Scars Not Scarves

Being scarred for life has been made into too much of a negative thing—physically scarred, of course.

Aesthetically, they may not be the prettiest addition to a palette of skin, but they are more than just an alteration of appearance.

After my surgery, one of the most common conversational pieces has been my scars. After all, they are the only visual cues to a story most want to hear.

However, after the story of the scars is over and the once upon-a-time concludes with a fairy tale ending, more often than not, I am told about all the different remedies and methods of fading away these leftover lines.

One thought always comes to mind: why?

There are more than enough reasons for me to hold onto my souvenirs; I had no other choice but to exit through the gift shop.

I share a past with a small amount of people, but one thing is true of all of us—identity. I am sure the day will come when a path crossed with another survivor takes its course, and a common experience can finally be heard.

I have been lucky enough to have similar experiences already while in a neck brace. At a beach volleyball tournament this summer, several strangers giving sentiments such as, “good luck” or “I’m sorry” approached me. My favorite was “F*** necks, who needs ‘em?” But one really got made an impression in me; a lady considering reconstructive surgery of her cervical spine telling me I was an inspiration for her to move ahead and do it. The whole day was pretty empowering to say the least.

But the brace is off now, and I don’t want to give that kind of ability up. I’ve been told it’s a miracle of a situation, but really—it isn’t, and I want to share that with others if it helps.

Besides, it may get me less dirty looks at Ikea when my tiny girlfriend is doing all the dirty work, and her giant boyfriend is instructing, “lift with your legs.”

There is no doubt that it will save a buck or two on future Halloween costumes as well.

Consequently, I definitely appear more dangerous now—daring even, which is the exact antonym of what I actually am. The scar of a knife slicing your neck provides ample street credibility in dark alleys, shady street corners and parks after hours. I look a little bit more like I belong.

My scars may also lead airport security to a more understanding mindset while I set off their metal detectors for the rest of my flying days.

But even more than these simple reasons of vanity and jester, my two scars are a badge of pride and a symbol of struggle—of the past, present and future—that have resulted from an injury that made me a “walking miracle.”

It is often that after a life-altering incident impacts someone deeply, a tattoo becomes a formality of displaying it on body.

For me, that tattoo is not made from ink or made in a colorful, buzzing room. It is made in a white, unwelcoming space from a cold scalpel and a hand more skilled than an artist’s.

And just like a tattoo, these scars aren’t going anywhere.

I’m okay with that.