I recently had to verify my identity for an old account I seldom use. They needed to compare my signature with the one they had on file. So I signed my name, and the teller told me, “No, more clearly please.” I tried again and she said, “No, more so you can read it.” Suddenly it occurred to me what the problem was…I had opened the account when I was about 12 or 13 years old. It blew my mind to stop and try to remember what my signature must have looked like at that young age. Currently, it is an illegible scrawl…more of an Asian kanji or ideogram than it is any form of a recognizable name. I could see my young self attempting to be very precise and discernable with my penmanship. So, I made my third attempt, forcing my hand to make the strange yet vaguely familiar characters and symbols that form my name, an old representation of me. A myriad flashes of my young self tripped through my head. And for a moment I was awed, thrilled and amused to reminisce on that young girl and felt real gratitude for the woman I had become.
But, luckily for me, I’m still enough of a kid inside that they accepted my final attempt.