gatherings. 

It was wonderful when I was old enough to use a knife and fork.  For some reason, it was acceptable then to hold the fork upside-down in the left hand, using the right to saw the knife blade back and force.  Americans, however, have a habit of putting down the knife and switching the fork to the right hand, allowing them to resume eating properly with the tines pointing up.  I, however, found it more comfortable and logical to eat from the conveniently located inverted fork while continuing to grasp the knife in my right hand.  My mother called this barbaric, obviously disturbed by the ill-mannered girl who would never be ladylike enough for her taste.  I was saved by a visiting cousin who declared my behavior “European,” thus rendering my choice bulletproof for all time.

Still, in the absence of a steak, I was expected to eat the “right” way.  Then, around the age of thirteen, I badly sprained the middle finger of my right hand in gym class while attempting to spike a volleyball.  During our lunch break, a boy came up and said, “I know what to do for that.”  He grabbed me by this finger and pulled me all over the school.  When he finally let go, the sad finger was doubled in size and the pain was unbearable.   The doctor splinted the finger—giving me an interesting way to gesture back at that obnoxious boy—and told me not to use the hand for several weeks.  That night at dinner was the first time I was “allowed” to eat as a lefty at the dinner table.  It was so comfortable that I never went back.

There is a great deal of folklore about the evil of left-handedness.  In Latin, right is dexter while left is sinister.   As a child, my brother would hold up his dominant hand at me and declare: “This is the right hand to use, and the other is what’s left.”  If we are good we stay on the “right side of the law,” but when we are awkward we have “two left feet.”  Yet across history, lefties clearly rose to the top.  Alexander the Great, Julius Cesar, and Napoléon were all known to be left-handed.  Among recent presidents, left-handedness was prominent in both parties; Ronald Reagan, George Bush, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were/are all left-handed.  As were Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Raphael (and we’re not talking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles here). 

As a lefty, I have always found Michelangelo’s rendering of Creation from the Sistine Chapel to be especially pleasing to look at.  It is obvious that Michelangelo was left-handed by the way he drew Adam—his profile and his leg turned for easy access by the artist’s left hand.   Adam himself is depicted as a lefty, reaching out to receive the charge of life with his left hand.  Interestingly, the figure depicting G-d is not done in mirror image even though it is facing Adam.  Instead, G-d’s body lies in perfect parallel to Adam’s while only his head is turned back to face the human figure.  Around him, cherubs are splayed out in the same direction—all oriented to favor a left-handed artist.

Despite my mother’s fears and warnings to the contrary, I have never encountered any stigma because of my left-handedness.  On the other hand, there are many times when I am made aware of how right-biased the world is.  I have learned to use right-handed scissors with proficiency rather than paying unreasonable amounts for specialty shears.  I like to make a fuss when the signature pad at the checkout counter is in a fixed position, making it almost impossible to sign my name on the right-angled line.   I am mildly annoyed when my iphone becomes muted while I am speaking, caused by my face’s hitting buttons that would not be engaged if I held the phone to my other ear.  The keypad on my microwave would serve me better on the left side of the door.  I would love the stem on my watch to be next to the 9 instead of the 3.  And wouldn’t it be great if I could tighten a jar or a valve to the left?

There has been a lot of research on left-handedness.  From what I can understand, the appearance of left-dominance continues to further the nature vs. nurture debate.  I once asked my professor, E. O. Wilson, noted sociobiologist and naturalist, about the genetic pre-disposition of left-handedness.  He was fascinated by the “switched dominance” I appeared to demonstrate as I grew up, my complete lack of left-handed relatives, and my accomplished dexterity in both hands.  He wondered if I had suffered trauma, or if aggressive piano study had somehow reprogrammed my natural tendencies. 

As they say, “DNA doesn’t lie.”  Today I have two children who are similarly and curiously ambidextrous.  My son writes and plays hockey right-handed, but was a natural lefty at baseball—wearing the glove on his right hand.  At an early age, my husband trained him to bat right-handed as well.  We once put him in a batting cage; he hit an equally high percentage from both directions.  But when he pitched—and he had a mean little fastball—it was always with his left hand.

My daughter suffered a badly broken right index finger before the age of two.  She never held a fork or a pencil in her right hand—although for an artist, she has remarkably poor handwriting.  She played baseball as a young child and always wore a lefty’s glove.  But when she learned to figure skate, she performed her jumps and spins in the “right” direction.  And when she later gave up figure skating for fencing—a uniquely one-sided sport—she chose to hold her weapon in her right hand.

We lefties are one of the least organized and most silent minorities in society, accounting for something less than ten percent of the population.  But we always recognize each other easily, offering a wink or a nod and instant kinship to fellow left-oriented souls.  We are not afflicted; in fact, evidence indicates that we may have advantages as scientists, artists, and critical thinkers over those whose proclivities tend to the less interesting hand.  We may have been “left out” by others who are non-inclusive and narrow-minded, but in the end we have all of our “rights” as well as everything that is “left.”

Tomorrow's blog:  Just Joshing