The Handwriting Is Not on the Wall Anymore

It was only recently that I learned that school kids—many, if not most of them—were no longer being taught how to write in script. The contemporary educators call it cursive script. I must admit to being stunned at the news that penmanship instruction has seemingly gone the way of the beeper, typewriter, and Rolodex. It’s something I assumed was in the “here to eternity” column—infinite like the barber profession, Coca-Cola, and cat litter.

I appreciate, of course, that this is an advanced technological age we live in, where the physical act of writing a letter by hand—to someone or some entity—is quite rare, just as note taking at school or at the office is. But—as I recall from my school days—writing by hand in a penmanship all my own took my writing to a higher level, even when it was less than artistic. I couldn’t conceive of printing out an essay during those years. Printing the individual letters of the alphabet to form words, instead of in script, would have taken a whole lot longer and, too, taken away a fair chunk of my individuality. Sitting down, putting pen to paper, and writing by hand in script stimulates the brain in ways not realized when banging away on a keyboard. I read where students who took notes in their own cursive writing hands, rather than on their laptops, had a much better recall of the materials. Makes perfect sense to me.

Okay, so the handwriting is not on the wall anymore. I understand. Who needs a personal signature when our eyeballs can be scanned? But I just thought of something. I collected all sorts of things as a boy, including autographs. I’d get players at the ballpark to sign my scorecard if possible. And it was all very exciting. Acquiring an obscure journeyman’s signature was even a thrill. Fast-forward a couple of decades from now and the autograph, I guess, will be reduced to something akin to a caveman’s mark.

Anyway, in expressing my surprise at penmanship’s untimely swan song, I was apprised of this college-aged young man who cannot read anything written in script. It's all Greek to him and might as well be hieroglyphics—because he can’t decipher a word of it. And I suppose he is not alone in this affliction. For starters, let’s rule out a career as a historian. Fifty years from now, maybe, he could cut the mustard and research a biography of someone from this Pokemon Go day and age of ours by combing through e-mails, tweets, and Facebook posts, but not now.

So, yes, it’s going, going, gone—the postcard from a friend or family member written in that familiar hand. The grammar and high school tests handwritten by the teacher and mimeographed on top of that. The teacher commentary with that personal touch on the report card—the one that came in a brown envelope where we wrote in script our names and classroom numbers. All I can say is that if John Hancock were alive today he’d be rolling over in his grave. And I’d bet the ranch that most folks who don’t write or read script haven’t a clue who John Hancock was.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Channeling Iron Eyes Cody

I’ve often written about the colorful and simpler 1970s, my all-time favorite decade. For I was boy growing up in the Bronx back then. The fact that New York City suffered through a fiscal crisis during those years—with conspicuous cuts in services like policing, sanitation, and park upkeep—mattered little to me. Sure, that snapshot in time has a well-deserved reputation for being on the scarier and the dirtier side of the ledger. The subways, for one, were an unattractive visual of grime and graffiti, crime infested, and prone to break down. And, while on the subject of visuals, the urban decay in some parts of the city resembled war zones and became photo-op stopovers for grandstanding politicians of all stripes.

I nevertheless remember that my neighborhood and the surrounding ones were a whole lot cleaner and certainly less congested than they are today. There are so many more vehicles on the area roads in 2016—and it’s every man and every woman for him or herself. Crossing the street at a green light is sometimes more dangerous than crossing on red. Pedestrians, it appears, no longer have the right away.

Recently, I’ve been channeling Iron Eyes Cody, aka the “Crying Indian,” from the popular “Keep America Beautiful” public service announcement commercials of the 1970s. Cody is seen in them canoeing through litter-strewn waterways with unsightly, belching smokestacks in the backdrop. He is understandably distraught at what he beholds. Later, on foot, Cody emerges at the edge of a busy highway, where a bag of garbage is hurled out of a passing car’s window. It burst open at his feet. This indignity is the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and Cody sheds a famously big tear.

Fast forward forty years and “there’s a lot of litter messing up our land” and those “litterbugs are getting out of hand.” What I know wasn’t the norm in the old neighborhood—fiscal crisis or not—were individuals in parked cars using the great outdoors as a garbage dump. It’s commonplace in these parts to find today’s lunch remains or yesterday’s lottery stubs strewn across the ground at curbside. Apparently, it’s too much for too many people to find a nearby garbage can. They are—I can attest—all over the place. Can’t find a litter receptacle? Take the stuff home and dispose of it there! Is that too much to ask?

It’s all very disheartening and a sign of the times. When I walk around nowadays, I often feel like Iron Eyes Cody, who, by the way, was not a Native American but a second-generation Sicilian actor born Espera Oscar de Corti. Tossed out of non-moving cars, Win 4 lottery stubs seem to be the litter de jour of the oblivious and inconsiderate. All I can say to these Win 4 folks is: Take 5, will you, and consider what you are doing. And, until you learn that littering is a no-no, I hope you don't win and lose over and over and over.

(Photo three from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)