Hardly a day passes that I don’t encounter a reminder to be “brave enough” to exhibit my uniqueness and that “different is good.” And true to my nature that just can’t seem to let things lie without examining them from every possible angle first, I think about the degree to which we are allowed to be “unique” and “different” before we’re reined in and informed that we should feel free to be ourselves…just not too much. We celebrate those who show up and proclaim, “This is me,” until they take one step over a line drawn by the collective majority that triggers discomfort and unease at something that falls too far outside the parameters of “normal.” Our society’s party line is that we praise those who see the world differently, but I don’t believe any of us have avoided hearing or being a part of a conversation where people express concern for “fringe” behavior and what it might mean for the state of the world.
Until the late 20th century in the United States, some families and schools tried to influence a child’s “handedness” toward right-hand preference. In medieval Europe a person’s left-hand dominance was evidence of their consorting with the devil. In the 15th and 16th centuries, a woman using her left hand instead her right was all the proof needed to label, and punish, her as a witch. In more recent times, American parents and teachers corrected children who seemed to prefer using their left hand for tasks such as writing because they knew the world was set up to accommodate right-handed people: scissors, school desks, traditional notebooks, and more were not invented with lefties in mind. Thankfully people who naturally, instinctively, used their left hand to write suffered nothing worse than an ink or pencil smudge on the side of their hand, or a cramp from contorting their bodies to fit desks not designed for them. When I think of my own journey in the 1970s of learning to write and the hand with which I did so, there was no “choice” for me. I instinctively picked up crayons, pencils, markers, paint brushes with my left hand without giving it one thought. From the time I learned to use any of these tools, there was never a moment I placed them in my right hand. Fortunately, no one pressured me to use one hand or the other; I was allowed to develop the way I was intended to. That said, while my identity as a “lefty” was certainly not persecuted in the same ways it would have been centuries earlier, there was also no move to make my life any easier. The implicit message was that I was welcome to inhabit the world of right (correct?)-handers, but no one was obliged to make accommodations on my account. As a result, although I use my left hand to write, I am equally, if not more, comfortable using my right hand for nearly every other task due to the repeated need to use the tools available to me. I don’t feel as though the quality of my life has suffered from learning to “pass” in a mostly right-handed world. But I also wonder how life would have been different for me (and all the other south paws) if there had been choices that recognized my difference.
If I thought being left-handed placed me on the periphery of “normal” growing up, it was nothing compared to being a vegetarian in the early 1970s. Just as there was no conscious decision about the hand with which I learned to write, there was never a moment when I thought, “I don’t want to eat meat.” For the entirety of my life it has never been an instinct to order a cheeseburger, dive into a bucket of fried chicken, or take advantage of all-you-can-eat seafood buffets. Believe me, though, there have been plenty of times that I’ve wished for that urge. There were countless dinnertime showdowns where my mama would plead with me just to eat a few bites of whatever meat she’d prepared, and a few times she required that I sit at the table until I had. I knew it hurt her to force the issue, especially considering that she, too was a vegetarian (and a lefty!), and it would have made life so much easier if I could have just eaten the food she’d so lovingly set before her family. I’m sure there are plenty of parents who would suggest that if I was “hungry enough” I’d have eaten the meat, or if I’d had the “seat of my pants warmed” it would have taught me manners and gratitude. I’m not suggesting either of those lines of thinking are wrong, only that the act of eating a pork chop with my gravy and biscuits was as inconceivable to me as gnawing on my sneaker for sustenance.
My hand dominance never seemed to elicit the same kind of incredulity as the absence of meat from my diet did. When they observed me not ordering a Whopper or chicken nuggets at a fast food restaurant, friends needed to know, “You mean you don’t eat chicken? Or fish? Haven’t you even wondered how it tastes?” Then with complete confidence they would declare that if I just tried it, I’d be immediately converted to carnivore status and never look back. With the passing of time and the publication of research lauding the adoption of vegetarian diets, many people’s suspicion of vegetarians transformed into a near-reverence: how chaste and progressive it was to eliminate meat from one’s diet; surely that kind of sacrifice bordered on monastic and was therefore morally superior! While I’ve appreciated having fewer questioning looks from acquaintances at meal time when they observe my plate devoid of the kind of protein to which they’re accustomed, I feel somewhat guilty that they believe I’ve chosen the vegetarian lifestyle and am depriving myself of greasy wings, a chili cheese burger, or filet mignon for some higher purpose.
The hand with which I hold a pen, the lack of meat on my dinner plate, my comfort with animals over most humans, who I love, and much more, has nothing to do with conscious choices I’ve made for myself and everything to do with my behaving in a way that is absolutely natural to me. Depending on the time in which we live, our identities can be outlawed or embraced. Never have I needed to ask permission to be who I am, something I attribute to the family I was lucky enough to be born into as well as the point in history in which I’ve lived. I rejoice that it’s becoming accepted practice to be curious about someone who seems different from us instead of fearful. It’s only natural that, when we encounter something that (or someone who) lies outside of our lived experience or observation, we deem it “abnormal” to us. Humanity is, and always will be, a work in progress, but thank goodness we seem to be moving, however slowly, toward a habit of respectful inquisitiveness and away from one of knee-jerk judgement.
PartWolf 