The little girl stared at her pencil. Then she looked around. The other students were writing.

“Why is it so hard for me and so easy for them?” she wondered, taking the pencil in her hand. With all her might, she tried to write at least one correct letter on the paper, but failed. Her handwriting was messy and ugly. Frustration swirled in her head. “What am I doing wrong?”

Once again she looked around. Her classmates were doing just fine. Their letters were neat and decorative. How beautiful. But hers- how could hers be so hideous? Were her fingers too stubby? Wasn’t she holding the pencil correctly?

She sighed and stared again at the paper. The letters looked like doodles instead of words. She tried again. No such luck. Again. Nothing new happened. And again. Same old story.

She wanted to cry. But she couldn’t at a time like that.

“Maybe if I…” she started, then switched the pencil to her other hand and tried again. Very slowly, she tried to write A, B, C…

Success! She realized how gorgeous her handwriting was. She was able to make large letters and tiny letters. Why didn’t she think of this before? A wonderful feeling filled her.

“I won’t have to worry anymore!” she grinned, holding her pencil tightly as she wrote.

But her happiness was short-lived. Before she had written a single word, a thin, bony hand came in her sight and slapped her hand. The pencil flew out of the girl’s hand, stopping her progress. The teacher pushed her out of the seat, making her crawl as she retrieved the pencil.

“What? What?” she cried in dismay, taking the dropped pencil with her good hand. The teacher slapped it out again. She grabbed her other hand and pushed it toward the pencil. Frightened, she tried to show the teacher that she could write well with the other hand, even better than the others.

She looked hopefully, but fearfully, at the teacher.

“Look!” she said in her mind. “See? Don’t make me stop! I can do it! I can do it just fine!”

But the teacher ignored her pleas and snatched the pencil away from her once again. She forced it into her other hand, the hand the little girl hated.

“What’s wrong with my other hand?” she whimpered, but her reply was a hard pinch on the back of her good hand. The young girl fell backwards, her face covered in tears. She tried to crawl away as her classmates watched in horror, but she was pulled by the hair and dragged back to her seat. “Write with the other hand!” the teacher shouted.

Her hair messed up, her dress crumpled and her eyes red, the little girl sniffed, “Why can’t I use my left hand?”