You Can Park in the Handicapped Spot

“Can you scoot over? I just can’t write comfortably if I sit next to some one who’s left handed.” Despite the initial rudeness that I experience every time I hear things like this, I am not surprised by my classmate’s request. What I thought was an interesting quark when I was little has turned against me over the years and become more of a disability then a show and tell subject. Being left handed now a days of course is no comparison to the slaughter of my people in the Middle Ages, but I like to think that my generation is still here to represent the plight of past south paws. When I hear the grunts of my peers who sit to my left, I oblige with out complaint to move the required two feet so they are comfortable, always thinking of my ancestors whom probably had to move two feet away while making fire in their caves. But who can really blame my right handed superiors; I’m lucky that I’m even allowed to go to the same school.
My “situation” is on my mind a lot when I think about my future. I dread the day when I apply for a job and my right handed superior is chosen over me.
“All right Ms. Ball, you’ve got the job. If you could just sign here- wait why are you holding the pen with your left hand? Are you left hand? Ya…forget signing; we’ll get back to you.”
I owe this to the fact that I believe that Americans don’t like change. Though my breed has been around since the beginning of civilization, it takes awhile to get used to something different. I get it, really, I do. But years from now, I dream of a country when a left hander and a right hander can join together in a perfect world, but maybe I’m just being ridiculous.
But disregarding my future, my present is a little cloudy. The usual "handiest" comments that come from my right handed classmates are something I can take, but my “disease” only starts to bother me when a teacher makes note it.
“As you can see here, Cuba was liberated in- oh my god, Alex your left handed?”
“ O, look at that, I guess I am,” I respond robotically.
“I had no idea; your parents didn’t mention anything at conferences.”
“Ya…they try to ignore it.”
I like to think that they only act this way to some how add excitement to the class by noticing my handicap, but I’m only kidding myself. I am reminded of the discrimination I receive at home when my teachers bring up my parents. One knows they are in trouble when their own father only allows them to sit at a certain place at the table so he can eat without having to knock elbows. I have yet to tell him that his snorting when he eats sounds like a whale in mating season, but I don’t like to point fingers.
One Christmas, I was given a left handed calendar with funny anecdotes about people who are south paws. It was supposed to be in jest; a gift from my right handed parents. And while they thought I would probably just throw it on my desk to be lost in the avalanche of papers, I studied that calendar; taking in the history of my peoples. For example: Mark Twain, Ronald Reagan, Leonardo Da Vinci? All left handed. Granted Da Vinci’s right hand was paralyzed, but hey, that left hand did some pretty good shit.
After reading about left handers of the past, I was becoming more and more confident in my special gift. I began to over exaggerate my arm space when writing in class, purposefully hitting elbows with the person next to me as if to say: I’m left handed, and damn it, I’m proud! It wasn’t until my neighbor physically moved my chair that my revolution was stifled but my passion wasn’t. From that moment on I used every chance I got to mention that I was left handed. When a teacher asked me to turn in my paper, I would respond: “ O this paper? The one that I typed but could have written with my left hand? Ya, no problem.”
I was on a rampage and was only knocked off my soap box when I found out that I wasn’t the only left handed person in the school, go figure. Eventually I learned to embrace this fact and am now comforted when I see a fellow underdog enter the class room and I know that it is at least two against fifteen.
I think my favorite thing about being left handed is the conversation that goes on after people find out that I am, indeed, different.
“ So, you’re like, left handed?” asks my new friend.
“ Ya, basically.”
“Could you, you know, write something with your right, just so I can see?”
“Sure…” I respond hesitantly.
I then proceed to pick up a pencil awkwardly with my right hand and write something that looks as if my lead threw up on the paper.
“ O my God! You’re a freak! Hey John, come look at this left hander!”
Normally, this would bother the usual person but I like to put on a show, give the kids something to talk about.
At the end of the day, I’ve come to face my “difference” with confidence and poise, now and again letting my insecurities get the best of me, but I like to think that I’ve matured. However, I still await the day when I proudly sit down at the table and bump elbows with my dad. When asked to move, I will calmly address his snorting, saying: “Hey, Shamu! Bite me!”