From Left-Handed to Left Behind

This is a submission for the WeCoded Challenge: Echoes of Experience I have a confession to make: I'm left-handed. Not exactly a shocking revelation in 2025, right? But if I had been born just a few decades earlier, my left-handedness would have been treated as something to "fix." Teachers would have tied my left hand down to force me to write with my right. In my country, I would be BEATEN until passing out for just using my left hand. I would have been labeled as deviant, stubborn, or worse. For those who might not know, being left-handed was once considered an omen, a bad thing. This is shown even in our language: The term “canhoto” in Portuguese probably comes from the vulgar Latin cannus, which meant “twisted” or “crooked”. The idea is that a "canhoto" is someone “crooked”, or outside the norm. In English, "Left" comes from lyft ("weak" or "of no value"). In some places, even a few decades ago, using the left hand for something meant that you were using the "devil's hand". I'm also neurodivergent, though unfortunately, I didn't learn this until later in life. For decades, I just thought I was "bad" at specific things that seemed to come quickly to others. I developed coping mechanisms and workarounds to function in a world designed for neurotypical people. My late diagnosis explained so much about my life experiences, but it also meant I spent decades masking and adapting rather than being understood and accepted. I'm the son of a poor blue-collar family. My first computer was a donated MSX. It's where I developed the love for "programming", as in "solving cool problems". But I didn't have the time or money to have official IT education, as I had to come from school and help my father. I learned by trial and error, in my room, at night and on weekends. For years, even after I finished my graduation, I still heard how my "lack of official education" made me worse than others, more privileged people, even when I was able to deliver more than they were. When I first started working only as a developer instead of a "jack of all trades" in IT, my boss was color blind. It wasn't so bad, he had some problems when red and green were placed next to each other. He was a great guy, and even as I'm more focused on backend, I still remember all the tips I got from him when I'm working on a professional layout today. The interesting twist in all these histories? These differences and these struggles, the same ones society once tried to "fix" or "belittle", have given me unique perspectives and problem-solving approaches that have defined my career in tech. As a left-hander, I've always had to figure out how to use tools and systems designed for the right-handed majority. This made me understand how even simple things can be complicated if you are not part of the norm. As someone with a neurodivergent mind, I process information differently. Patterns that others miss jump out at me. Connections between seemingly unrelated systems become obvious. What some might see as overthinking, I see as thorough analysis. That helped me see opportunities and weaknesses in places no one was able to see. As a self-learner, I was able to understand technology my way, instead of having to memorize concepts. This made me more aware of the possibilities in IT, as "thinking outside the box" was a natural thing. When you're forced to adapt to a world not designed for you, you develop a superpower. You learn to see workarounds and alternative solutions that might not be obvious to someone who's never had to adapt. These aren't weaknesses—they're strengths. They're exactly the kind of diverse thinking that leads to innovation. It's crazy when you think that most of the solutions we have today are based on a white-male-rich-cis-straight-and-neurotypical vision of the world, when so much can be done by looking at the problems with another mindset. The Paper-Thin Protection OK, but now let's get all these personal experiences and extrapolate a little: It wasn't until the 1970s that schools widely stopped forcing left-handed children to write with their right hands. Most workplace accommodations for neurodivergent individuals are still in their infancy, and many companies still view them as optional courtesies rather than necessary accommodations. At least in Brazil, I know lots and lots of companies that do nothing to accommodate people with special needs. Or they comply and work inside the workplace standard, or they are kept unemployed. One day, in high school, a girl asked me "Why did I choose to be left-handed". I always told this story as a joke, because WTF I WAS BORN THIS WAY, but now I see how it's stupid to ask the same question for an LGBT+ person. They didn't choose, as well as I didn't choose to be "different". I just got lucky that my differences are "passable" today for most of society. But here's where things get sketchy: the rights that protect me today are as thin as a piece of paper. One

Apr 6, 2025 - 16:59

This is a submission for the WeCoded Challenge: Echoes of Experience

I have a confession to make: I'm left-handed.

