I broke my right wrist over the Thanksgiving holiday and am clad in a cream-colored cast up to the elbow. Being right-handed, I’m finding it dodgy to correct student papers, grade exams, etc., at the very end of the term. I also find myself in numerous conversations about handedness and brain dominance. Invariably I mention that I was born lefthanded—a “soft lefty,” in some parlance—and my parents tried switching me until research came out suggesting that such persuasion was not good for the brain. I blame all my mental failures, needless to say, on having been left in the middle. On the other hand, by the time I get this cast off, I may be able to sign my name or swing a tennis racquet from the other side.
All of which has me thinking about the soft bigotry of our anti-lefty language. My break being the result of a fall, I can be accused of having two left feet. If I do…