That is the answer
I'm not the only person who can't read my students' writing. They can't either.
Although their thumbs are hyper-developed from strenuous daily sessions of text messaging, their fingers lack the practiced dexterity to render faithfully the arcane symbols required in math class. A large majority print everything, cursive being a lost art. Among the printers, a few favor ALL CAPS, preferring not to bother with the trivial distinction between upper- and lower-case letters. I can only imagine what will happen when some of them take their first course in genetics and encounter the usual notation for chromosome pairs: AA, Aa, aA, and aa. I think frustration will be dominant.
Indeed, the big problem is ambiguity. I've been trying to persuade my students that it is important to distinguish between similar-looking symbols. This usually means conforming fairly closely to standard orthography. My more creative students, however, give free rein to their imaginations. Bless 'em all! Why shouldn't they choose to write the Greek letter theta with a vertical slash instead of a horizontal one? They know what they mean. Why is their teacher such a party pooper?
Now that they've met phi, they know. It is the Greek letter with the vertical slash. Several recalcitrant students are now trying to school themselves to to draw the two Greek letters distinctly. Some pounced on the one-stroke variant for phi—one I favor myself—in which the symbol is drawn as a single flowing curve instead as a separate circle and slash. Unfortunately, about half of them start too low and shorten the initial downstroke. The result is a phi that looks a lot like a rho. Is this really a problem? Oh, yes. I'm talking about a Calculus III class in which we're using spherical coordinates. The letters used to represent three-dimensional spherical coordinates? None other than rho, phi, and theta. Yikes!
A recent egregious example of a student unable to read her own handwriting occurred in an algebra class. She was attempting to solve a rational equation whose variable was z. Using a least common denominator to clear all the fractions, she had to multiply each term by a factor of (z + 1). She needed to write down that factor three times, once for each term. She succeeded with the first term, but by the second term the (z + 1) has magically morphed into a (2 + 1). When she wrote the third term, the z's transformation was complete, having become a thoroughly unambiguous 2, sporting a cursive loop that no printed z would tolerate.
I had counseled her on the ambiguity of her z's and 2's, suggesting that she use a European z (“the one with a mustache”), but she had resisted my recommendation. “I can tell the difference,” she retorted.
No, she really couldn't.
We all suspect the source of this problem. These days most of us communicate preferentially by phone or e-mail. We certainly don't use handwritten letters. In classes other than mathematics, where the symbology remains technologically challenging, keyboard skills have become paramount. Handwriting has faded and our students grasp writing implements as if they are foreign objects. Indeed, they are.
I wonder if the curriculum committee would entertain a proposal for a one-unit course in mathematical penmanship?