Scars

To the guy on the train with the scar on his leg... it's beautiful - don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

This morning a man slid into the seat next to me wearing cargo shorts.  His leg brushed up against mine as he settled in, which caused me to glance down from my book.  As I did, I noticed a large scar on his leg that ran from his outer thigh down to his mid calf.  It was really striking.

"That's a beautiful scar," I said.

"Yeah, right," he replied.

"No really, it's gorgeous.  How did you get it?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"My scar usually freaks people out," he said, "most of them can't even look at it."

"I know the feeling."

"You do?"

"Yeah.  I have a scar on my back from when I was a kid and it tends to freak people out.  I think its pretty, but most people tell me its gross."

"Huh. Yeah, people suck."

I laughed.  "So, how did you get it?"

"Well..."

We spent the rest of the ride into the city discussing scars, how we got them, what they mean to us, how they define us.  How people's reactions affect us.  I learned a long time ago that someone's reaction to my scar is all about them, not me.  When I was a kid I had no problem showing my scar in public, even after a woman tried to insist that my parent's had burned me with an iron (my scar looks nothing like an iron, by the way).  He still seems to get rattled sometimes and lives in the defensive phase, but he hasn't had his scar as long as I have had mine.

"If people's reactions to it still upset you," I asked, "why do you show it?  Why not just wear long pants?"

"Because f*$k them, that's why."

Attaboy.

Our scars are a piece of who we are, a natural tattoo to mark an event in our lives.  Our scars are part of what makes us us.  Without them we would be totally different people.  I can't remember a day when I didn't have the scar on my back, it has always been a part of me.  I have added several scars to the lineup over the years, but that one is my favorite. 

When I mentioned that to the guy on the train he said, "Your favorite?"

"Yes.  I love that scar. You'll love yours someday."

"... I don't know."

"You will.  It's really beautiful."

He looked at me for a long while, measuring me.  "Thank you," he almost whispered.

As we looked at each other in that moment we saw beneath the layers, beneath the scars.  We saw the people. It was an intimate moment between strangers that I won't soon forget. 

I love most of my scars (a few still piss me off) and I am so interested in the scars of others. It seems to be a subject most people don't broach, don't want to know about.  I won't stop asking about them, though.  I respect it when someone doesn't want to talk about their scar, but most people seem to have no trouble telling the story.  They fascinate me.

His fascinated me.

So, to the guy on the train with the scar on his leg... love your scar, man.  It marks an event in your life that you are meant to remember.  It has helped to make you the man you are today, it has helped you see people for who they are when they see it, helped you realize who you are without the physical part of you, the beautiful part. It has marked you, yes, but you live to bear the mark.  You are more stunning because of it, not in spite of it. 

It's beautiful - don't let anyone tell you otherwise.