Kids Can’t Read Cursive—Finally, Moms Have a Secret Language!

Recently I learned that schools are no longer teaching cursive writing. At first, I was a bit upset. It felt like education was taking a giant step backward. What’s next? Addition? Subtraction? The alphabet?

Perhaps I initially felt so strongly about this because cursive was such a big part of my own educational journey. For most of my elementary school years, I remember a long green banner with white cursive letters hanging over the chalkboard (another relic of early American education) and continuing around the entire perimeter of the classroom.

Not only were youngsters like myself exposed to the cursive alphabet, we actually had to learn to write that way.

It wasn’t easy.

Suddenly, certain letters like “G” and “Z” looked nothing like the letters we had spent the previous several years learning. A capital cursive “Q” looked suspiciously like the number two. And forming all these strange letters and then linking them together without lifting your pencil required the fine motor skills of a neurosurgeon.

Yet we persevered.

We filled entire sheets of paper with rows of looping letters until eventually we could write an entire sentence without suffering a hand cramp.

Then came the ultimate achievement in cursive writing—the signature.

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We practiced our signatures. We didn't just write our names. We developed them. There were loops. There were flourishes. There were dramatic underlines. Some girls put enormous circles over their i's. By high school, many of us had signatures suitable for signing an international peace treaty.

Today's kids don't need a signature. They click a box or draw an X or a happy face.  That's not a signature. That's what I do when a website presents me with 63 pages of terms and conditions that could very well include permission to remove one of my kidneys.

So initially, I was saddened by the demise of cursive. It seemed like the end of an era.

Then it hit me.

This may be the best thing that's happened to mothers in years.

We finally have a secret language. After decades of our children being one technological step ahead of us, mothers have accidentally been handed our own encryption system.

Cursive.

No new app required. No subscription fee. No password. No two-factor authentication. Just a Bic pen.

We can now communicate freely with one another without our children having the slightest idea what we're saying. Better yet, we can communicate about our children right in front of them. Peace will reign throughout the house.

Here's how it works.

Your child comes home with a note from the teacher telling you she's failing math. No worries. You simply send a note back to the teacher in cursive that reads, “I think the best way to resolve this situation is to give her extra homework every night until she masters the material.”

Your daughter can carry the note herself. She'll likely be confused and angry about all the extra assignments later, but at least she won't blame you.

The beauty of cursive is that there's no dishonesty involved. Everything can be completely out in the open.

Countless cursive notes can go up on the refrigerator for all the world to see. The grocery list can be in plain view without complaint. So can the weekly dinner menu.

Your child hates meatloaf and would spend the entire day organizing a boycott if he knew it was coming? Just write FRIDAY — MEATLOAF in beautiful flowing script. He won't know what hit him until 6:30.

Instructions for the babysitter can be taped directly to the refrigerator: “Bedtime is 8:30 sharp. No negotiating whatsoever. He'll claim I said 10. I didn't.”

You can become completely fearless.

Let's say your daughter insists on wearing the most inappropriate dress imaginable to a relative's wedding. Rather than spending the entire reception explaining yourself, simply carry a sign written in cursive that says,

“I TOLD MY DAUGHTER NOT TO WEAR THAT DRESS!”

Every mother over 50 will nod sympathetically, and your daughter won't have a clue.

Of course, someday the inability to read cursive may create some larger societal problems.

Imagine a young attorney walking into court 30 years from now.

"Your Honor, we'd like to introduce Exhibit A, a handwritten letter."

The judge examines it.

"What does it say?"

"I don't know."

"Can opposing counsel read it?"

"No."

"Anyone?"

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Silence.

Finally, the bailiff steps into the hallway and hollers, “We need a woman over 50! We've got a cursive situation!"

A 73-year-old woman is rushed into the courtroom wearing reading glasses and carrying a Diet Coke.

"Stand back."

She examines the document.

"Dear Margaret, I hope this letter finds you well..."

The courtroom erupts.

"How did she DO that?"

"Third grade."

This may finally be our moment. Women of a certain age will become indispensable. Banks will need us. Museums will need us. The federal government will need us.

Some 25-year-old curator at the National Archives will stare helplessly at the Declaration of Independence.

"Does anybody know what this says?"

"Get Linda from Accounting."

We'll become highly compensated cursive consultants. LinkedIn profiles will read: “Cursive Translator — Advanced Proficiency, Special Skills: Capital G, Q and Z.”

And signatures?

We'll be the last generation capable of producing one.

Our children will sign mortgages by tapping a screen while we'll sweep into the closing and produce a magnificent signature with three loops and an underline. The loan officer will gasp.

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"Did you do that yourself?"

"Yes."

"Without a stylus?"

"Yes."

"Where did you learn this?"

"Public school."

I know what you're thinking. This is unfair to our children. I disagree.

We're simply leveling the playing field.

Our kids have been finding ways to communicate without Mom knowing for years. Thanks to technology, they've always been one step ahead of us. First there was Snapchat, where pictures could disappear before Mom ever saw them. Then they developed their own vocabulary.

"Sick" became good.

"Fire" didn't involve flames.

"Slay" apparently isn't a felony.

"Bet" isn't necessarily gambling.

And "no cap" has absolutely nothing to do with headwear.

Just about the time we figure out what any of these words mean, they stop using them. Fine. They can have their language. We'll have ours.

There is, of course, one potential flaw in this entire plan.

Our children could learn cursive.

There are undoubtedly instructional videos somewhere online. They could Google it. Watch a tutorial. Download an app. But this would require them to voluntarily learn something that isn't going to be on a test.

I like our odds.

So, to the school boards that quietly dropped cursive writing from the curriculum somewhere between keyboarding and wellness journaling, I owe you an apology.

I thought you were eliminating an important part of our children's education. Instead, you handed mothers everywhere an encryption key. For the first time in modern history, we have a method of communication our children don't understand. And unlike Snapchat, ours doesn't disappear.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a grocery list to write and “wine” doesn’t write itself in fancy letters.

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