|
|
David Spates I am the original typing rebel Helen Brown tried to teach me a better way.
Honest, she did. I wouldn't listen though. She showed the limitations
of my ways, but I was young and foolish my naiveté
surpassed only by my stubbornness. Chalk it up to the foibles
of youth. I know it's wrong, and I am ashamed. For years
I have continued my terrible ways, reminded at each success how
I never should have gotten as far as I have. I am the exception
that proves the rule. I am the "before" picture. I
am what parents point to as an example to their children of what
not to do. To Helen Brown, I am a disgrace. And yet, here I am. Making a fair living,
all the while thumbing my nose at the establishment. Forgive
me, Helen, for I have sinned. To this day, I have not learned how to type,
and I am certain my high school typing teacher, Helen Brown,
would be shocked -- nay, appalled -- at my chosen profession. I took typing in high school for three reasons.
The first was that I assumed it would be an easy high B, if not
an A. The second was that I thought it would be a useful skill
I could carry throughout life. The third was that I thought it
would be a good way to meet girls. I was right about all three. It was a good
way to meet girls, as the boy-girl ratio was heavily weighted
in my and a few other of my testosterone brothers' favor. It
was an easy class, too -- I think I got a B+ or so. And while
typing is a useful skill to carry throughout life, it is a skill
I could -- let me change that to would -- never learn. And here I am, the assistant editor of the
Crossville Chronicle, banging away at my keyboard with
only two index fingers and a thumb. I'm fairly certain I could
lose the seven other digits and not miss a day of work. Despite
Mrs. Brown's (that's how I referred to her in school) best attempts
to break me of my lifelong three-digit typing method, I never
mastered the appropriate typing method. That's not to say I am completely inept in
front of a keyboard. The truth is I can move with these
two index fingers and a thumb. I've never had a need to be able
to type any faster than I can under my method. Granted, the fact
that I stop and consider each sentence, or at least each paragraph,
for a few seconds probably limits my need for raw speed. But
nonetheless, my three digits have served me well for years, and
I expect they will continue well into the future. I was able to, and I'm not proud of this,
deceive Mrs. Brown in high school by stumbling along with the
appropriate 10-digit typing method when she had her eye on me,
but would immediately revert back to my faster three-digit mode
the moment her back was turned. I know, I know -- I was only
hurting myself. Well, what can I say? I guess I am a typographical
masochist. Mrs. Brown would see how slowly and poorly
I typed with the real method, and yet I always scored well on
typing tests because I used my three-digit method. I've always
wondered if she thought something was up. Surely she must have
assumed either something strange was going on or I just stepped
up to the pressure of test time and performed exceedingly well. Regardless of what she may or may not have
thought, I always felt a minor tinge of guilt about my deception.
You couldn't exactly call it cheating, I suppose, but certainly
I wasn't following along with the rest of the herd. I guess you could call this my confession.
I've been living a lie of sorts for years, and it's a relief
to unburden this terrible secret. "Yes officer, I'll tell
you where the body is buried." The funniest part of the whole story is that
I have chosen a profession in which I spend a great deal of my
working time tapping away at a keyboard -- two index fingers
covering every letter of the alphabet, plus 10 numbers, and a
right thumb whose only purpose in the process is to hit the space
bar. It's amazing how far two fingers and a thumb
will take you. |