It rarely happens anymore, but when it does, I freeze. Someone asks me to complete a form, sign a birthday card, or jot a note. Heaven forbid when a document requires my actual signature. My longhand is pretty much illegible to anyone but me. In school, my classmates never asked to borrow my notes more than once. It made sense to me, but when I looked at their elegant script, I hid my paper. I grew tired of losing exam points and experiencing the walk of shame to the teacher’s desk to explain that I had the correct answer.
I rejoiced when teachers required typed submissions since the font removed judgment and censor. Times New Roman masked my personality, and the personal secrets revealed in my script. My words stood on their merit, untainted by the reader’s assumptions and their inability to decipher my scrawl. The ink color, the angle…
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The Reluctant Poet 
Thank you for sharing. 🙏
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