Pens, Writing and Memories

A childhood snapshot I have in my memory is of Dad wearing a tee-shirt, dark pants and slippers, sitting at our dining room table signing Christmas cards and addressing envelopes.  He always used a Parker fountain pen to write and there was a bottle of blue-black Parker ink sitting close by on the table.  I recall standing by him, enthralled by his beautiful cursive handwriting and the way the fountain pen flowed across the envelope magically producing letters and numbers.  I was so attentive that he invited me to help him by putting stamps on the envelopes and then sealing them.  I must have been seven or eight years old because that scene took place at the first house he bought in Brooklyn.

The same scenario took place every Christmas, only the routine changed when I was nine years old and Dad asked me to actually sign the cards with his name, mom’s and the phrase “and family.”  I had been learning cursive writing at school for one year already and my handwriting was somewhat similar to his, a bit childish but similar.  I felt so proud; there I was, sitting next to Dad signing Christmas cards; from then on it was our project every season.

I believe that my love for fountain pens and handwriting was forged during those moments.  I now have a collection of seventeen fountain pens that include brand names like Parker, Waterman, Aurora, Namiki/Pilot, Cross, Montblanc and Delta.  Some are gifts from my husband, my sister Abi, and friends; others I purchased either in New York City or through a catalog from a company called Fahrney Pens.  Did you know that there is a pen that costs over $1,470,600?  It is called the Aurora Diamante and no, it is not part of my collection.  However, the last Parker pen my father had is part of my collection, a Sonnet Ciselé; it is priceless.

I love to handwrite.  I remember the penmanship classes in elementary school all the way through sixth grade.  At P.S. 82 on 36^th Street and Fourth Avenuein Brooklyn, three times a week the first class after lunch was penmanship.  We practiced writing pages and pages of the rounded a, the loop of the l and all the other letters of the alphabet plus the numbers.  We even learned how to sit with both feet on the floor and place our left hand on the paper while we used the right one to form the letters (I don’t remember what the teacher did with lefties). Some of the kids hated the class and complained while I practiced and practiced.  Later, during my high school years, I remember taking abundant notes in the history and English classes and then meticulously rewriting them at home because I wanted the notes to be neat and readable when I studied for tests. I was unaware that the act of writing and rewriting class notes was helping me to learn and remember what had been taught.  When living in Puerto Rico, one day I read in El Nuevo Día (the daily newspaper) that La Liga de Arte de San Juan was offering various fine arts courses, one of which was Introduction to Calligraphy.  I shared this information with my sister Lily and she too became interested in the course.  Together we went to Old San Juan for about twelve Saturdays during the mornings and learned about calligraphy, pens, nibs, and paper and the basic italic style lettering. Beautiful writing does not come easy, it requires practice and dedication; though we did not become calligraphers, we enjoyed the course and our handwriting improved.

I still begin all my writing with a pen in hand.  Sometimes I write five or six pages and then keyboard them onto the word processor of my computer.  I may write a sentence or two using the word processor and then print the writing to read and revise by hand.  I cross out, rearrange, add words, draw arrows, write in the margins, and finally go back to the word processor to update the original with all my changes.  Sometimes I print five or six copies of a piece and go through the same process over and over until I am satisfied with the content.

Even though schools across the country are eliminating penmanship classes in favor of keyboarding, emerging research is showing how important it is for children to learn cursive handwriting. In an article by Julie Deardorff of the Tribune Newspapers, she cites research by Karin Harman James, an assistant professor in the department of psychological brain sciences at Indiana University that states that handwriting engages our “thinking brains differently than pressing down on a key.” This is affirmed by Neurologist Frank Wilson, author of The Hand: How its Use Shapes the Brain, Language and Human Culture, who says, "Although the repetitive drills that accompany handwriting lessons seem outdated, such physical instruction will help students to succeed.  These activities stimulate brain activity, lead to increased language fluency, and aid in the development of important knowledge." I am convinced that there is a connection between handwriting and the brain, a connection that frees our flow of thoughts and creativity so we can develop letters, poems, stories, essays, or any other type of writing. 

Going back to my own love affair with handwriting and pens, I love them because my father showed me the beauty of handwriting and fine writing tools.  As a child I admired him in so many ways and did not realize it until I was an adult and thought profoundly about him, that is, how he influenced me and the pride he inspired.  Whatever conflicts I had with him as I grew up are insignificant when I think about his spirit of love, loyalty and determination. In so many ways Dad continues to be present in my life and the lives of my sister and brothers.  His legacy lives on.

                                LEGACY

                             You are gone!

                             Just like that!

                             Quietly, serenely, decisively;

                             knowing your destination.

                             So many times before

                             during your long,

                             drawn out illness,

                             we all thought about it,

                             spoke about it,

                             imagined it,

                             but now it is done.

                             You are gone.

                             The piercing pain of loss

                             breaks our spirit.

                             It is done.

                             You are gone.

                             But...then again,

                             not completely.

                             A part of you lives on

                             in each one of us.

                             You are present

                             in that discerning smile,

                             unfaltering walk,

                             and persuasive talk.

                             You are present

                             in how we view life,

                             in how we live life,

                             in how we share life.

                             Yes...for many,

                             you are gone,

                             but not for us.

                             The essence of who you were

                             remains.

                             That’s your legacy.

                             How comforting to know,

Dad,

You are still with us.

In loving memory of Rev. Joseph C. Santiago, 1921-1998