A Lefty's Lament

Lookit.
When I first made this blog I thought that the title, "A Lefty's Lament" was just something clever and maybe funny. Alliteration, and what have you. But this past Sunday I had a maddening (though not new) experience that made me realize: There IS a lamentation to be expressed for being a lefty! So here I am, lamenting. My plight, my curse, my gift...my hand orientation.
My mom was making meatloaf cupcakes (precious, I know. Rachael Ray, how would we survive without you?!) for dinner on Sunday and she asked me to portion out the uncooked meat into the cupcake tin to be baked in the oven. "Use this," she suggested as she handed me an ice cream scoop. Well that is a really handy tool when you're making meatloaf cupcakes, indeed, but the conflict between the tool and its wielder was quickly apparent when my left thumb jabbed at the air for a few seconds, searching for the lever that shoved the raw meat out of the scoop. "DO YOU SEE THIS?!" I demanded of the occupants of the kitchen. "DO YOU SEE THIS INJUSTICE?!" Perhaps overly dramatic in volume and tone, but the rhetorical question will ring true for the rest of eternity. I, in my righteous desires to help my mother make her deliciously adorable meatloaf cupcakes was denied, rejected and ridiculed. Where was the lever my thumb so hopelessly searched for? On the opposite side, placed perfectly for the use of the right hand. What kind of prejudice, hate filled world do we live in?
Come back with me:
My career at Ralph Dunlap Elementary spanned from 1994 to about the year 2000 or so. I vividly remember my happy days there. But even the joy and carefree days of my childhood were not free of left-handed prejudice. In one particular classroom, Mrs. Smilie, second grade, all of the scissors were kept in an empty coffee can on a shelf in the front of the class. Whenever we were going to do any sort of arts and crafts, all of us rambunctious little kids would scramble up to the supplies to get tape, glue, markers, scissors, etc. I would happily gather all the required tools, but look with dread at the scissors container. I could see all the other children nonchalantly grabbing the brightly colored, soft, plastic handled Crayola scissors. Now imagine that moment in a horror flick when someone is about to go into a room we all know they shouldn't. You know how the music gets really intense and it slowly zooms in on the doorknob, alternating between the dummy about to open it and the doorknob? So picture an 8 year old me, the creepy intense music playing. Alternate between my eyes full of dread and the rusty old coffee can that holds my fate. That moment when the music spikes and the door is flung open is equivalent to when I would see what scissors remained in that old coffee can. The dreaded rusty, too small, completely dull, useless, totally uncomfortable, all metal LEFT HANDED SCISSORS. "Oh, perfect, Samantha! Scissors just for you!" my teacher beamed as she handed me the old machetes. I hated those scissors, and I looked on spitefully as the other children cut happily away with ease. Defective, inferior scissors? Soon they would build me a second bathroom, of this I was sure.

In fifth grade my teacher tried to make me hold my pen or pencil a different way because as I wrote, my hand dragged and smeared all my words. Leaving my writing completely illegible, and lead and ink rubbed all over the side of my hand. Writing on a whiteboard was useless, the words were smudged and erased almost simultaneously as I wrote!
Forever will I be banished the the corner of the dinner table, as to not be a nuisance to those using their right hands to eat. No one enjoys knocking elbows with me.
I could lament for days over can openers. Can openers can take a long walk off a short bridge as far as I'm concerned.
I don't believe the shock in peoples' voices will ever fade when they realize, completely baffled, "Dude, Samantha, you're left handed??" I oughtta join the circus, I tell yah. I can't help but think of The Joker's sentiment: You're just a freak...like me!
I dedicate this post to all the brave men and women out there blessed with the curse of being left handed. We will prevail, and this world will one day learn enough decency to create common utensils and appliances for ALL people! We will not be second class citizens! We will not die younger! May we unite and with one voice, declare to all those who suppress us, "Although we are left handed, we are ALWAYS RIGHT!"

