“Upside Down and Backward”
Not all writing instruments are created equal. Pens. Pencils. Magic Markers. Crayons. Chalk. A quill. I choose a pen of which there are innumerable candidates. Not all created equal. Fine line. Ballpoint. Fountain. Gel. Felt-tip. Rollerball. Fancy schmancy ones crafted out of gold, silver, and wood (cherry, maple, walnut, oak, bamboo, cocobolo. Bethlehem olive wood). Plastic, of course. Some slick, some with a rubber collar easier to hold and manipulate.
My pen of choice is a Pilot G-2 07. What does the combination of letter, numbers, and dash stand for? I have no idea. Something, I suppose, about the width of line rendered. My pen produces a line on the fine side of the thin - thick spectrum.
One thing about this pen of mine: it doesn’t fit me. It’s a right-handed pen. I’m a lefty. Each time I pick it up, it is plainly evident it is made by a right-o-centric writing world. As I write, the letters and numbers forming Pilot G-2-07 along the clip are upside down and backward, a reminder of my being a persecuted minority. Right is the norm. Left is abnormal.
In my third-grade class I was one of four lefties in a class of twenty. Steven S., Mike M., Pammy B., and me. When we wrote, our instrument of choice back then (mandated, really) was a thick blue pencil with no eraser. And when we practiced penmanship (Is that still taught or has it gone the way of cursive?), Mrs. Rorison would place a paper clip on the back of our left hands between our wrists and the crook formed by our thumbs and index fingers. If and when it fell off as we wrote, she would tap our hands with a ruler. Not hard, mind you, just a firm tap – her effort to call forth better pencil posture from us lefties. If we wouldn’t or couldn’t write right, we would write left right (or what was right for lefties according to her, anyway).
But I digress.
I choose a black, rubber wrapped, Pilot G-2-07 with which to write and have done so for decades. In my journal every morning. On the index card I carry throughout the day on which I scribble things said, done, or spotted that catch my attention – thoughts to ponder, ideas for future writing, sermon fodder. Whatever. My pen feels right to me (even in my left hand) gliding across the journal page, index card, scratch paper, legal pad, or napkin. Plus, it doesn’t leave a smudge on the curled-under middle, ring, and pinky fingers of my left hand that drag across my script as I push it from left to right.
The pen translates to paper the letters, numbers, and dashes that bear witness to my thoughts, much of which at first draft are as nonsensical as G-2-07. But give me time. I’ll decipher things – or try, anyway. The pen makes magic every now and then – for me, anyway. And Mrs. Rorison, long gone, remains hovering over my left shoulder, ruler in hand, watching for the invisible paper clip to fall.
