The keys felt like magic at the end of my fingertips.
Once I learned how to type, “sprinting” across a keyboard helped me visualize dreams coming true. Words held power. And magic.
In middle school, I was kind of a big deal…in my head, at least.
At the age of nine—the same age my daughter Gabby is now—I learned to silence my voice to meet the demands and expectations of others. A piece of my identity disappeared.
Until Typing Class.
My teacher had a favorite student, whether she realized it or not. She was one of the first adults who went to bat for me. That felt good after being told to be seen and not heard for many years.
My first typewriter didn’t have letters, so I could truly learn them.
Along with my in-class teacher, Mavis Beacon taught me a few things, too, including how mistyping digits on the number pad would send poor groceries careening off the edge of a checkout conveyor belt. “Playing” cashier wasn’t as fun as it sounds.
Thanks to someone who believed in me, I went on to hone my skills to the tune of 100+ wpm (wpm = words per minute, for those who are curious and counting).
What truly sticks out is…
Words hold power
And power requires responsibility.
I have the power to communicate at my fingertips:
Words can become weapons.
Or wizardry.
Nowadays, my keyboards still don’t have letters on them.
But not because they didn’t have them in the first place.
Because I used them.
Because fluency leaves evidence.
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