“Oh no, you write in cursive!”

“What does that say?”

“Can you even read that?”

“I always print, who needs cursive?”

“You know it’s not faster than printing, right?”

 

The public extols the death of cursive. News outlets like Vox tout cursive education as an example of outdated educational standards and wasteful spending. Young Adults recall their antiquated youth where spindly teachers taught success hinged upon effective cursive—a future that was not to be. And, for the most part, these criticisms have a point. Educational standards and techniques are outdated. Printing is more intuitive and is just as pragmatic as cursive.

But I refuse to surrender my beloved cursive script to the wastes of time like the French Revolutionary Calendar–a failed experiment forced upon the masses by an educated elite. The much-maligned cursive is so much more than that.

Cursive handwriting means more to me than just ink on paper. As a child, I viewed cursive as a rite of passage, a way to know I was an adult. It was like learning to spell words and shattering your parents’ last hold over you. Reading and writing cursive meant you could hold your own with the adults. I knew my printing was terrible (it still is) so I told myself, this is how I’ll write until I die. I threw myself into cursive and, unless I’m filling out a form which restricts me, my writing flows in the same loopy letters I learned at seven years old. I challenge myself every time I sit down to write a journal entry or take notes in a meeting to improve my form and clarity. In my historical research, I learn new techniques from writers long dead. I marvel at the studied artistry of even a novice hand. The pen lines flow from thick to thin, sentences laid out as straight as a plumb line. Every writing session is more than banal mechanics; it’s tied to the artistry of a word well executed or a lesson in control, and so on.

Unlike people in the past, I did not spend my youth perfecting the art in the hopes of gaining a lucrative clerical job (no one has time for all that rote practice anyhow). In a world where handwriting alternatives abound, how can cursive hope to compete? We have awkward touch keyboards and photographs to convey meaning. Better yet, a mechanical keyboard (because who doesn’t want to push 100 WPM?) In the age of computers, who needs cursive?

I take this question one step further–in the age of computers, who needs handwriting at all? After school and college, there isn’t much need for most Americans to handwrite outside of niche opportunities or enthusiasts. You take a picture on your phone rather than describe or type your shopping list on your memo app. Modern convenience aside, I submit the human condition needs that connection to the physical page. Cursive’s inherent artistry and difficulty is what I find so enjoyable. Print script from a word processor fills the pragmatic writing applications—why not use cursive for flowing ink and wrinkled page?

I worry about the future students who look at cursive script and think “that’s too complicated to understand so I won’t bother.” Cursive is the pure joy of writing in the everyday. The feel of crisp paper in a newly-bound notebook and using your hand to craft something tactile and ephemeral elevates the simplest activity. You can do it every day and elevate the mundane to something satisfying. I still remember some of the best cursive letters and words I’ve ever written (I once cut a beautiful ‘l’ from my math notes in high school). How many of us can say that about a tapped-out note?

I’m sure some enjoy their printed letters as much as I enjoy my cursive. As I type this into a word processor, I cannot deny the pragmatism of clear, digital text. I only hope my cursive is respected, remembered, and allowed a stay of execution.