Her parents were rebels of writing. They both had the most beautifully off-kilter handwriting that ever graced the blank canvas of a page. Yet, a revolving door of teachers and bosses reprimanded her parents for their uniqueness. Bee would later undergo the same disciplinary fate.
Bee’s dad was the meticulous creator. Every letter felt like a patch on a handstitched quilt—with its own color scheme, its own pattern, its own material, its own story to tell.
He wrote in all caps…
WHEN HE WROTE POETRY, IT WAS LIKE HE SHOUTED AT THE WORLD. PERHAPS THAT WAS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE WOULD LISTEN TO HIS INNERMOST THOUGHTS. HER DAD RARELY WORE HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE UNLESS HE WAS WRITING. THIS WAS THE QUIET SPACE WHERE HE COULD SCREAM.
Bee’s mom was the elegant trailblazer. Every letter felt like a figure skater practicing her spiral—one leg extended behind her, leaning the other way for balance as she glided across the ice.
She wrote in backwards italics (slanting left, instead of right)…
When she wrote essays, it was like she was pulling away from the world. Perhaps that was the only way anyone would notice her innermost thoughts. Her mom rarely broadcasted her intelligence unless she was writing. This was the sitting room where she could stand.