Apparently there’s a movement afoot to reintroduce cursive writing in public school curricula.

Ah, yes, cursive writing. Remember it?

I do — especially my struggle to learn it. It was in fourth grade with Miss Reid.

Miss Reid was the very picture of a 20th-century schoolmarm – early 20th century, that is. She was tall and thin, had rimless spectacles and wore her hair in bun. She wore shapeless, earth-tone dresses, and her only concession to color was a bright red spot of rouge on each cheek. As I look back on her, I think she could’ve been designed and decorated by Norman Rockwell.

Miss Reid was a wonderful teacher. She was organized, articulate and low-key — a gentle soul who I never remember raising her voice, much less losing her temper. She stood in stark contrast to my other teachers, who seemed to have done their student teaching at Parris Island. She was the perfect person to teach cursive to a roomful of little knuckleheads.

Something about my fourth-grade cursive experience: While it took place in 1955, the technology was the same as 1855. We wrote with metal nibs in wooden holders, which had to be constantly dipped in the inkwells in our desks.

I don’t know if you ever wrote with those nibs, but if you didn’t, you’ve missed one of life’s great frustrations. It’s not like writing with a fountain pen, ballpoint or pencil, which are smooth and trouble-free. Those nibs were the exact opposite; they were as unforgiving as a Mafia don. Writing with nibs requires a light, sure touch and perfect rhythm — something wholly missing in most 8-year-old boys, especially this one. My attempts at making uniform letters on paper resulted in either indecipherable splotches, slashed paper or mashed nib. Luckily, the kindly Miss Reid forgave those transgressions even before they were made.

While learning to write cursive was frustrating, I also found it fascinating. First, while some of the letters looked like their printed cousins, others didn’t, but all of them took a lot of focus to get right. And somehow, my continued efforts made me more, rather than less determined to learn that skill. Second, while every little kid could print, only grown-ups could write cursive. Thus, by writing, I felt I was entering into the World of Adults — poor, deluded little pup that I was.

Finally, as I got better at forming the new letters, I could see my progress as it happened. This was the exact opposite of my academic nemesis, math, where I had no idea what I was doing and if I made any progress, even if I knew how I did it, I had no idea why.

While I learned to write cursive, I never did it well. In fact, my penmanship was atrocious. It’s no secret why, either: I was a lazy, sloppy kid, and my handwriting was just an outer manifestation of my inner indolence and disorder. That said, I actually won a penmanship prize.

OK, it wasn’t a prize for penmanship, per se — it was for penmanship improvement.

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Eyes on the prize

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I was in Miss Pattinson’s sixth grade and midway through the year she announced the Penmanship Improvement Prize would be awarded at the year’s end.

Wow, ka-pow! A penmanship improvement prize! The theory behind it was brilliant: If this honor of state was dangled before the beady little eyes of the class’ worst writers, they’d work their duffs off trying to win it … and improve their handwriting in the process.

So the prize would now galvanize me into buckling down and devoting all my time and energy to mastering all the fine points of the Palmer Pen Method, right?

Wrong.

As I said, the theory was brilliant. But so, too, were the domino theory, trickle-down economics and fallout shelters. The only problem was the reality of the penmanship prize, which had as much in common with its theory as the domino theory, etc., did with theirs.

As I said, I was basically a lazy slob. The only thing I did consistently and well was daydream. And while I’d mastered the fine art of shutting out reality and losing myself in my own little fantasy world, no one gave prizes for it. That said, I’d sussed out my chance of winning the prize and figured even if I did nothing, I was still in good field position — especially considering the field.

The only kids eligible for the prize were the worst writers in the class. Clearly, I was one of them, but who were the others? As it turned out, there was only one other, and Miss Pattinson made the strategic error of announcing who it was.

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Ill-gotten gains

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The other kid — I’ll call him X — and I had a lot in common, besides our penmanship. He, too, was a lazy spaceshot. But we had our differences, and as it turned out, they were vital ones.

For one thing, he was so lazy he not only ignored his penmanship; he ignored just about everything else in school, except lunchtime. As a result, his academic skills were seriously deficient, if not wholly absent. Beyond that, he had attitude. He never spoke or acted out (then again, none of us dared to), but he never cooperated with Miss Pattinson, either. She’d ask him a question, and he’d shrug, say he didn’t know, and then would look her in the eye and smile broadly and insincerely. Then, when the rest of us answered the question, he’d curl his lips in a sneer, as if we were all chumps and cowards for playing that game. None of this was lost on Miss Pattinson, of course, but choosing to go along by getting along, she just ignored his surliness and rarely called on him.

But X had one habit she never acknowledged but couldn’t ignore, either: He was an inveterate nose-picker. And worse than that, he wasn’t just a picker — he was an eater as well. And worst of all, he sat in the first row, in the middle of the class, directly in front of Miss Pattinson’s desk. Alas, poor Miss Pattinson! There was no way she could not see X’s digital diggings and dinings, short of decapitating the little swine, a thought I’m sure she entertained daily.

I’d like to say the year flew by and before I knew it was time for the class awards, but that’s not true. Back then, when I had all the time in the world, every day (especially every school day) passed with agonizing slowness. Now, of course, when my time is precious, whole years fly by in a blur.

Anyhow, after what seemed like a decade or two, the last day of school arrived. And with it came the presentations of awards. I remember only one of them because I paid no attention to the others. Back then, there were no participation awards, and it was a lead-pipe cinch there was only one I could’ve qualified for.

There was a reading award, a math award, a good citizen award and a few more. Finally, the presentation of the prize I’d so eagerly waited for — the Penmanship Improvement Award.

I’d like to tell you how my classmates all burst into cheers and huzzahs when Miss Pattinson called my name, but nothing of the sort happened. Actually, almost nothing of any sort happened, except X turned around in his seat and flipped me off. I expected nothing less, nor did I blame him, really.

Both of us were slugs, neither of us had improved a jot, and for all practical purposes, our handwriting was equally atrocious. I knew it, and so did he.

There was only one reason I got the award, not him, and it had nothing to do with writing. If he could’ve given up his in-class mucous mining and munching, he would’ve had the same chance of getting the prize as I did.

But sadly, he couldn’t.

So, to use horse race parlance, both competitors were evenly matched … but he lost the prize by a nose.