From Broken to Beautifully Broken

My first crack

In all the years that passed after the accident I never thought about my scar. Yes I thought my mom was so annoying when she loaded my face up with zinc before we went on the beach or before I played outside, but I never thought about my scar. My scar was a part of me. I grew up with my scar. I didn't know my face without it! It wasn't weird to me that I had it on my cheek and none of my other siblings or friends did. I honestly did not even notice it until one day at recess. I was still in that same catholic school and had just approached the final months of 7th grade. At this point the desire to send your kids to catholic school had faded and I had 9 kids in my class, 5 girls and 4 boys. Three of the four boys were dating three of the five girls. Guess who no one was dating, me. I didn't care one bit about that because those 4 boys were not attractive to me in any sense and dating was not something I was interested in. I was still playing manhunt with the kids on the block and riding our bikes after school. Who the heck happened would want a boyfriend. Not me, that's for sure! The three ¨couples¨ and the rest of us were all playing basketball together and I missed one of the shots (I am the least athletic person in existence). I giggled knowing it was typical of me but one of the boys said something that started my first ¨crack¨. It was my life's second curve ball.

¨Jesus scarface, can't you make the shot.¨ Scarface. It was the first time I had ever heard that word referencing me.

Many would say that my first crack would have been the accident itself. That wasn't a crack. That was a curveball, but that accident proved me to be a survivor. The accident itself didn't break me, what came from it years later did. All I know is that I didn't feel this kind of pain in the accident. What I felt then was physical pain. What I felt now was emotionally unbearable. I had never experienced this type of emotion. I am not even sure there is a word for this emotion. His voice was playing over and over in my head. I felt lightheaded and I could hear my pulse in my ears. I had a lump in my throat and a confused look on my face. The playground was spinning. The girls immediately ran towards me seeing that I was processing what just happened and were fearful of how I would react. So many things immediately ran through my head. Did everyone notice my scar? Is that why none of the boys wanted to date me? Am I ugly? Was everyone secretly calling me this awful nickname and if so, is that how people identified me, as scarface?? Was it really that weird that I had this scar? Do they even know why I had this scar? My head was spinning with thoughts and the only thing I could do was run. I don't remember exactly where I went until the recess teacher rang her big gold bell, but I know my stomach hurt thinking I would have to walk back into a room with these kids until the day was over. I decided I needed to get out of there. I went to the nurse and told her my stomach hurt. Not a REAL lie, considering my stomach felt like I got punched in it. My mom came to pick me up early and she immediately saw I was visibly upset. She probably gave me some sort of pep talk after I told her what the boy said. She probably tried to console me and tell me that I was beautiful. I don't remember. I do remember my mom coming to the school the next day and jumping out of the car when she saw this boy. She told him if he ever called me that again she would chase him with her frying pan. Sounds completely abnormal but the boy was scared. Probably more so because our moms were friends. Unfortunately he wasn't scared enough. He continued to call me that new nickname, except now it was more so behind my back. I would hear the whispers or the laughs and know it was something they were saying about me. I never said a word about it again. Not to my mother or my teacher or even to the girls who were my friends. The more I ignored it was going on, the more I could pretend it actually wasn't happening.

In a school this small it was hard to do any of the fun stuff that most public schools could do. We didn't have an eighth grade trip to Washington or the teen canteens that other middle schools had. Instead we had ¨dances¨. The 6th, 7th and 8th grade students in my Catholic School would join other Catholic schools and have dances in the auditoriums. Once a month different schools hosted and most times we would have refreshments and some speakers on the stage playing music. Once in a while a slow song would play and people would dance together. This was the kind of slow dance that makes me cringe today. The girls hands are on the boys shoulders while his hands are wrapped around her waist and they sway back and forth barely moving their feet. SO WEIRD! I think that today I think of this type of dancing in a bad light because no one had ever asked me to dance. Not just from my own catholic school, but from the others as well. There could have been a hundred different reasons why no one asked me to dance, but at 12 years old the only one I could think of was my scar.