As a fifth-grade teacher each year, I still tackle the topic of handwriting with my canned speech.  “Kids, you need to write NEATLY! History is filled with catastrophes caused by poor writing.”  I cite a Civil War battle in which a Union general wrote three desperate notes to an officer in a nearby supportive position. The officer COULDN’T read the note and by the third reply a Confederate unit overran the general’s hill.

   Then, I expound about messy numbers and the havoc it has wreaked on banking. Like the time I transferred $500 from my teaching job in Korea to a bank in New York and somebody added a few zeros.  I ended up with $500,000 in my account (for six hours).

    Finally, I prattle on about Juanita. 

    “Oh, not the Juanita story,” one complains.

    A few kids roll their eyes.

     “Yes…the Juanita story,” I stare at a student named Frankie.  This entire episode really is for him, but others will benefit.  His handwriting is the absolute worst!  Some days his words slant to the left, some days to the right.  The letters spill over lines that are supposed to contain them.  Os look like like… Es?? Is look like…Js.  Ms and Ns combine to form pyramid-like creations that approximate cuneiform, maybe.  Perhaps it could pass for high quality Cyrillic, but as for English, it is a wretched, discombobulated, unreadable mess.

        “Juanita had NO second joints,” I say. “on ANY of her fingers!”

        The class is focused, even my groaners.  I hold my right hand up and bend all my fingers at the joints to give them a visual.

        “And” I continue, “Juanita had the best handwriting in California.”

        I look at Frankie.  “So, I have to ask myself. How could a girl without finger joints write beautifully, but some of you can’t?”

        Frankie is erasing, actually smearing, the heck out of his paper. 

        Kimberly raises her hand, “When was …this...Juanita in your class?”

        “Hmmmm” I say stroking the stubble of my goatee. “Maybe four years ago?”

         “Where is she now?” asks another.

         “She moved,” I say.

         “Right,” says a voice.

         “I think there ain’t no Juanita Garcia!” boldly declares another.

 

         About two months later, the intercom clicked on. “Mr. K, can a former student of yours stop by?”

         “Sure, who is it?”  I ask.

         “Juanita. A Miss Juanita Garcia.”

          The intercom clicks off.   I smile.  Kimberly’s jaw is wide open.  “Is that THE Juanita?”

         “Yes and …umm kids, let’s be polite and not stare.”

         A slight knock on the door eventually precedes Juanita’s entrance.  She is skinnier and taller than I recalled her.

         “Hi, Mr. K.  Remember me?”

         “Yeah, like I could forget you and how come you’re out of school?”

         She whispers, “It’s an early release day and I thought, Why not check up on my old teacher?”

         I turn and present Juanita to the class. “Class this is Juanita.  She has the best handwriting in the state.”

       The class is thunderstruck.  I see them staring at her hands.  

      “Class, you know what? Let’s do handwriting.”  I turn and whisper to her, “Would you mind helping me?”

        “That’s why I’m here.”

        “Juanita, can you pass out handwriting paper?”   I point to a pile of white-lined papers on the table near the front of the room.  The kids know the drill and they clear off their desks and whip out pencils. Juanita grabs a ream of paper and saunters down the rows handing out papers one at a time, slipping them on each child’s desk. 

        “So just how long ago did you suffer with me?”

        She laughs, “Five years ago.  I’m a sophomore now.”

        “So what else is new in your life?”

        “Oh, I had seven more operations on my hands and feet.”  She gives me the leftover papers, smiles, and holds both hands up for the class to see. 

 

#                           #                                #

 

         A few weeks floated by and two benefits from her visit are apparent.  Frank’s handwriting has started to improve.  Not a lot, a tad.  It is starting to look a little tiny bit like well…English.  And for the remainder of this year I have a class that will believe anything I tell them, from now until their bones are planted in the fertile, chocolate- colored Salinas Valley soil.