Seems I have something to confess. I....am......left-handed. I write with my left-hand. This might be a shock to some people. I thought I would get it off my chest it's been weighing on me for about 40 years. Every time I pick up a pen and write something down and some reason people feel the need to comment on it. It's a lame conversation. I've never really understood these conversations ever since I was a kid, these odd forced unnecessary interactions that go as follows:

Person I've never met before, but feels they want to call me out as I write down something on paper for them: "Oh a lefty."
My initial rebuff, signaling this conversation is dumb and I've heard it before, I say it with overwhelming disinterest: "Yep"
Person wanting to continue the conversation despite my initial indicators I do not want to talk about it: "I suppose that's alright. I think I can trust you anyways."
I then apply a general coup de grace statement that signals the end of our conversation about which hand I tend to use when I write and switch the conversation to which hand I use when I am alone: "I suppose. I masturbate with my right though."
End of conversation. Then it gets kind of awkward as we look at each other. I can now see the regret in their eyes that they decided to start and try to continue the unwanted conversation. I usually wave goodbye to that person with my right so they can feel comfortable, or uncomfortable(their choice). It's a conversation style that doesn't make many friends, but leaves me with some satisfaction. I figure that person must be a rabid Anti-Leftite.

I have always found it fascinating that such a small and irrelevant difference causes people to feel they need to talk about it. It is inherently human to focus on anything that is considered not normal. It seems so insignificant.Yet at one time it was a pretty big deal to be left-handed. People tried to change the hands their children used to write. Some cultures looked at it as evil, some looked at it as good luck(it's neither, for I am neither wholly evil or lucky). Yet it's a small insignificance that is a part of me that I would not change for anything, even to be able to use one of those stupid mounted classroom pencil sharpeners without looking like I am trying to start an early 1900's automobile(Younger readers will have to probably google both of those things to figure out what I am talking about). My brothers are both left-handed, my mother is left-handed. It's the one thing we all have in common besides our stunning good looks. Yet, it still bothers me when for some reason people point it out. Especially in front of other people. kind of like a "Hey look this idiot doesn't write like you or me". Why is that? To me it's the one thing where I am truly different, or even fall into a different category or even am stereotyped as not being normal. Such a little thing. When I think about it, is it no wonder it's so hard for other people to stand up and say they are different than what is called the "norm" in our society? If we can't even treat left handed and red headed people as being normal(don't even think about being a red-headed left-hander, throw step-child on top of that, you just might be screwed in this society), no wonder so many people are afraid to voice they are different in major ways. If we can't even let a little thing like being left-handed go unnoticed or questioned, why would someone want to talk about the depression they feel? Why would someone want to talk about how hard some area of their life is currently? If we judge so harshly on the mundane differences, what chance do we have with airing out our insecurities over perceived greater weaknesses?
I remember my own relatives talking about us being left handed like it wasn't right(no pun intended), they were just joking around but subconsciously it probably sent signals to other relatives "We can accept left handed alright, but nobody better be any more different than that". A society that keeps us conforming and wants to point out that we are different rather than pointing out why we are all the same. The answer is we're all human by the way, that's what we have in common. We're all human. We're all in this together and we need to make it work. Unfortunately, there is no power in working completely together. There is no one with the upper hand when we embrace our differences and work together for us all to get along. It's easier to point out the people that are different in order to curry favor and grace with the larger group or even control the larger group. Such a little thing, yet nearly impossible to attain to be accepted as equal despite our differences. Maybe to look at our fellow human being and just say "Hey I accept you are different. We don't have to talk about it, and I'm not going to be an asshole about it. We can talk and disagree on certain things that are personal choices but not worry about the way we were born." It seems so simple, yet, if we can't get by the little things that should be old hat like left-handed, red-hair(you know: Gingers), skin color, or yes even the "dreaded gay people", how are we going to bypass the deep rooted divisive things like religion, science, politics and public restrooms? I'm not perfect. There are a lot of things I can't get right when it comes to dealing with other people. I try though. I try to be a good person and accept people for the way they are born and some of the problems they may have. We all struggle with it in some form, the simple answer is if it doesn't directly impact your life it isn't your business, in the words of some famous guy: let it be. I know being left-handed is the absolute smallest, lamest stereotype I can possibly fall into with prejudices so minor it's relevancy is barely a blip in general, yet it's there. It gives me a very small perspective, in that if it feels somewhat distasteful for me when something so tiny is brought up, how can it feel for people who are truly ostracized and singled out for their differences? People that are bullied for stuttering. People that can't get keep jobs because they can't get out of bed because of chemical malfunctions in their brains. People that kill themselves because they can't talk to anybody about their problems or are too scared of being ostracized for seeking help. People that simply want to wake up go to work, marry the person they love and come home without someone protesting them. And yes, even people with celiacs that just want to go to a restaurant and order something fully knowing the server and the kitchen staff are laughing at them in the back.

Which begs the question: How are we going to get eye to eye on the big things, when we can't even seem to overlook left or right?

(No left handed people were harmed in the making of this blog. For the record: I don't dislike Gingers. many of my best friends are Gingers. I have many Ginger friends. I realize I have Blonde-privilege and I am ok with it. Einstein was left handed, still doesn't mean anything. If you think I am whining about being left handed then you didn't get the point of the blog, and might want to look at that. I very much enjoy being left handed.)

