The body is a road map of where you’ve been… or specifically, where your body has been. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a topographical map, actually, because most scars have texture and change the landscape. At any rate, our skin navigates the peaks and valleys of our every adventure, and has the proof… permanently.
My first scar arrived around the tender age of 1 1/2. I was running into my parents’ room for goodnight kisses, when I tripped and fell. They had a hard-sided plastic wastebasket by their bed with a very sharp edge — I hit it just right to slice the flap of my right nostril open. Eight stitches were sewn into my tiny nose, and I couldn’t look at a white tablecloth-ed dining room table without screaming for quite some time.
You have to examine my nose pretty closely to see that first scar, but I have managed to do even more damage to my beak over the years. I have a half-moon shaped scar on the other side from the marked nostril from when I was cutting a tag off of a Father’s Day gift and stabbed myself with the scissors. Before you ask, yes I was MUCH too old to make such a mistake at that point, but folks — sometimes we are dumb. (As you might well remember, I also memorably broke my nose, but it didn’t leave a scar — except on the minds of my students — so is not relevant here.)
There is a tiny bump on my left wrist from the IV I had when Emily was born. The nurse had trouble starting the IV anywhere else (this is an evergreen issue for me) and it was bumped around so much that I’ll have the mark forever. One could argue that the C-section scar is a larger reminder of that experience, but the wrist scar is delicate and sweet and sometimes I run my finger over it. The C-section scar, on the other hand, was re-scarred with Billy. Does that make it some kind of Super Scar? Unsure, but it is certainly NOT delicate and cute. It often itches or aches, and occasionally gets infected from where it has created a fold of skin on my belly. Too much information? JUST WAIT.
I also have one of those re-scarred Super Scars on my foot. Why? Because one summer I had bunion surgery. (Hot, right?) It never seemed to heal correctly, and I still had pain walking 9 months later. A follow-up surgery was scheduled for the summer (because why wouldn’t I want to spend two summer breaks in a row in recovery?) and it turns out that one of the screws was poking through the bone and into the muscle, irritating it every time I used the foot. Gah.
My scars don’t bother my vanity, none is particularly heinous, and I am thankful for that. They make for good stories — remember this scene? — but mostly I don’t think about them. They are just a part of my body now. Besides, I have added to the map of my own volition at this point: with tattoos.
When I was a kid, all of my adults advised against tattoos. “Why would you permanently scar your body?” “What if you regret it?” “They’re expensive to remove, and you’d still have a scar.” Being the Rule Follower that I am, I decided I wouldn’t get a tattoo. Ever. I missed the tramp stamp pothole, the cartoon character remorse. I confess to being envious of the sweet daisy on Jess’s ankle, but otherwise? I was happily superior in my untarnished skin. (Except in the places where, you know, I accidentally stabbed myself.)
At some point, however, I became less precious about my skin. Perhaps it was the C-sections. Maybe it was the growing number/size of freckles/age spots on my hands, arms, and face. It might have been the accrual of stretch marks and fine lines. My brother got a tattoo and I thought it was cool. Then MY MOM got one. My mother (one of the “you know it will last forever and you might regret it” voices) got a tattoo of a turtle on her FOOT for her 60th birthday. Well, what the heck!
Leading up to our 10th anniversary of marriage, Dan and I were having some deep discussions about our relationship, and of our life together. We were making big decisions — not the least of which was our determination to move up north to Grand Rapids. We chose to mark the occasion with our own kind of vow renewal, and got our first tattoos. Our artist was a great guy, who loved the idea of our inked recommitment. He spoke to us of relationships and trust while he worked, and we emerged onto the sidewalk afterwards with a glow, and a feeling that a change had occurred.
I loved the feeling of having chosen this commitment (of another sort) of art on my skin, and knew I would want to do it again. Thus far, Dan has not felt that urge — or perhaps the right inspiration has yet to hit. My inspirations have hit in wildly different ways:
The turtle between my shoulders carries the world on his back. While both a nod to Maturin and also an Ojibwe creation story, I also value the idea that it doesn’t matter how slow we may be, how unconventionally beautiful or graceful we appear, we still carry our world on our backs. Though I refer to my turtle as “he,” it seems to also contain a particularly feminine strength.
The gator on my right foot is the memory of one incredible night in New Orleans, when I bonded with a trio of women I only knew from work, as well as a pile of exuberant strangers in a tattoo parlour.
The bouquet of wild daisies on my inner arm were beautifully bestowed to me by Annie Humphrey in the traditional stick-and-poke method. They represent loved ones who have always been in my heart, but are now also in my skin.
The little airplane on my hand matches the one on my mother’s ankle and my daughter’s wrist. Em insisted that we get them after we celebrated her graduation from high school with an adventure in Chicago. Travel is so very important to all of us, and connects us to each other.
We all have scars. Some are visible, most are internal — on our hearts and minds and souls. We also have the privilege to view and examine our scars in our own time, and in the ways that are most helpful to us. There is power in owning all of the permanent marks on and in our bodies — in accepting and celebrating them.
Even that Tasmanian Devil on your buttcheek.
Thanks for reading.
Love, Susie
You can make almost anything funny. Thanks for making me laugh.
Love this, Susie! When tattoos are so meaningful, they are very special!! 🥰🙌