Not exactly a shocking revelation in 2025, right? But if I had been born just a few decades earlier, my left-handedness would have been treated as something to "fix." Teachers would have tied my left hand down to force me to write with my right. In my country, I would be BEATEN until passing out for just using my left hand. I would have been labeled as deviant, stubborn, or worse.

For those who might not know, being left-handed was once considered an omen, a bad thing. This is shown even in our language: The term “canhoto” in Portuguese probably comes from the vulgar Latin cannus, which meant “twisted” or “crooked”. The idea is that a "canhoto" is someone “crooked”, or outside the norm. In English, "Left" comes from lyft ("weak" or "of no value"). In some places, even a few decades ago, using the left hand for something meant that you were using the "devil's hand".

I'm also neurodivergent, though unfortunately, I didn't learn this until later in life. For decades, I just thought I was "bad" at specific things that seemed to come quickly to others. I developed coping mechanisms and workarounds to function in a world designed for neurotypical people. My late diagnosis explained so much about my life experiences, but it also meant I spent decades masking and adapting rather than being understood and accepted.

I'm the son of a poor blue-collar family. My first computer was a donated MSX. It's where I developed the love for "programming", as in "solving cool problems". But I didn't have the time or money to have official IT education, as I had to come from school and help my father. I learned by trial and error, in my room, at night and on weekends. For years, even after I finished my graduation, I still heard how my "lack of official education" made me worse than others, more privileged people, even when I was able to deliver more than they were.

When I first started working only as a developer instead of a "jack of all trades" in IT, my boss was color blind. It wasn't so bad, he had some problems when red and green were placed next to each other. He was a great guy, and even as I'm more focused on backend, I still remember all the tips I got from him when I'm working on a professional layout today.

The interesting twist in all these histories? These differences and these struggles, the same ones society once tried to "fix" or "belittle", have given me unique perspectives and problem-solving approaches that have defined my career in tech.

As a left-hander, I've always had to figure out how to use tools and systems designed for the right-handed majority. This made me understand how even simple things can be complicated if you are not part of the norm.

As someone with a neurodivergent mind, I process information differently. Patterns that others miss jump out at me. Connections between seemingly unrelated systems become obvious. What some might see as overthinking, I see as thorough analysis. That helped me see opportunities and weaknesses in places no one was able to see.

As a self-learner, I was able to understand technology my way, instead of having to memorize concepts. This made me more aware of the possibilities in IT, as "thinking outside the box" was a natural thing.

When you're forced to adapt to a world not designed for you, you develop a superpower. You learn to see workarounds and alternative solutions that might not be obvious to someone who's never had to adapt.

These aren't weaknesses—they're strengths. They're exactly the kind of diverse thinking that leads to innovation. It's crazy when you think that most of the solutions we have today are based on a white-male-rich-cis-straight-and-neurotypical vision of the world, when so much can be done by looking at the problems with another mindset.

The Paper-Thin Protection

OK, but now let's get all these personal experiences and extrapolate a little:

It wasn't until the 1970s that schools widely stopped forcing left-handed children to write with their right hands. Most workplace accommodations for neurodivergent individuals are still in their infancy, and many companies still view them as optional courtesies rather than necessary accommodations. At least in Brazil, I know lots and lots of companies that do nothing to accommodate people with special needs. Or they comply and work inside the workplace standard, or they are kept unemployed.

One day, in high school, a girl asked me "Why did I choose to be left-handed". I always told this story as a joke, because WTF I WAS BORN THIS WAY, but now I see how it's stupid to ask the same question for an LGBT+ person. They didn't choose, as well as I didn't choose to be "different". I just got lucky that my differences are "passable" today for most of society.

But here's where things get sketchy: the rights that protect me today are as thin as a piece of paper. One politician can just bring back the need for everyone to be right-handed. Or can pass a new law where neurodivergent people can't do some types of jobs. Or society as a whole can decide that you are only able to work in IT if you have a very specific and expensive education.

