Patterns

The patterns above are how I learned to write. It was at a British primary school in Madrid in the early sixties—somebody must have heard of Alfred Fairbanks or something. We had to trace the patterns in pencil. Nobody made sure we did it right, like downstrokes instead of up or right strokes instead of left, or that we held the pencil lightly. Everyone’s handwriting turned out terribly, including mine (I’m an adult convert to Italic).

Across from me at the squat formica’d table was a girl who struggled more than everyone else. She had a huge head and her tongue was always in sight. I forget her name—I’ll call her Julia—but I can’t forget the way she smelled or the creative mess she made of her tracing paper.

Statistically, Julia is long dead, victim of an extra chromosome and a culture ill-equipped to deal with her. I hope she felt at least some connection with the little folks at her red formica table that ay as we all pushed graphite around more or less haphazardly. Some of us got a second chance…