Ode to Cursive

My first night of graduate school classes went pretty smoothly until a bunch of us were chosen to write our thoughts up on the board. Happy to oblige, I hopped up, grabbed the dry erase marker, and scribbled away with confidence. The first to sit back down, I scanned the long expanse of white board before me. Each student was writing her answer in a clear and bubbly printed hand. I had reflexively, and perhaps mistakenly, written mine in cursive. It was speedy and looked lovely, but it was in script. Could my classmates decipher this strange code? Would my professor think it was Cyrillic?

Weeks before a friend had challenged me to come up with an argument for keeping cursive taught in schools. He’s among an increasing group of cursive detractors who think it’s a waste of valuable time. I was shocked and heartbroken but supposed I could see his argument. Like so many of the seemingly irrefutable bedrocks of my life thus far (cobblers, record stores, The New York Times, books) cursive was ebbing at a maddening pace. As I began my rebuttal, he cut me off at the knees saying, “And you can’t use speed or aesthetics.”

The most rational argument I could come up with was that all Americans should be able to read the Declaration of Independence in its original hand. A bit dry, I know, and flag-waving to be sure, but that was all I could muster at the time. Later on, while putting my favorite brand of black ink pen to a sheet of specially chosen stationery to write a thank-you note, I had another thought. As I wrote in fluid script I focused on the act of joining letters together without lifting my pen from the paper. I paid attention to the experience and how it felt. I thought about a tennis player’s serve and a pitcher’s seamless pitch. I pictured the visual legato of the pole-vaulter’s flight, the painter’s brushstroke and cellist’s steady bow. I considered how they all relied on interconnected movements, whole unto themselves; streams of energy which course through the body then release in a smooth, unbroken flow.

Then I thought of printing and of the resulting block letters that tell a different story entirely; have a different relationship to the body and its noble staccato slog towards communication. I have nothing against printing’s pursuits. Where would we be without our ability to tourniquet our energy then let it out, piecemeal, in short steady bursts; to chop vegetables or jump rope; to clap or strike keys? The tennis player needs his net game as much as a toddler needs to whack at trees with a stick. But baking and cooking can’t happen without kneading and stirring. And if you’ve ever surfed the wind with your hand out the car window during an afternoon’s autumn drive then you might agree that flow is imperative to our human nature’s ability to release the energy that manifests joy. Just ask any baseball player. Or dancer. Or kid.

So, can’t we hang on to both? I relish bouncing off the walls to The Ramones as much as gliding across the floor to Tommy Dorsey. There is a time and place for a lingering kiss just as there is for a quick, friendly peck. Imagine if we had to choose only one. My argument for cursive is simple yet elusive; it’s unquantifiable and can’t be market tested. It goes against the monolith of rational thought and calls upon the ocean’s tides, calligraphy and Bach. My argument for cursive is one of the tenets of human expression. My argument for cursive is flow.

Showdown

Recently I was finishing up a post and my son, who wanted me to play pirate with him said, "Mommy, what are you doing?"
"I'm writing," I said.
Without blinking an eye he said, "But, Mommy, writing's not important."

I looked over at him. I remained calm.

Leave it to a four year old to get at the heart of my twenty-five year old internal struggle as if he's adding grapes to a grocery list. Not, "Mom, I think you should sit down for this. What I'm about to tell you may rock your world and render you emotionally and spiritually bereft, not to mention creatively neutered. Are you ready Mom? Are you sitting? Can I get you a sedative?" But no.

So I said, "Writing's important to me." I tried to sound authoritative when I said 'to me,' like I imagine I would sound if I were a judge.

He countered as if stating the obvious, "But it's not important." He stressed the word 'important' like a smartass D.A. addressing the jury. His jury.

I squared my shoulders, shifted in my chair and looked down directly into his cruel eyes. "Writing is important to me because I love to write," I said.

He looked blankly at the computer screen, unable to read, unable to write, unable to see my heart crushing in upon itself like a palm-sized ball of aluminum foil. I continued, "If you love to do something, then it's important to you. You love to build spaceships with Legos, and so that's important to you. I love to write, so that's important to me."

This time he paused. "Mommy, can we just play pirate?"

I sighed. Sure, kid.