Diversity of all kinds, whether it's neurological, handedness, race, gender, sexual orientation, or any other form of human variation, is at risk when we see ourselves as "better" than other people. The laws that protect diversity exist because enough people decided they should, and they can disappear just as easily if we stop advocating for them.

Why This Matters for Tech

Cool, but what does all this have to do with technology?

Well, everything.

Our industry has complex problems to solve. We need people who think differently, who see different patterns, who bring different experiences to the table. We need the person who asks, "But what if we approached it this way instead?" We need the team member who says, "This design won't work for people like me, and here's why.", or "the way we are advertising our product can be offensive for some people and we will lose this market."

When we push for diversity in tech, we're building stronger teams that create better solutions for more people. It's not about just checking a box saying "OK, I have a person of color, a trans and an ethnic hire, my company is diverse now."

I really want you to pause a little and think: how many times have you encountered a product or service that clearly wasn't designed with certain users in mind? The facial recognition that doesn't work for darker skin tones. The voice recognition that stumbles over accents. The websites that are impossible to navigate for people with visual impairments. The lousy sound that annoys neuroatypical people.

These aren't just minor oversights, they're failures of imagination and inclusion.

The Business Case (If You Ever Need One)

If the moral argument doesn't convince you, consider the practical one: diverse teams make better products and generate more revenue. That is a fact.

According to McKinsey, companies in the top quartile for racial and ethnic diversity are 35% more likely to have financial returns above their respective national industry medians. Companies with more gender diversity are 15% more likely to outperform their peers.

This isn't charity, political correctness, or "wokeness": it's good business sense. When your team reflects the diversity of your user base, you build products that work better for more people. You identify potential problems earlier. You discover opportunities others might miss.

As a personal comment, with only one exception, I only hired minorities my whole life when I needed someone to help me: people of color, women, LGBT, and a white guy. Ironically, the only one who ended up being a challenge wasn’t from a marginalized group.

It's Personal, But It's Also Universal

It's important to stress a fact: I'm not comparing my struggles in life with the struggles of persecuted minorities. I'm sharing my personal problems and experiences because it's one small window into a universal truth: human diversity is natural and valuable.

My left-handedness and neurodivergence are just two dimensions of human diversity. There are countless others, each bringing their own perspectives and strengths to the table.

When I see pushback against diversity initiatives in tech, I can't help but wonder if the people resisting understand what they're really saying. Do they understand that they can also be part of a struggling community? Do they understand they're arguing against including perspectives that could solve problems they can't even see? Do they realize they're limiting their team's potential by restricting the range of experiences and viewpoints available?

I understand that I, as a "passable" white person and as a cis-straight human, have privileges that most people today can't even dream of. But I also understand that it's easy to lose some of my privileges. So it makes more sense to me to defend everyone's privilege instead of attacking people who want the minimum things I have.

Moving Forward Together

So what can we do, as individuals and as an industry?

Recognize that diversity is a strength, not a checkbox: See different perspectives as valuable assets, not obligations or compliance requirements.
Create truly inclusive environments: It's not enough to hire diverse teams if those team members don't feel safe sharing their unique perspectives.
Listen to learn, not to respond: When someone offers a different perspective, listen with the goal of understanding, not defending the status quo.
Advocate for stronger protections: Remember that the rights protecting diversity are recent and fragile. They need active defenders.
Share your own story: Your experiences matter. They shape how you see the world and solve problems. Don't hide what makes you different—celebrate it.

As for me, I'll keep seeing the world in my slightly different way. I'll keep offering solutions that might not be obvious to others. I'll keep reminding people that what was once considered a deficit—my left-handedness, my neurodivergent mind—has actually been one of my greatest professional assets.

And I'll keep pushing for a tech environment that doesn't just tolerate diversity but actively seeks it out, nurtures it, and recognizes its immense value.

Because, in the end, it doesn't make sense to me that we are just a cog in the capitalist machine. We're on the road to building a better world. One where no one has to hide or "fix" what makes them unique.

What's your story? How has your unique perspective shaped your work in tech? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.