"I'll have the lobster." I didn't say it with conviction. I said it with the same trepidation you ask your parents for a machine gun. With a grim conviction they will probably say no. At first he didn't believe me that they had such a dish. It was there though. Right in the center of the menu described black and white. I can't remember what year it was, or what grade I was in at the time. I had just made weight and we were out for dinner in one of the biggest towns in South Dakota, which is to say not very big at all. It was the State tournament for AAU wrestling. It was one of a handful of times it was just my Dad and me. No brothers, no Mom, no girlfriend, no nothing, just us. He smiled a look that said "no way do I believe you will eat a lobster, and I probably don't want to pay for the opportunity". At that age I think I was 9 or 10, so maybe fourth grade. My parents had been divorced for years, so road trips with them both together never happened. He had offered to take me, my Mom relented. Off in the old pickup truck to lay smack on the mats of the Corn Palace, the mecca to all youth wrestling at one time in the Rushmore State(although at the time I think we might have been the Sunshine State, which is true. It can be sunny even when it's -30.). So there we sat a monumental question of trying something new for what was probably quite a bit of money. Lobster in South Dakota in the 80's was about as common as really seeing a jackalope, I'd imagine. They sure didn't serve it around Brookings that I knew. All I knew about lobster was it was what rich people ate on Dynasty and Dallas, and I wanted to try it. Why couldn't I be like J.R. or even Bobby?
"Ok, you can have it"
My eyes must have bulged out of their sockets. Who knows what made him say yes, probably his 3rd beer, a tactic I would use in years to come, sometimes waiting until the 5th or 6th for really difficult questions and/or apologies. How that waitress must have giggled handing that order in to the kitchen. This 50 pound soaking wet kid was going to eat a lobster. It is one of my fondest memories. In a time before selfies, and taking pictures of every meal it entirely belongs to me to keep it alive to this day. They brought the little metal wire rack holding the candle with the tin dish of butter suspended above it. The server lit the candle and I sat watching the butter melt in the glow. I asked what this was for, Dad explained. The big red lobster arriving at the table and we made jokes at it's expense. I cracked into it as best I could and my Dad helped me get to it using his slightly higher lobster knowledge. It was awesome. Not just the lobster, but the whole event of it, being somewhere new(yes, I know it's Mitchell, but I wasn't well travelled, having only been to maybe 3 or 4 states at the time), hanging out with someone I saw only on weekends and every-so-often weekdays and trying to eat this red alien on a plate with some lemon and butter.

Fast forward to this year for my own son at the AAU State wrestling circa 2016. I was focused on his competition his abilities and his desire to medal. All good goals for kids, but he still is 8. Granted he loves to win and keeps a tab on a lot of things sports related more than I do. His first match was against a wrestler he had never beaten before, but also someone he considered a tournament buddy. He was determined to win. At the tournament I saw many shirts with the "2 wrestlers 1 dream, my goal is to take away your dream!"  while a fairly true statement, I was pretty sure most kids don't look at it that way and once again overcompetitive parenting was the culprit. My son was ready to go he shook hands and the match began. I perched nervously to the side away from the mat. Why was I nervous? Who the hell knows, another weird thing about parenting little athletes. His Coach kneeled in the corner urging him on and yelling advice. He wrestled better than I had ever seen him perform. He came out on top 7-5 against a really tough opponent. Just showing how a year of his hard work had paid off, a year ago I don't know if he would have won that match. He shook hands and the ref raised his, he stepped up and gave his friend a hug, then went and shook coach's hands. He was excited as he walked off the mat and gave me a hug. The rest of the tournament went well, he wrestled hard and came up a few points short to medal, and was beat out of the bracket. He was angry, but eventually shook it off, quicker than last year and I didn't have to dodge any kicks and no kneepads were thrown in the garbage.

Later in the day, as a keepsake we purchased a picture collage where they actually take photos of the wrestlers during the match as long as you know the time of the match. As he browsed through the pictures of his lone victory. One stood out at him. Not the one of a takedown, an escape or a reversal, or of his hand being raised after the win. He wanted the one of them shaking hands. This was what was important to him a precursor to his match, him and someone he considers a friend stepping to challenge one another in an activity they both love. Or them shaking at the end where the match is done and they remain friends after the competition. Truly, a beautiful moment to have raised a kid to think in that manner, a job well done.

So of course we(the parents) purchased another picture where he was having his arm raised, because parents are twits. Guilty as charged.

Which hopefully brings me to the point of all this and ties it together somewhat. We often ignore the desires and goals of our children to be favorable with our own or what we think they "will appreciate more". In hindsight I feel bad about this in that we denied the memory he wanted to keep.  For my own experience, I don't remember if I placed that year at state, I don't remember one person I wrestled, but I remember doing something completely new with my Dad.  A lot of time this is where we fail as parents in sports. So caught up in the wins and losses at every level. We forget all of the events and good times and memories to be had around the sports themselves. By not living in the moment we are letting a lot of the good stuff slide by in order to get to the final score. We need to open our ears, live in the moment and listen to what our kids are telling us. When we do this it will create something far greater than scores and medals.

(I'll dedicate this one to my Dad. Happy Birthday, Jerry and thanks for all the fishes!)