Gen Alpha don’t need cursive. Photo: Andrey Znamenskyi.
I have been writing without a licence for years.
Infamously poor at cursive in primary school, I watched on as my friends effortlessly swished and flicked their way across the page. I, meanwhile, continuously lifted my wrist half an inch off the page like an absolute troglodyte.
I watched on as, one-by-one, my schoolmates proved themselves worthy and impressed the teachers enough to receive their much-coveted “pen licence”.
If you’ve never heard of a pen licence, congratulations – you might pre-date this trend and have been successfully driving a pen unlicensed your whole life.
Popularised in the 80s and 90s, this unofficial certification is intended to incentivise children to improve their handwriting skills, with mastering cursive often used as the measuring stick.
Whilst not dictated by Australian Curriculum, the pen licence milestone commonly appears somewhere around Years 3 and 4.
In my case, by Year 5, I realised the moment had passed and I would tragically remain unlicensed for life.
Resigned to my life as an outlaw, I surreptitiously pulled out a pen brought from home and took off scribbling. Truly, a rebel without a cause.
My fine motor skills leave something to be desired at the best of times. I’m not a gifted artist, I drop 50 per cent of the things I hold and I will miss every high-five you offer.
But in fairness, my lack of proper accreditation probably comes down to the fact I gave practising cursive exactly the priority it deserves. That is to say: Nil.
Recently, my 10-year-old came home from school spruiking the importance of the pen licence as an absolute “must have”.
As an unaccredited pen-wielding adult, I was triggered.
Is this a pyramid scheme?
Why is cursive still being thrust upon us – let alone used as a benchmark for writing aptitude and a gateway to pen ownership?
She could not answer these questions.
She also has a limited grasp of taxation, personal financial management and budgeting, governance and legal systems. All topics I think would be a better use of time than practising joiney-uppy writing.
I was so up in arms, I almost choked on my sour grapes. But once recovered, I took my queries to an experienced teacher.
Shrugging off my indignance, they replied: “It’s useful for them when taking tests. They can write a lot faster.”
Are we using school time to teach kids to be more efficient during school time? Is that an efficient use of school time?
This feels like robbing Peter to pay Paul. Except Paul really doesn’t need the money, because he has had a computer for years.
Of course, it’s not called “running writing” for nothing. It’s undoubtedly faster to write without pesky pen-lifting stoppages.
However, the pen licence test isn’t a time trial. When learning cursive, the focus is neatness and technique, hinging on an intricate set of rules for how each letter should rightly join the next.
And yes, research shows that handwriting leads to better retention and comprehension than typing – but it doesn’t say the handwriting needs to be fancy.
Cursive crusaders will claim a host of benefits from improved literacy skills to accelerated cognitive development, but the reality is cursive was built for speed.
Get ready, because what I lack in handwriting speed, I’m about to make up for with a breakneck history lesson.
Cursive writing existed long before the development of written English (which should tell us a bit about whether it remains fit for purpose).
Ancient Egyptian hieratic script, Caoshu Chinese script from the Han Dynasty, Old Roman capitalis cursive – all early examples of cursive used by scribes, administrators and officials, born out of a need for speed.
Cursive also served to protect and preserve precious writing tools back in the day.
Keeping your quill to page meant you prevented your ink from drying out, better controlled the pressure applied and protected the overall longevity of your quill.
Fair enough, when resources were scarce. With great power comes great responsibility and you must have a licence to drive this feather.
But now? Roughly 200 years later, I honestly can’t remember the last time I used a feather or hollow plant reed as a writing implement.
And I think my ballpoint pen can handle a few ups and downs.
In an already packed curriculum, surely it’s time we do a clear out and stop perpetuating this farcical pen licence nonsense.
Cursive is a relic. To quote another great historian: “It belongs in a museum!”
As do pen licences. And I’d pay to see them, because I still don’t bloody have one.
Original Article published by Hayley Nicholls on Region Canberra.
