Does My Handwriting Make Me A Bad Person?

The one time I had my handwriting analyzed was an experience that has haunted me for years. What started as a fun activity to pass the time during a long day turned into an interaction with a total stranger that left me questioning whether or not my handwriting made me a bad person. Here’s what happened…

College orientation

I was just about to enter my freshman year of college which required two mandatory orientations. I’d already been to one with my mom earlier that summer. So, my classes were already chosen, and I pretty much knew my way around the small campus.

But the school had decided we needed a second event to learn more about the school and get better acquainted with our new classmates. This was not something that I was looking forward to.

I’d made it through high school with a small group of outcasts as friends. Even then, it was rare that my friends and I were in the same classes, but at least I had people to eat lunch with, say hi in the hallways with, and ride home on the bus with. But none of them were going to this school. So, I stood in a sea of dorm students who had already become acquainted and likely had better communication skills than me. I felt like the only freshman commuter in the bunch.

A lunchtime interaction

Most of the morning had been spent waiting in line to check in, collect a bunch of freebies, and listen to a long presentation about the school. So by lunchtime, I was bored out of my mind. And I was starving by the time they led us to the cafeteria for lunch. Too scared to ask anyone if I could sit with them, I sat at an empty table by myself, hoping that others would sit down around me.

I was half-finished with my lunch when two girls asked if they could sit across from me. I said they could. After a few minutes of talking to one another, one of them asked me what year I was in.

They seemed surprised when I answered, “freshman.”

“Oh, I thought you were a sophomore or something just eating lunch,” one of them said.

“Me too,” said her friend.

“No,” I said with a nervous smile, “I’m here for orientation.”

 “We are too,” they said.

I was glad that I didn’t look out of place to them. But that didn’t keep me from feeling out of place. I didn’t know how to continue the conversation. So, I just nodded, and the two of them just went back to talking to each other.

The handwriting analyst

After lunch, we were ushered out to a grassy area by the gym. There, they had different games and activities set up to pass the time. It looked like a mini-carnival. There was a snow cone truck, some backyard games, and a handwriting analyst. I sat on a wall for an hour not knowing what to do with myself before I got in line for a snow cone. After I had finished eating it, I got into the handwriting analyst’s line.

The line was long, and despite getting into it just for something to do, I was anxious to get up there and get my turn over with. I thought it would be interesting. After all, I’m a writer who takes pride in her handwriting. Plus, I needed an ego boost right then and there.

Everyone around me looked like they had been the most popular girls in their high schools. They had blond highlights, wore small, extra short jean shorts, and had big hoop earrings, not the crowd I was expecting from a Catholic women’s college. Nice girls, but way beyond my social status.

Even the few male students seemed to wiggle their way into the girl groups or spent time talking to the event organizers. These organizers told us we’d be hanging out here for the next three to four hours. So, I hoped this handwriting activity would eat up some time.

The handwriting lady’s crush.

A grown man was in line ahead of me. He was a personable dude with short, light hair, dark, thick glasses, and he wore a dress shirt and dress pants. He chatted with the girls in line ahead of him, and then, right before it was his turn, he struck up a conversation with the handwriting lady. It sounded like he was a professor, though I never saw him again after that day.

The handwriting lady sat at a long fold out table with an empty chair directly in front of her and pieces of paper and pens spread out on the table top. She was dressed like a fortune teller, with dark curly hair, a colorful scarf, dark makeup, and chunky jewelry. The professor went on and on about how good he was at math. She giggled at his jokes like a school girl, despite the fact that she was at least 20 years older than him.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

When it was the man’s turn at the table, the handwriting analyst had him write: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” On the same piece of paper, she asked him to sign his name and continued to make small talk as he wrote. When he was finished, he slid the paper over to her.

Instantly, she began to shower him with compliments about how smart and thoughtful he was, about how he had a charitable nature and a mathematical mindset, which he had already explained to her in their previous conversation. She didn’t stop smiling at him the whole time she read him. He beamed right back at her until she was finished. They exchanged grateful goodbyes, and he strutted away.

After she bid him farewell, another girl attempted to cut ahead of me and take the empty seat, but the handwriting lady stopped her saying, “I believe this person was next.”

This person? I thought, but I was happy that she had spoken up. I was tired of waiting in line and was anxious to take my turn. The girl moved behind me.

I sat down. The woman didn’t look at me as she coldly instructed me to copy what I saw on the piece of paper in front of me. It was the same sentence and instruction to sign my name just as the man in front of me had done. She said nothing as I wrote, and I got a weird vibe that her mind was somewhere else now that her favorite customer had left.

