How it feels to live amid the 10%.
Lindsey Richards Barnes
My paternal grandmother was universally recognized as being a “proper lady.” She hardly ever put a foot wrong. Her house was clean and tidy. Her thank-you notes written and posted in a timely manner. Her clothes clean, mended and smelling of lavender. Her word choice went through multiple edits before escaping her lips. Her pew in church so faithfully used that the cushion fit no one else.
My Grandma Sallie was a gentle, feminine standard, the ideal combination of all that is womanly, at least that was what I understood the message to be. I found that particularly difficult because I could not have been more different. I was a chubby tomboy. I was the little girl with the frog in her pocket. I was the girl with the tangled hair who hated dresses and climbed all the trees. I was the kid who baited her own hook when fishing with Grandpa.
I was a rotund, muddy, rock-collecting, severely near-sighted, freckled seven-year-old who simply could not believe that I was in anyone’s image on purpose. Oh yeah, I was also left-handed. What kind of brilliant scheme gives you one hand that practically has super powers and one hand that is functionally a Lego brick? That idea should not have made it out of the planning committee’s first drafts.
Only about 10% of people in the world are left-handed. Is this nature or nurture? Are more of us born lefties but have that trait discouraged through active instruction (how to hold a pencil) or social difficulty (using things designed for right-handers like subway turnstiles, scissors, can openers, spiral notebooks, musical instruments, cars, etc.) The list goes on and on. I know that being just 10% of the population means that it’s not always feasible to accommodate every difference but to a child, it’s hard not to take that personally.
Social cooperation is sometimes cited as the reason most people are right-handed. All that means historically is that if your community is mostly right-handed and you share tools and resources, life is going to be easier for you if you force yourself to match the design of the available tools. If you doubt this, try using a scythe as a left-hander. Go ahead. I dare you. You will lose a foot.
The word “sinister” comes from the Latin for left-handed. Left-handed people have been burned at the stake because the others thought them evil or friendly with the devil himself. Differences are often persecuted or exploited. In the Middle East, historically the left hand was used for chores that are considered unclean, like wiping your butt. Toilet paper was/is a luxury to some, so you have to be careful about compartmentalizing your “tools.” Right hand’s foody, left hand’s booty.
The struggle is real. In my elementary school, there was one left-handed desk. One. I’m not telling you that each classroom had one left-hander’s desk. There was just one special desk in the entire school. In my year, there were two of us that were left-handed. There was me and there was Jan. On the first day of school, Jan and I would sprint to class so we could claim the one correct desk. Whatever desk you grabbed on the first day was yours for the year. Jan was taller than I and had longer legs. She was naturally faster and won the desk more often. It was so stressful. You could win a year of comfort or a year of straddling the support column while turned to a 90-degree angle away from the chalkboard and teacher. It was less than ideal.
My right hand is my Lego brick hand. Most of our world adores and depends on the right hand, but honestly, I just don’t know what to do with mine. It’s good for holding things still so my left hand can work. I wonder how proper my grandmother would have been if life had been a little more frustrating for her, like learning to drive a stick shift when it all feels like it’s on the wrong side of the car.
The story above first appeared in our May / June 2025 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!