The Left Handed Devil
A Childhood Lesson That Took a Lifetime to Unlearn
I was seven years old when the devil took up residence in my left hand.
At least, that’s what my first-grade teacher believed.
We were learning our letters that morning in Costa Rica—a faraway land that had always felt like home. How to sound them out—check. How to recognize them—check. How to draw them on paper—soon to become writing, and that’s when everything went wrong.
The teacher walked past, her hand suddenly flashing from behind her back. The ruler sliced through the air and landed with the crack of a rifle on top of my left hand. My pencil dropped to the floor, my hand recoiling into my right as I looked up, terrified, my face and hand reddening. She hovered over me, the ruler poised to strike again.
“La mano zurda es la del diablo,” she said with cold authority. The left hand is the hand of the devil.
I never expected violence from someone so warm. But that single moment lodged in my bones. When you’re told the devil lives inside you—the part that writes, draws, and creates—something breaks. You begin to wonder if every line you draw might be cursed, every idea tainted, every act of self-expression a step closer to hell.
I was six or seven when I was informed that I had some sort of connection with the devil, and I will be sixty-two in a few months—and still, I am affected. As a left-hander living in a right-handed world, my right hand, along with my brain, has had to adapt. I’m now what’s called cross-dominant: some things with my left, some with my right.
My mother, bless her, caught wind of what happened and promptly pulled me out of the school after “exchanging words” with the teacher. Knowing her, those words were likely, “Chris won’t be in your class anymore. We’re moving to Australia. Have a nice day.” The move was actually to another school in San José, where I thrived—right alongside my demonically possessed left hand.
Second grade came soon afterward, and I was held back—something to do with my reading and writing abilities. I was sure this could only be the devil’s handiwork again. But that didn’t stop me from dreaming. I wanted to be a rock star. On the album covers of my siblings’ records, I saw impossibly cool people holding guitars, and I knew that must be for me.
After sufficient begging, pleading, and pestering, guitar lessons were arranged with a respected local musician who also built Spanish guitars. His instruments were works of art—fastidious, meticulous, uncompromising. His workshop smelled of cedar, varnish, and cigars, and the air shimmered with the promise of music.
On the first day, I sat on a small, humble stool surrounded by wood shavings and curled ribbons of Cocobolo, a Costa Rican hardword often used in guitars. The guitarist told me learning to play was serious business and not to waste his time. I nodded in solemn agreement, already imagining myself on stage.
He placed a small, beautifully crafted guitar into my hands. It was positioned wrong, of course, so I promptly flipped it around—my left hand poised to pluck the divine sounds of soft rock, my right hand fumbling over the frets. Without a word, he took the guitar away, saying flatly, “La mano zurda es la del diablo.”
Apparently, the devil’s work never ceases.
In perfect Spanish, I explained that I was left-handed and needed a left-handed guitar. His reply was short and absolute: “In Costa Rica, that does not exist. And I will not make one. That is devil’s work,” Then he turned expectantly toward my mother.
She looked at me for a long moment before asking gently, “Well, Chris, what do you want to do?”
“I want to learn guitar,” I said. Nothing was going to stop me. When you’re a second grader, the world—small though it may be—is your oyster.
So, an agreement was made for ten lessons. But no matter how hard I tried, my right hand simply would not obey my brain. I fumbled. I struggled. And I cried with frustration. It was enraging, because I knew my left hand would have flown across those strings as if each finger had wings of its own. I set down my dream of rock stardom, and the devil won that round.
Many years later, in high school, a friend with infinite patience—and the kind of friendship that changes you—helped me play again. It was painful. Torturous, really. When the mind and hand aren’t in sync, you start to believe something’s wrong with you. Of course, now I understand what was happening: the neural pathways I was born with were being rewired—from brain to hand.
Today, I have six guitars, and I play all of them. Badly. I keep buying more, hoping one will finally make me better. Once, I could have sworn one of them tried to run down the hallway when it saw me coming. Yes—it’s that bad. But it’s good enough to bring me joy, and for that, I am thankful.
It also gives me the chance to sing, and I love to sing. Thank God I only have one mouth—though sometimes I talk out of the left side of it, but that’s probably just the devil inside, running his mouth.