.png)
“Studies reveal the mystery of gifted people often having bad handwriting. It’s because their brain is working faster than their hands.” —That’s my story
“Put your John Hancock right here,” the nice teller instructed with a practiced smile. In those prehistoric, pre-ATM days, being 400 miles from home and short on cash was a high-stakes adventure.
“Here you go,” I replied, sliding the signed check and pen back across the counter.
Her smile faltered. “Is this … ah?”
“Aldridge,” I assured her, putting forth my most convincing smile.
“I’ll need identification with a matching signature.”
With that, she dialed my bank in Center as I waited, watched, wondered and worried. Would I be hitching a ride to get home?
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, counting out the bills, “but it’s for your protection. We always double-check when a signature looks forged.”
“Forged?” My smile waned.
“Well, the way you sign your name, it looks a bit like ‘Arp,’” she said with a laugh.
This wasn’t the first time my penmanship had been insulted. There is evidence, however, that my teachers did their job. Historical documents still exist with my name penned in perfectly legible script.
The downfall began, as I recall, following college, the start of a career and around the time I signed a marriage license, though I’ll avoid drawing any dangerous parallels to the last one for my safety’s sake.
Today, though, who scrutinizes a signature? What’s a signature really worth?
Graphologists—a term for handwriting analysts— claim our artistic loops, eloquently crossed t’s and even the “loop and a line” variations reveal our deepest secrets.
Friend and former colleague, Lois Cooper, used to say that every time we drop a “John Hancock,” we reveal traits as unique as a fingerprint. Lois claimed to have the “gift,” but she refused to analyze mine. She didn’t like to “read” people she knew.
I think I learned why from a total stranger at an out-of-town dinner party. She was the guest of a guest. When the friend with whom she was attending turned the conversation to her skills, she shied away. Eventually, however, she gave in to the group’s curiosity.
At her direction, we wrote two cursive sentences on a sheet of paper. No names.
“You will know yours,” she said with a grin.
We watched as she opened each folded note, studied it and delivered detailed descriptions. I tuned in when she started with, “This is a middle-aged, righthanded male. Tall — six feet. More of a ‘rightbrain’ artsy type than a ‘left-brain’ detail person.”
I listened closer. “He works in a professional office setting, likely a supervisor. Loves music, art and creativity. A writer, perhaps?”
Then she got spooky. “He’s married; children, more than one. Two … or is it three? I’m not sure. And he has an injury scar on his right leg, lower. Ankle or foot maybe?”
I was speechless. She got everything right or was in the ballpark.
So I’m thinking if that bank teller had been one of those graphologists, she would’ve known that I was not a forger.
I thought about how our signatures, like our stories, are unique, often messy. We spend our lives writing them and watching them change, then hope the world reads the mystery and meaning behind them in good faith.
So, if my signature is that telling and messy, maybe I should just lean into the mystery.
“Hello, my name is Leon Arp.”
It has a catchy ring to it, don’t you think?
