Living Left in a Right‑Handed World

I was reminded by another blogger today, August 13, that it’s Left‑Handers Day, and that prompted me to revisit a post I wrote 16 years ago about the adventures of being left‑handed. It’s still very much a right‑hander’s world, and lefties learn early that ordinary tasks come with their own set of challenges.

I think back to first grade, when my teacher insisted I write with my right hand. I tried, but my brain revolted—I turned every letter backwards. My hand simply rebelled, flipping each letter the second I was told to use the “wrong” hand.

School never got much easier. Spiral notebooks were torture devices, with those metal rings digging into the side of my hand. I was lucky enough to avoid the classic pencil‑smudge problem, but desks, scissors, and even simple classroom tools were designed with right‑handers in mind. And don’t get me started on the number pad on a keyboard—always on the right, as if left‑handed people don’t exist.

Life outside the classroom wasn’t much kinder. At restaurants, my left‑handed son and I try to sit beside each other so we don’t play elbow wars with right‑handed diners. At work, I’d return from vacation to find all my supplies moved to the right side of the desk. My wireless mouse baffled every right‑handed IT guy who tried to use it without switching it over. Even the measuring cup in my kitchen seems determined to make me look through the glass to read the markings.

Household tools are their own adventure. Most handheld can openers are built for right‑handers, so making a pot of chili becomes a workout. Gravy ladles often have a single pour spout—on the right, of course—so pouring gravy with my left hand is a comedy routine. And while backward checkmarks feel perfectly natural to me, they look like hieroglyphics to everyone else.

Outdoor hobbies weren’t immune either. Fishing reels were made for right‑handers, and as a child I remember thinking about flipping the pole upside down just so I could crank with my left hand. Golf was no better; I never figured out which side of the ball I was supposed to stand on, which probably explains my lifelong disinterest in miniature golf.

Even everyday interactions take a little extra thought. Handshakes are expected with the right hand, so I have to consciously switch. When someone hands me paperwork to sign, it’s always angled to the right, requiring me to rotate it back. At the dinner table, I keep my glass on the left — and keep an eye on it so the right‑hander beside me doesn’t accidentally drink my beverage.

Some moments still make me laugh. My boss spent 20 years wondering why papers in the file folders were always upside down when he opened them. And when I was a teenage cashier—back in the days before scanners, when every SKU and price had to be typed in by hand—I had to remind my floor manager to assign me to the register where I could enter numbers with my left hand and move products with my right. Otherwise, every transaction took twice as long.

There are bright spots, of course. A few relatives share my left‑handedness—a son, two nieces, my late uncle, and my late mother‑in‑law. And I’m watching my grandson closely; he often favors his left hand. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’d love to welcome another lefty into the club.

So, to all my fellow left‑handers: Happy Left‑Handers Day. We manage just fine in a world built for right‑handers.