I love being left-handed. I stand out, which makes being a lefty worth it. It’s worth the ink almost tattooed on the side of my hand, the constant bumping of elbows at dinner tables, and softball gloves, fancy cars, and hockey sticks I will never be able to use. It’s worth all that because in one small category of the world, I don’t fit in with the majority.

In every other way, I’m average. I know I should feel lucky that I have a great home, great friends, great family, and an all-around great life. And I am. But sometimes I want to be crazy, wild, have green hair and piercings. When I think of people like that, I take comfort in knowing I have one thing they don’t - a left hand capable of anything. I could sign the next Declaration of Independence, or create a solution to global warming. Whatever I do, I will take pride in knowing that I had to defeat the subtle obstacles that being left-handed presents. I could never drive a stick-shift to work; there are a million scissors in the world made for someone else, and graphite marks are hard to get off skin, but I’ve survived, pathetic a victory as it is, and I love being able to share it. So I will. I wrote this with my left hand.