The Huffington Post asks and explores the question: “Is Handwriting Dead?” as it pertains to the modern classroom here.
It’s simply absurd, unthinkable, preposterous, and laughable for anyone not living in a bubble to muse that handwriting—that timeless motion of moving a pen across paper and seeing your words appear—might be outdated by the plethora of gadgets that happily duplicate, email, file, save, and publish our words in fonts as universally legible as this one, for everyone and their grandma to contemplate. Such techie tools seem to be fast becoming the crutch of a society who can’t tell “foreword” from “forward” and considers spelling and grammar the business of word-processing programs, rather than their own brains.
I can confirm handwriting’s wellness with a smugly assured confidence that is reinforced not only by my endless shopping lists, journal doodles, and sticky notes slapped on coworkers’ monitors, but by the swirly cursive of the handwritten notes I send and receive between close friends and family members (okay, it’s weird that we snail-mail instead of Skype, but not everyone can work a webcam) and the three calligraphy-adorned wedding invitations I received in the past six months (thankfully, I’m not a bridesmaid—yet—knock on wood).
Hmm. Microsoft Word thinks that last sentence was totally flawless, while I can see its essentially aesthetic issues plain as day.
While these justifications are all vastly personal—I’m a bit old-fashioned in being more comfortable taking notes by hand than typing (despite my coziness with a keyboard’s home row)—I have to insist that “old-fashioned” handwriting is alive and well, even for those who HAVE converted their personal calendar to a palm pilot or smart phone.
If you’re anything like an English major, like yours truly, you probably relished the blue essay-style tests on which you could ramble ‘til the cows came home, and dreaded the red and white bubble sheets of black-and-white right and wrongness. There’s something to be said for arguing your answer, rather than picking one of the four options and hoping for the best.
Anyway, ever see someone give their John Hancock on a store’s receipt? Why can’t we write “milk, bread, tuna” all looping and artfully like that? Oh, because no one—probably not even the writer—could read it.