Dance Bachata Monologue

I can’t dance the tango, but I can dance Bachata, but they’re not the same thing.

I was four, sitting on my grandmother 's lap, in the living room, watching with awa as she formed beautiful and perfectly rounded cursive letters. After she was done, she gave me the pencil, signaling that it was my turn to write. I took the it into my hand and began to write. I didn’t even finish my first word, when she slapped the pencil out of my hand and said I was doing it wrong. I looked at her confused at what she was saying. I looked at my paper, and I looked back at her. I still didn’t get it.

“What did I do wrong?” , I ask.

“Your hand.” she flatly says.

I become even more confused. “My hand? What’s wrong with my hand?”

“You can’t write with your left hand. That is the hand of sin. You must write with your right.”

“I know how to write with my left hand.”

“That’s what I’m teaching you now. Come child, let’s do it again.” She gives me back the pencil, but this time she puts it into my right hand. I awkwardly grip the pencil, and attempt to write. This time, my letters come out shaky and barely legible. She sighs, and takes the writing implement away from. “We can try again later.”she says.

The left hand is considered the hand of sin since it 's associated with the devil because he believed to be left handed. Now growing up in a religious, Nigerian family of six while being the only left handed person is not fun. I’m constantly subjected to constant corrections, questions, and my favorite, the butt of the joke. Its a normal occuence in the house for when my uncle visits and he I give him something, he’d give it back to me and