Jim

Specifically, left-handed fencers perform better on average than their right-handed counterparts.

This is because righties rarely have to fence lefties, while lefties are constantly fencing righties. There's a clear discrepancy of experience. And if a lefty fences a lefty, they'll both feel that they're up against an inverted opponent, so the disadvantage cancels out.

Left-handed people make up about ten percent of the population. Left-handed fencers make up about half of all high level competitors. The inequality is clear as day.

So, should fencing tournaments be divided by dominant hand? As a right-handed fencer, I say no. Sure, it bugs me that I rarely win against a left-handed opponent, but that's just how it goes. Any reasonable person does not begin an endeavor if they can't accept each outcome. And frankly, any outcome in sports should ideally be just doing your best and having fun.

Should fencing be divided by other physical and neurological traits? There are certainly others that make a difference. I've won matches thanks solely due to my height. I've lost plenty of matches due to my slow reflexes. I've lost a handful of matches due to not being very strong.

Some of the traits relevant to fencing have more of an impact than others. Some are correlated with different aspects of biological sex, though there isn't a strict causal relationship. Ultimately no physical trait is as relevant to the outcome of a match as hand dominance is, and while we can have our own opinions on the fairness of a cross-dominant matchup, the fact of the matter is it would be ridiculous to recategorize fencing by any of these traits--including sex--without first taking into consideration the discrepancy between right- and left-handed fencers.

to summarize: it’s bi visibility day. gender is cascading. someone needs to call 911

no context stills:

I loved working with that teacher too. He was the kind of crunchy art nerd whose own kid didn’t know what candy was, who loved bird watching and wearing tweed. We’d chat while they worked and it was just a three hour pleasure rather than work.

When the class switched from charcoal to gouache a devil medium, the evilest watercolor, the students struggled. We’d have in class painting where they’d spend the whole time trying to mix one color instead of just accepting something as good enough and trying to practice other skills.

So one day I showed up to my shift and announced, “I have stickers. If you get color down for the whole composition, you get a sticker.”

They wanted. The stickers. So bad. Students who had agonized before about keeping lines neat and perfect plowed ahead. The first student to call me over I tsked at. “Putting grey on everything doesn’t count,” I chided, “I asked for colors on each object.”

The classroom worked in furious joy, young adults who had seen my bird and cactus stickers and gone feral. The teacher was flabbergasted. “Why do they want stickers? They could just buy stickers…”

I held up my water bottle and showed him a tiny 3D bubble sticker the program director had brought to my game teams space last week. “You never grow out of wanting to earn a sticker.”

Then, “If you can hear me clap twice!” She’d clap twice and there’d be a strong synchronous second clap as we all joined in silent unison, giving her our full attention.

Some teammates felt this was infantilizing but most of us liked it. The reality of trying to rally 20 people simultaneously without shouting meant it was the most effective method any of us discovered.

So one day in class this professor, who refused to raise his voice, tried in vain to get the classes attention. I knew he would loathe what I was about to do but I grinned impishly and said, “Can I try?”

He gave a tired nod and I called, “If you can hear me clap once!” There was a confused array of claps the first time, but the second clap was just as crisp as I could wish. Many of the class looked bewildered that they’d obeyed, but all were silent and attentive.

I looked back at the professor who was visibly cringing into his tweed. “Never again,” he promised me.

Jess I cannot fucking lie to you, being like a Batman '66 style supervillain is my dream job. run around all day wearing a stupid outfit and making puns. silly themed crimes. the Adam West-era villains hardly ever kill anyone, even.