Left Behind in a Right-Handed World

Excuse the elbow, I'm a leftie, you see

- Neeta Lal

Being left-handed sounds glamorous—until you realize it’s less about genius and more about daily survival. Sure, we share DNA with Chaplin, da Vinci, and Oprah, but try telling that to a right-handed can opener at 7 a.m.

My struggles began early. In kindergarten, my teacher handed me a pair of child-safe scissors. Safe, yes—unless you were left-handed. The paper looked like it had been attacked by a hamster. My teacher sighed and suggested I “try harder.” Little did she know, I was already fighting centuries of right-handed oppression.

Then came the dreaded lecture seats in school, the ones with a desk attached on the right. Writing on it as a leftie meant twisting my torso like a pretzel while dangling my unsupported arm midair. By the end of class, I had graphite on my palm, a permanent shoulder kink, and handwriting that resembled the ones on a doctor’s prescription.