The Hummingbird

I was laying on my grandma's ultra comfy leather couch the other day, staring out the window. There is a humming bird feeder hanging there on the awning, and I was pleased when one of the funny little birds came for a drink of the sugar water. As I was watching the tiny little bird enjoy a drink, a huge robin, probably 4 times the size of the hummingbird, barreled down onto the feeder, scaring away the hummingbird I was contently observing. The Robin was clearly confused; mistaking the hummingbird feeder full of sugar water for an all birds in general feeder, which I'm sure he was hoping was full of sunflower seeds and other nuts. He was brutish in his approach, appearing to me a bully of sorts over the petite hummingbird. The Robin almost had an air of jealousy, scaring away the other tiny bird to have the food that was being enjoyed by another. It made me wonder: how often are we like the Robin? Jealous or sneering at someone who seems to have what we want, or a better life in general. I wouldn't call myself a spiteful, jealous or covetous person, but we all have the Facebook friend or person we're following on Instagram who somehow has an endless amount of posts and pictures about themselves and their beautiful spouse/car/baby/house/clothes/face. Maybe the Robin was confused, and simply mistook the feeder for one that appealed to him. Once the Robin made his descent on the hummingbird's lunch, he may have been embarrassed at his folly, and flew off apologetically for interrupting. Or maybe he knew full well what was going on on that feeder with the hummingbird, and out of jealousy he landed with a jolt. But surely once he landed, he realized that this was not what he had hoped for, and really never what he wanted at all. Really that presumptuous Robin should just learn to be happy with what he's got, and to be happy for those around him and the lucky things they have in their lives, like a giant feeder full of sugar water. Something incredibly fortunate for the hummingbird, and completely irrelevant for the Robin.
"It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." and being happy for others who, from afar, supposedly have what you "want," I would add. Hummingbirds and Robins are both really pretty birds.

last night

The front tires of the corolla barely cleared the curb with the abrupt, wide left turn. I had been driving slow, debating taking the detour into the neighborhood whose streets formed a perfect figure eight. The sudden left turn surprised me as much as it did the poor vehicle, and we both continued slowly down the street. I mused at the sight of my old neighbors’ houses, their same cars in the driveways, one house with their porch light perpetually on, shining into the street. The headlights guiding me caught just the right angle of the reflective letters on a mailbox. The bright letters shining, “HOME” right at me made my heart twinge a little bit. As I rounded the top of the eight, my foot found the brake pedal as my eyes squinted at one house in particular, which had no lights on at all, which was to be expected. For a flash of a moment, though, in my mind’s eye, the windows of the old house glowed warmly as I approached. The driveway was overflowing with cars of friends of family and friends, double and triple parked there. I nearly came to a stop when I was sure I could see my brother in the window, pounding the old family piano tuneless with his ballads. I blinked hard at that awful tingling feeling of oncoming tears I always felt in my temples. And with the refusal of my own tears, the house was dark and vacant as ever. I barely caught the sight of a piece of paper taped to the front door, and of course the ugly metal framed sign the realtor had stabbed in the yard only a few weeks prior. The words FOR SALE seemed to be in neon tonight, flashing hopelessly into my eyes. I wondered for a moment about what the paper on the front door might say, something about vacancy and eviction, I speculated. But the thought was quickly dismissed, realizing I’d rather not know what heart wrenchingly general things the paper may say. Did it mention the heartache of a family who once called this place a home? Did it mention the ruthlessness of lawyers and judges who shrugged at a desperate man and woman, pleading for mercy but finding none? Surely it said nothing of the weeks of packing up 20 years of life and memories into filthy cardboard boxes, and the somberness with which they were packed. I knew as I drove away from that place that the notice on the door mentioned none of those things, and that potentials buyers and realtors would never know of how this house became abandoned. Those things were personal, lived by a husband, wife and children doing their best with the hand they had been dealt. When it comes to the world, money and business, there is no mercy to be exercised. And I suppose that before this whole ordeal, had I been a lawyer in some other life, I’m sure I’d pull someone’s home out from under them as well, to get my paycheck at the end of the week. But it’s only until you’re the one filling up truckload after truckload full to the brim with your life that you think, man, a little mercy could go a long way.

My eyes were wide and wandering, one arm on the steering wheel and the other stiff at my side. I fought again the tingle of tears as I mindlessly rounded out of the figure eight back onto the main road, a route which I had driven countless number of times before. The only thought I could manage echoed in my skull as I left the house behind me: Why on earth did I ever come back here?