Purpose: This essay shall tell the reader about the most memorable experience I had during a time during my childhood when I was learning how to write. It was one of the most difficult and painful times that I connect with my early attempts of learning my school lessons while at home.
Audience: Through this essay, I hope to reach the parents of children who are about to learn or are already learning how to write. Throughout the essay, I found myself extensively explaining the emotions I was feeling as I struggled to accomplish the task that lay before me.
Format: Narrative and chronological.
Summary: Depicts a fictional account of what happened one Saturday afternoon when my parents had left me with my aunt while they went to work. She was given the task of helping me learn how to write my full name for school as this was part of my prep school writing homework.
Learning To Write
That Saturday morning began just like any other for me. I woke up around 10 AM. to the smell of my mother cooking my favorite breakfast. She called the pancake surrounded b strawberry slices all around, and topped with 3 blueberries in the form of eyes and a nose, sprinkled with maple syrup in the shape of combed hair Happy Cakes. It was a treat I got every Saturday morning because of all the hard work I put into my school work all week.
Schoolwork that week included writing classes. My class was already finished learning the basic shapes that created the letters in the American alphabet and we were now being taught how to write our names in print. I was still struggling with my writing skills at the time because I was a left handed child being forced to use my right hand for my activities. Mom knew about my problems and empathized with my plight. I had no problem writing my name with my left hand but my teacher had called her in and insisted that something was wrong with me because I could not write with my right hand. I was not normal in her opinion and I had to be re-educated by my mom to use only my right hand. After all, the world is a right hand dominated place.
“Hey there Nippy!” my dad kissed me on the head before taking his seat at the breakfast table. “How’s my little angel doing today?”
“Happy face cake day daddy!” I greeted him as I dunked the pancake that was on the tip of my fork into my glass of chocolate milk.
Mom put down a plate of ordinary pancakes and syrup infront of him before turning to speak to me.
“Daddy and I have to go to work today sweetie. So Auntie Gene will come stay with you until we get home. ”
I felt a cold sweat come over me when I heard my mother utter the name. Even though Auntie Gene was my mom’s sister and I should love her, I feared her because she was a real meanie when it came to kids. Maybe because she was a spinster who was disgruntled with her life. Maybe she really could not stand kids. I wished my mom would have left me at day care instead that day.
She arrived soon after I had finished my breakfast and mom and dad were just about ready to head out the door. A towering and imposing figure of an elderly woman, she looked like she was ready to bark at me like a mad dog.
“He has to learn to write his name with his right hand sis. Make sure he practices and hopefully, is able to write with the hand by the time we get home. If you need to reach us, our cellphone number is posted in the fridge. There are pencils and lots of scratch paper in the work table in the kitchen. We will be home by six.” mom instructed Aunt Gene as she and dad walked off the porch and into the car that was in the driveway.
“Mommy don’t go!” I hugged my mom’s legs as I begged her to not leave me with the old meanie.
“Auntie will take good care of you care bear.” Mom tried to reassure me as she untangled my arms from her legs. “We will be home before you know it.”
“Try not to be mean to my kid ok? He is only a child.” she pleaded with her sister. “You know I would not have asked you if we could afford day care.”
We stood there waving at the car as they pulled away. I ran into the house and up into my room. My mind was telling me that I would be safe in my room. But when I heard the booming voice downstairs, I knew I had to come down and follow orders. The last thing I wanted was to make Aunt Gene mad.
She had the pencils and stack of paper all set up on the dining table when I reached the kitchen. “Get to work!” she barked at me. “Don’t bother me now. I am going to watch my soap. Do not let me catch you using your left hand or else.” I swear I thought fire would come out like a torch through her nostrils.
“Yes auntie.” I replied meekly. I turned to the writing materials and began to work. I heard the TV go on in the next room. If I was lucky, she would not come back in till lunch.
I tried writing with my right hand for as long as I could but the letters just did not come out right. Nothing looked the way it was supposed to and I was afraid of what would happen if the old meanie was not pleased with what I produced. She managed to creep up behind me and look over my shoulder as I struggled to control the pencil in my hand.
“What in the blazes is that!” she stole the paper from under my pen and shook it at my face. “You call that writing? What are you an imbecile?”
She parked herself on the seat next to my right hand and took a painful grip of my hand. “This is how you write the letter B!” She shouted into my ear as the blood flow to my hand got cut off while she guided me in the motion of writing the letter. “Your mother is a useless idiot if she can’t even teach you how to write.”
The berating guidance continued for over an hour. I was gripped with fear all the time as I recall. I wanted my mother’s soothing and loving voice throughout the whole ordeal. However, Aunt Gene must have been doing something right. After an hour of her holding my hand as I traced over the capitalized and small letters she had written in her own hand, My right had seemed to finally learn what to do. Slowly, she relaxed her grip on my hand and hovered like an eagle ready to attack if I lost control. She even had me eating lunch as I wrote. She refused to let me rest from my lessons and kept adding words for me to learn to write with my right hand. Eventually, I noticed that writing seemed to finally come as naturally to my right hand as it did my left hand.
By the time mom and dad got home, I could write more than just my name with my right hand.
Mom! Dad ! Look!” I called out to them when they walked into the kitchen that night. I picked up the pencil and wrote out all the words that I learned that day. Using my right hand. Aunt Gene looked upon me with pride in her eyes. Somehow, I think that was her way of showing me that she loved me. She never did know how to show emotion.
So, as much as I hated Aunt Gene for being mean to me all the time I knew her, I owe her for threatening my right hand into learning how to write. She is the reason why I am ambidextrous at present.