Cursive: (adj) handwriting in flowing strokes with the letters joined together
Upon seeing the word, I immediately sat down to see if I could remember how to write in cursive.
It’s still there. I can do it.
It’s completely useless, since I’m not going to be writing a farewell from a Civil War battlefield, nor composing sonnets for Juliet.
When I learned cursive, I was told it was very important.
I want you to listen to this: I was GRADED on it. They asked me to work on it and improve it.
Was there not one mortal over the age of twenty who had enough foresight to realize that we probably would not be scribbling notes to one another in the very near future?
Doesn’t it make you suspicious of other things?
There is a litany of rules and regulations—not to mention, stipulations—that are laid on us every day and pronounced essential.
Case in point: I remember as a small child my aunt teaching me how to correctly use silverware. Honestly, I am not sure that the majority of American people in the course of one day ever touch a fork or a spoon. With our food all coming to us in packages and our hands being the most logical tools for grasping, I just can’t imagine how my aunt’s training on cutlery has proven to be magnificently beneficial.
We are lied to by liars who were lied to before us.
We are prompted by prompters who were prompted.
And we are trapped by trappers who themselves were ensnared.
What is important?
It is a question we do not dare ask. In doing so, we might offend at least half of the populace, and then, when we turn around and pose it in a different way, absolutely annoy the other fifty percent.
Whatever you may think, cursive writing was not a necessary practice, and more than likely will fail to achieve a comeback except in little cults, holding competitions for “Best Penmanship” as they listen to Mendelssohn and chomp on crumpets, sipping herbal tea.