Cursive Practice
This is an excerpt from a “life journey” paper that was due early last week. Yes, I’m doing it right now. Shut up.
Childhood is the only time no one should expect anything from you. Except they do. I remember in elementary school only wanting to write silly little stories – the kind of imaginative, pencil-written, quick-to-climax-and-resolution tales that kids like to write. I remember getting yelled at for writing a story about fairies kidnapping children during a lesson I remember as “cursive practice.” Upon review of the story (found years later in a dusty box of field day treasures and favorite books with tattered covers), if the teacher had taken a look at what I was writing it would have punched me a ticket down to the school psychologist who would have asked if I was deranged. The teacher wagged her finger and told me I was expected to pay attention to the lesson on cursive, even though I was writing in cursive. I remember the teacher in her teacher-dress and teacher-shoes telling me with her stern teacher-voice I was going to need to write in cursive all the time when I was older. She was a liar. Just like every other teacher who told me I was going to need all the skills I learned in their class. If I ever have to figure out how to multiply matrices using some equation named after a dead guy, I will sincerely apologize. I haven’t so far, and I don’t expect to anytime in the near future.
