Sign of the Times
On signatures, Roblox tags, and what we lost in between
Cursive writing is the doorway to one of the earliest forms of self-expression we develop as kids. The signature, creating your own way of writing the letters, your loops, your flourishes, something uniquely ownable and identifiable to you, is the moment you realize you can define yourself. It certainly was for me.
Actually, in 2010, most US public schools removed cursive writing as a requirement. Only private schools and better funded public schools kept it. So being able to write in cursive, to sign your own name, became a quiet class signifier. But for me, it was never political. It was personal.
It was the very beginning of figuring out who I was on paper. When I learned cursive, I immediately started practicing my signature, pulling inspiration from the women who came before me.
My grandmother’s cursive came straight from the Palmer Method. It was precise, measured, delicate, almost dainty with flourishes, but standardized. Her signature was clear and pretty and controlled, exactly like she was as a person. I have samples of her handwriting preserved as recipes written neatly on wisps of paper. Hot rolls with the time in the oven raggedly missing, just after the torn edge.
My mother’s handwriting was a very different story. It was bold and definitive. Somehow simultaneously illegible, her signature leaned hard on the first initials her signature leaned hard on the first initials, breaking through the top and bottom of the line she wrote on. It looked messy, but if you looked closely, you could see textbook-shaped letters. The part of her that’s conservative and traditional that she’d never admit to as a woman who came of age in the sixties. Now in her 80s, her signature remains unchanged, although a bit less firmly pressed onto the page, a clear letting go of the effort and leaning more into the flow.
My own signature evolved over the years. Today my signature consists of defined first initials trailed by letters that have unraveled into a waving line. The perfect combination of confidence and “who cares”? It is what it is. I’m a done deal. But when I look at my kids, they all just print their names.
Their name isn’t an expression; it’s a data point at the top of a page. They define themselves through competition and the things they buy. That’s how they say, “I am here. I’m a winner. This is what a winner wears. This is what a winner has.” And maybe that’s enough. Maybe all of this American exceptionalism is all the self-expression they need.
The true marker of ownership for them isn’t the loop of a letter. It’s their Fortnite tag. It’s the meticulously chosen, unique Roblox name. That’s where they begin to define themselves. No signature required.
This essay has a soundtrack: