Born in 1207, St. Elizabeth of Hungary was married at 14, widowed at 20, died at 24 and was canonized four years later. An amazingly rapid run to spiritual stardom by any standards, liturgical or otherwise. Like being elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame after a brief, injury-plagued career.
Following her husband's death, Elizabeth pledged herself to the spiritual service of inquisitor Konrad von Marburg, who responded to her devotion by imposing upon her strict standards of behavior. Standards that Elizabeth found impossible to uphold. As punishment for her shortcomings, Elizabeth was repeatedly beaten and her children sent away. All for not living up to impossible standards. In the first grade at St. Elizabeth Elementary School, I was told that I could no longer be left-handed. Not explicitly told. It was simply suggested that I use my right hand for writing. Suggested in the way Sr. Paula would removed the pencil from my left hand and reinsert it to my right on a daily basis. I sit at my desk, the fingers of my left hand wrapped tightly around a No. 2. My face inches from the paper, monitoring each line as I practiced tracing letters. A. M. R. Suddenly, the sound of hard-soled shoes padding across the wooden classroom floor. A shadow over my paper. A cold hand wraps its fingers tightly around mine, the stark sleeve of an all black garment in sharp contract to pale white skin. "Right hand," Sr. Paula says. Firmly. "Remember. Right hand only." She wrests the pencil from my left hand and nestles it in my right. Uses her own hands to bend and twist my four-year-old fingers into the proper writing position. Each finger individually readjusted. I grip the pencil awkwardly. It is the shaky supporting beam of a shoddily built house. Holding it there feels like an unnatural act. My hand looks like someone else's. It moves like someone else's. The concentration needed to form a simple "S" is like trying to will a cup to levitate. I need to rewire my brain, to forget what is natural. Relearn how to move. Left is not left any more, but "LEFT." My hand does not do as it is told. Writing is now a standard that is impossible for me to uphold. I regress often. Both unconsciously and intentionally. I focus on tracing letters and keeping a lookout for Sr. Paula. She discovers me several times, falling into "bad habits." Each time, the pencil is yanked from my left hand more forcefully than before, sometimes accompanied by a strike with a ruler as painful reinforcement. As if the left hand had been operating on its own in defiance. The pencil is jammed into my right hand, this time with more determination than before. The fingers squeezed harder as if to fuse them into formation. Decades later, I learn that the Latin word for "left" is "sinistra." It is also the Latin word for "evil." For centuries, left-handed people were considered evil. In league with the devil. It was believed that Satan used his left hand to baptize his disciples. That those who practiced the dark arts saluted Satan with their left hands. In many cultures, the left hand is used exclusively to wipe oneself after defecating. So it was in 1960s Chicago that I, a left-handed four year old, had a soul that needed to be saved. Yet as abruptly as the effort to convert me into a right-hander began, it ended. With no fanfare, the squeezed hands, the twisted fingers, the rapped knuckles simply stopped. The pencil allowed to remain in my left hand, however awkwardly poised. Sr. Paula remained at her desk, rising only to scold gum chewers. The entire issue was no longer important. The devil inside me left alone. "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." Matthew 25:33-34...41 (King James Version) There's probably an official answer on the end of this practice somewhere. I wouldn't know. My affiliation with the Catholicism pretty much ended after eighth grade. I went to a public high school and Sunday mornings were for watching football. I became a newspaper reporter, taking notes with my left hand, the devil somewhere over my shoulder.
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