A Pen License

When I was 10 or 11, everyone in my class was being taught how to write in cursive. An important skill for the time, sure, as it was drilled into us that the world we would grow into would judge us by our ability to communicate.

To motivate everyone, each teacher designed their own class's pen license. A piece of paper that was given out to each student who met the standard of writing that was demanded of them for that year. A license to switch to a pen from pencil. No more pencil shavings, no more eraser.

It was hand-crafted, designed and printed by the teacher - including a stamped golden wax seal as the flourish that impressed us all.

Notably, it wasn't a participation trophy - although most students did end up getting one. It was one of the first times I interacted with the concept of meritocracy. I definitely was not the first in the class, nor the last. Nevertheless – I put my head to paper, to put in the hours it took to earn my very own.

What the license meant to us at the time was a sign of pride. Little thought came to any semblance of permanence that pen has over paper, or that we were being taught how to think about what we were doing, or why.

There wasn't any particular reason that using a pen was forbidden - you could always write with a pen. But because in this class it's a privilege, it meant that students worked more diligently to understand the nuances of the challenge that was posed.

In hindsight, it was one of the most beautiful artificial rewards that ended up creating a lasting impression on me and others. I think there's something so magical about the tangibility and pride and joy of bringing something like that home and hanging it on your bedroom wall.

Looking back on it, there was something very human about going through the hard trials and tribulations in order to learn how and why we do things.

Given recent pushes and waves in the technology space - especially in software - I do wonder the impact our industry will have on future generations.

When it comes to our hardships, and how we were taught the "hard" way, I won't cry for the hours lost to problems compared to it being done in a few minutes, but I mourn when the discipline, focus and knowledge of future generations is lost. I don't want them being lazier than we already were.

(To this day I'm definitely far from being a disciplined or focused individual, though I'd be interested to see how deep the idea of lost focus can go).