Yesterday was International Left-hander’s Day. Coincidentally, it was also the day I had an online conversation about being left-handed with another UX designer, which made me reflect on how being left-handed prepared me for my life as a UXer.
When I was in the second or third grade, I was assigned a book report and decided to do it about a book I had just received as a gift: The Natural Superiority of the Left-Hander by James T. de Kay. Although I suspect the gift giver was trying to show me how special I was and how great my left-handedness was, what actually happened was a realization about the built world that became a key part of my personality.
Amongst the list of notable historical left-handers was a section about the jobs we’ve been excluded from over the years (Knight was my favorite because jousting assumes two right-handed opponents) and everyday objects that are designed for use by right-handers in ways that make them dangerous for left-handers. It also included examples where subverting the right-handed design of most things gives lefties an advantage. There was an example where an almost entirely left-handed Scottish clan built all their spiral staircases “backward,” which gave them an advantage when fighting right-handed opponents because their shields were on the wrong side when ascending the stairs, rendering them useless. I love that one.
Reading this book revealed something about the world to me. Not just that it was designed for one group of people without considering another, but also that people who are members of an overwhelming majority assume everyone to be like them and then make secondary assumptions about you when you don’t fit in.
As a kid, this most commonly showed up as “Oh, you’re left-handed, you must be SO creative!” and its evil twin, “Oh, you’re left-handed, you must not be very technical/analytical.” This also caused people to reduce my individuality to a single trait. Everything exceptional about me was attributed to my left-handedness. I think this is why I don’t love Personas as a design method. They tend to flatten the idea of individuality and create false correlations between traits.
Once my eyes were open, I started to see how left-handedness could be an advantage or disadvantage, physically, psychologically, and socially. Sure, the days of assuming lefties were evil and smacking them with a ruler or having a priest perform an exorcism until they used their right hand were over. However, there were still a lot of commonly held assumptions about us, and I would have to deal with it for the rest of my life.
Weirdly, this prepared me for one of the assumptions people make about me as a UXer: “You’re a graphic designer? You must not be very technical,” and its corollary, “You code? You must not be very creative.” The same could be said for Graphic vs. UX Design or Design vs. Research. The assumption is that if you are one, you cannot be the other, and being left-handed taught me to expect these paradoxical assumptions and use them to my advantage. By all means, underestimate me.
Another critical lesson I’ve learned about UX by being left-handed is that people who have not lived your experience will not believe you when you tell them about it. I’d like to think I am a particularly empathetic researcher because I’ve experienced this many times over one specific topic: Left-handed Scissors.
For as long as I can remember, Left-handed scissors have been terrible, and no right-handed person has ever believed me when I tell them why. This includes my mother, every teacher I’ve ever had, and several UX professionals, some of whom are very close friends. There are lots of reasons for left-handed scissors to be terrible, but the only one that really matters is that the fundamental design of scissors relies on your putting subtle lateral pressure on the handles as you cut, which pulls the blades together on both the x and y-axis. Suppose you use them with the left hand. In that case, that same lateral pressure pushes them apart on the x-axis, and the material you’re cutting bends and slips between them uncut. Every pair of left-handed scissors I’ve ever used has either actually been ambidextrous scissors (which cannot exist) or right-handed scissors with left-handed handles. None have ever had the blades reversed so that the lateral pressure works the same way as it would for righties. If they exist, I’ve never seen them. Comically, my wife thought she was doing something nice for me (and my left-handed son) and bought us a pair of left-handed scissors, only to prove my exact point. They were labeled as left-handed scissors, but they were actually ambidextrous (no bias in the handles), and the blades were the same as right-handed scissors.
Left-handed scissors being universally terrible is not my point. My point is that no one believes me when I tell them about it. As a child, I found this exasperating, especially when I had to explain why I was using right-handed scissors with my right hand when left-handed scissors were supplied. As an adult, I didn’t think about it much for a long time until I switched careers to UX and found myself explaining to people why they needed to listen to our users about their lived experience, especially when it doesn’t match their own. Now I just find it interesting and perplexing as an example. Why in the world, when I explain this to a person whose job it is to understand and integrate other people’s experiences, would their response be, “That can’t be true. What about…?” If it were one or two individuals, I would chalk it up to individuals not understanding. But it’s everyone I’ve ever met who isn’t left-handed (or a mechanical engineer).
Perhaps most obviously, by being left-handed, I’ve learned that the Pareto Principle is not an excuse to ignore requirements that will keep people safe just because it won’t impact the majority of users. Left-handers are maybe 12% of the world’s population, and yet many things are designed so that they will hurt us if we’re not very careful. That book I read in second grade was for kids, so it featured an illustration of a girl trying to hold the safety rail with the wrong hand while she paid her bus fare, but a much better example is what happens if you use a chainsaw left-handed. Did you know the safety measures on chainsaws only work if you’re right-handed? Did you know that left-handers are five times more likely to die in an industrial or auto accident than righties? I bet you can guess why. Most safety measures are designed based on the assumption that the user is right-handed. Frustratingly, they don’t need to be “handed” at all and are designed this way out of convenience for the majority of users.
Lastly, I’ve learned to pay attention to the way users adapt. If we go back to the case of left-handed scissors, there is only one way to solve the problem: truly left-handed scissors with reversed blades. However, if those exist, I’ve never seen them, so I’ve adapted my own technique for using scissors with my non-dominant hand. This is a more reliable strategy than having left-handed or ambidextrous scissors available (and works better to boot), so I don’t use them even if left-handed scissors are available. Users do this all the time, too. They find a way to get the job done and stick with it even when we introduce a product or feature that solves that problem for them. Sometimes, it’s because we didn’t actually solve their problem, or our solution didn’t fit their mental model well enough. Sometimes, it’s just because they don’t trust us to solve their problem for them and would rather go it alone. It takes real attention, understanding, and insight to tell the difference. Only then can you solve the problem in a meaningful way.
Sometimes, the right answer is not to solve the problem because the user already has a great coping strategy, and that’s fine. That was actually the outcome of the conversation that started this all. I don’t need you to make special accommodations for me as a left-hander on my smartphone. Just don’t design it so it only works for righties. The truth is, I use my phone right-handed anyway. I play guitar, drums, and golf, and I use scissors, a mouse/trackpad, and many other things right-handed. It’s just a more reliable strategy than relying on designers to accommodate me, and that might be the ultimate reason it makes me a better UX designer. I know better than to rely on right-handed designers to solve my left-handed problems, just like our users know better than to rely on us.