My Journey In Cursive

This journey began in a 4th grade classroom. I had a thick tome of spiral-bound
cursive practice pages in my hand.

Only weeks prior, I had mastered the printing of my new English name. The
strokes in my name felt so foreign still. English was not the cool language I
had heard on TV anymore. It was all around me threatening to exile me back to
China. Unlike speaking, writing didn’t betray my foreignness. My sharp letters
didn’t look Chinese like my eyes or sound Chinese like my mispronounced English
words. My English letters looked interesting — not different.

When the teacher gave me that daunting book of lined cursive practice pages, I
was in disbelief. The teacher must think I am an English genius to think I can
fill all of those pages with a script in a language still so foreign to me.

Indeed, she was a teacher for a reason.

I had filled the pages with deliberate slow strokes, letters large enough to be
read from the sky. Up to that point I had been in the US for only a few months,
dearly missing China. I missed writing in 汉字 (Chinese characters).

English letters were so simple and plain. All the many hours of hand-cramping
practice and notebooks filled with 汉字, I feared had been a waste. I had pride
in my penmanship in China, now I was again at square one, sloppily, sluggishly
moving a pencil to write rudimentary words in staccato Roman letters.

I hated the simplicity of English letters, they lacked grace and art.

But cursive was different — it had life in every stroke.

Cursive made learning new words exciting. I loved cursive — it was like Chinese
书法 (calligraphy). I loved connecting the strokes. I liked that stroke order
mattered like in 汉字. To my surprise, my penmanship skills in 汉字 translated
seamlessly into English cursive. I imbued every stroke in cursive with art and
purpose.

That large spiral-bound notebook marked the beginning of my journey into the
beautiful realm of cursive.