Winnifred Smith, I Salute You
It's the first day of a new school year. Even though I haven't taught for thirteen years, I still get a little nostalgic for the classroom on the first day. This year it's on my mind even more, because today marks the first day of grade one for my grandson, Brock. Having been to school for two years already (junior & senior kindergarten), Brock is a veteran of the educational system, but grade one is different. That's the end of sandbox and water table, and the official beginning of formal education. Though Brock already knows his alphabet and numbers and can write his name, draw pictures, and listen quietly to stories, this year he'll learn to read, and that means he might stop disliking Grandma's books because they don't have any pictures. I'm not sure if Brock is excited, but I certainly am.
As I was when I started grade one. I so wanted to learn to read. It was like magic to me -- all those strange symbols. I was finally going to learn what they meant and no longer have to rely on my parents and older sister to interpret them for me. Finally I would be able to read for myself, and I could hardly wait.
Well, reading was everything I hoped it would be -- and more. My grade one teacher was Miss Winnifred Smith. At the time she must have been in her sixties -- she had white, white, wavy shoulder length hair that she wore pulled back from her face with barrettes. And that is all I remember about her -- except that she taught me to read. She also taught me arithmetic and social studies and all the other subjects that were part of the curriculum, but it is the reading I am most grateful for. Once I learned to read, the world opened up for me, and I haven't looked back since.
The other thing I remember Miss Smith teaching me was how to write. That may not seem like a big deal to most people -- after all, everybody learns to write. But for us left-handers, writing poses a bit of a challenge, because writing is a right-handed invention. In our culture, writing moves across the page from left to right, so for most people that means their hand always preceeds what they are writing. They pull the writing across the page. Left-handers, on the other hand, (oh, a pun! and it's only 6 in the morning) have to push the writing. Not only is that hard to do, but when you use a pen (especially a fountain pen!) you are forever pushing your hand through wet ink. That is why many left-handers twist their hand when they write. By doing that, they are able to pull the writing and avoid smudges. The result is a reverse-slant backhand. It's legible but not very attractive.
Miss Smith, however, taught me a way to write that got around all those pitfalls. (Clearly, I was not the first left-handed student she had ever taught.) By simply showing me how to slant my paper in the opposite direction to what right-handers would do, I was able to pull my writing without twisting my hand. My paper is angled so much that it looks like I'm writing down the paper instead of across it, but the method works, and if you only saw the finished product, you would never know it was the work of a left-hander.
So here's to you, Miss Smith. You taught me two skills that have shaped my life. I hope my grandson is lucky enough to have a Miss Smith like you, because he's left-handed too.