Left Behind in a Right-Handed World
Excuse the elbow, I'm a leftie you see ...
Being left-handed sounds glamorous—until you realize it’s less about genius and more about daily survival. Sure, we share DNA with Chaplin, da Vinci, and Oprah, but try telling that to a right-handed can opener at 7 a.m.
My struggles began early. In kindergarten, my teacher handed me a pair of child-safe scissors. Safe, yes—unless you were left-handed. The paper looked like it had been attacked by a hamster. My teacher sighed and suggested I “try harder.” Little did she know, I was already fighting centuries of right-handed oppression.
Then came the dreaded lecture seats in school, the ones with a desk attached on the right. Writing on it as a leftie meant twisting my torso like a pretzel while dangling my unsupported arm mid-air. By the end of class, I had graphite on my palm, a permanent shoulder kink, and handwriting that resembled the ones on a doctor’s prescription.
And pens? Let’s just say they’ve ruined more left-handers’ days than heartbreak. Righties glide across the page. Lefties, meanwhile, plough through wet ink, smearing every word into a Rorschach test. By the time I finished an essay, my hand looked like I’d been fingerprinted by an octopus.
It didn’t get easier with age. Scissors, zippers, spiral notebooks, even door handles—all created for right-handers with a monopoly on ergonomics. When I took up guitar in college, the instructor froze mid-strum. “You’re left-handed?” he gasped, as if I’d confessed to witchcraft. Apparently, left-handed guitars are ‘special order’—code for twice the price, half the sympathy. I ended up flipping a regular guitar upside down, Hendrix–style. If Jimi could make history that way, I figured I could at least survive music class.
Left-handers have always had to improvise. Take Paul McCartney, who flipped his bass around and changed music forever. Or Rafael Nadal...
Being left-handed sounds glamorous—until you realize it’s less about genius and more about daily survival. Sure, we share DNA with Chaplin, da Vinci, and Oprah, but try telling that to a right-handed can opener at 7 a.m.
My struggles began early. In kindergarten, my teacher handed me a pair of child-safe scissors. Safe, yes—unless you were left-handed. The paper looked like it had been attacked by a hamster. My teacher sighed and suggested I “try harder.” Little did she know, I was already fighting centuries of right-handed oppression.
Then came the dreaded lecture seats in school, the ones with a desk attached on the right. Writing on it as a leftie meant twisting my torso like a pretzel while dangling my unsupported arm mid-air. By the end of class, I had graphite on my palm, a permanent shoulder kink, and handwriting that resembled the ones on a doctor’s prescription.
And pens? Let’s just say they’ve ruined more left-handers’ days than heartbreak. Righties glide across the page. Lefties, meanwhile, plough through wet ink, smearing every word into a Rorschach test. By the time I finished an essay, my hand looked like I’d been fingerprinted by an octopus.
It didn’t get easier with age. Scissors, zippers, spiral notebooks, even door handles—all created for right-handers with a monopoly on ergonomics. When I took up guitar in college, the instructor froze mid-strum. “You’re left-handed?” he gasped, as if I’d confessed to witchcraft. Apparently, left-handed guitars are ‘special order’—code for twice the price, half the sympathy. I ended up flipping a regular guitar upside down, Hendrix–style. If Jimi could make history that way, I figured I could at least survive music class.
Left-handers have always had to improvise. Take Paul McCartney, who flipped his bass around and changed music forever. Or Rafael Nadal, a natural right-hander who trained his left to dominate the tennis court. Even Newton was left-handed. Just imagine the Isaac Newton of today having to contend with spiral notebooks while inventing physics.
Despite these legends, the world still thinks we’re an oddity. My grandmother once tried to ‘correct’ me by tying my left hand behind my back. “Use your right,” she’d say sternly. I tried—and promptly spilled an entire bowl of dal on the floor. Grandma gave up, muttering, “Maybe she’s special.”
I think she meant “hopeless.”
Of course, science insists lefties are more creative, intuitive, and good at problem-solving. It’s no coincidence they are overrepresented among artists, musicians, and athletes. When you’ve spent your life wrestling doorknobs and shirt buttons, a blank canvas or tennis racket feels like child’s play.
Even so, the daily comedy continues. At restaurants, I’ve developed a sixth sense for table positioning—always to the left of right-handers, or risk an elbow duel mid-meal. I’ve learnt to flip notebooks, reverse keyboards, and operate right-handed mice with my left hand—though people still look at me like I’m performing dark magic.
Still, there’s something wonderfully rebellious about being a leftie. We’re the oddballs who see the world from the other side, literally. Because being left-handed isn’t just about using a different hand—it’s about thinking differently, adapting constantly, and laughing through the chaos.
After all, in a right-handed world, being left isn’t wrong—it’s just brilliantly inconvenient.
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