Because I was once left-handed. It was in preschool, and when my mother saw me gripping an oversized Mongol no. 1 with fingers that didn’t belong to my right hand, she was appalled, and she at once sat with me and turned his son into a “normal person.” Around two decades later, I have mastered the art of not knowing how to write my name with my left hand.
I owe a lot to my right hand. It opens doors for me, it holds the bidet. I use it to show direction to strangers. It flips the pages of whatever book I’m reading, my forefinger turning a leaf I’ve finished from the rest of the story, sometimes folding a dog-ear. I use it to hold my phone, or a spoon, a violin bow, a badminton rac…
Keep on reading: We need to talk about my left hand