My handwriting personality

Once I had finished, I slid the paper over to her. She looked at it for a second and then proceeded to tear my personality to pieces. Her analysis included everything from how full of myself I am to my lack of a love life to my controlling nature. One comment that stuck out was that I didn’t have many friends and was very particular about who I considered a friend.

“You consider it a privilege to be your friend,” she said, matter-of-factly.

I remember my vision growing fuzzy as if she’d just slapped me in the face.

One positive observation

The only “nice” thing she said about me, if you can call it a compliment, is that I’m very organized, and that I make lists in my head. That I don’t necessarily need to have it written down, but I need to go over things in my mind over and over again. This was the most positive thing that she said about me. 

Once she was finished ripping apart my self-esteem, I choked out a cold “thank you.” Then, I got up and left in a daze. I made a beeline to the bathroom just inside the library, not sure if I was going to scream or cry or what.

Instead, I was numb. This was lucky because people kept milling in and out of the ladies room, and I didn’t want to cause a scene. Still, I stayed holed up in a stall for a good 15-20 minutes, taking deep breaths and breaking down everything this woman had said to try to figure out how much of it was true.

Am I who she said I was?

I was only 18 years old. I was in a new place and still a super-sensitive teenager. 

The friend thing is what got me the most. I consider it a “privilege” to be my friend? I had always been shy. My friends had always been kids who had introduced themselves to me first. They were usually outcasts themselves, though not necessarily the shy type. Otherwise, they would have been too timid to talk to me first, and I definitely wasn’t going to initiate conversation.

There were kids over the years who had tried to be my friend. But the quiet girl attracts an odd bunch, the people who everyone else swats away. They were either too odd, or I just didn’t like hanging out with them. Sometimes, it would take months before they got a clue and give up on me. 

Is that what she meant when she said that it was a privilege to be my friend? Was I too choosy, or did I come off as too snobby?

My conclusion

The encounter left me rattled for the rest of the day. Even now, over a decade later, I break into a cold sweat thinking about that moment. I still run it all over in my head to decide if any, or all of it, was true. And I always come to the same conclusion.

There is no truth to this “science” of handwriting analysis.

She’s wrong.

I don’t have a high opinion of myself.

I do need a handwritten list when I buy groceries or make plans. So, she even got that wrong.

And I don’t choose friends like they’re contestants in a game show and the prize is the privilege of my friendship.

Does this explain everything about me?

But even if she is wrong, is that how others see me? Is that why no one besides the girls at the lunch table had talked to me all day?

I was willing to take the blame for not initiating any conversations on my end, but that had been an issue for me my whole life. I couldn’t do that when I was five when making friends was as easy as asking a kid if they wanted to swing on the swings at the playground.

Standing around on a college campus just outside of downtown Pittsburgh with 200 girls I’d never seen before in my life and were the kind of girls who would have ignored me, if not made fun of me, had we gone to high school together wasn’t a good place to start sharpening my conversational skills. But where were the big mouth misfits that always gravitated toward me? Where were my new friends?

Finding acceptance on both sides

I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I talk to people? Why can’t I relate to others? I could go on and on about my flaws and insecurities until I’m blue in the face.

But what about that woman? Her job was to simply to give us something fun to do to pass the time. Even fortune tellers will sugar coat or spin bad news so that their clients get a positive experience for their money. Not that I had paid her, but even so, what was her problem?

And I know that that cold, insulting demeanor was not her one and only state of mind. She had been super friendly to the math dude in line ahead of me.

Why had she suddenly turned into a cold, insulting monster with me, spewing out personal details about me where everyone could hear? Not that she shouted through a bull horn, but there were plenty of people within earshot in line behind me. I avoided their eyes I avoided as I slunk away from that table, mortified. Even now, I imagine them covering their mouths to stifle their laughter while she unleashed her insulting analysis. That’s assuming that they were even paying attention. Who knows if they even were?

A false start

Luckily, that orientation was a complete 180 from my actual college experience going forward. Those blonde girls with the short shorts and hoop earrings disappeared, replaced with bohemian poets, friendly goth girls, and quirky artists who made up my humanities classmates.

These girls wore hipster glasses and long dresses. Their favorite past times included talking about their favorite Harry Potter house and how much they loved knitting or The Beatles. They were nothing like me, but they were interesting and far from intimidating.

These new peers still had to initiate conversations with me. But I found myself able to hold my own in those conversations because they weren’t intimidating. They were individuals who each had their own tastes. Yet, they accepted each other’s quirks as well as my own.

I didn’t need a handwriting expert to tell me that they genuinely liked me, no matter how I crossed my t’s and dotted my i’s. And I liked them too.

Have you ever had your handwriting analyzed? Did you feel out of place at your college orientation? Leave your stories in the comments below!

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