By Andrea Scarpino
Scars run lengthwise up each of my heels, maybe 6 inches, maybe a bit more, the result of an operation I had at four months old to lengthen each Achilles tendon. When I was growing up, other kids asked about them pretty regularly; a childhood friend once even said, If I had those scars, I would always wear socks to cover them. But most people don’t seem to notice them any more—or if they do, they don’t ask me about them like they used to. I got lulled into thinking they were nearly invisible.
So this week, I tried to console a friend whose son might have the same surgery by showing him my own scars. They’re no big deal, I said. I thought I was offering comfort, pulled up my pants leg, rolled down my sock. He gasped, Oh my god, looked away. I quickly back peddled, Well I’m sure they have more advanced surgery nowadays.
I don’t think he was trying to be offensive—I think they honestly shocked him. And then I felt bad that my attempt at comforting failed miserably, felt bad that maybe I don’t see my scars the way they really exist. The truth is, without them, I wouldn’t be able to walk, wouldn’t be able to flex my feet. Which is not to say I romanticize them—I still have limited flexibility, still have to layer band aids and moleskin over each scar to keep them from blistering when I break-in new shoes. Sometimes they still feel tender. Sometimes I feel nauseated when other people touch them. But they’ve given me more than the inconveniences they create: movement. Freedom.
And the truth is, I like them. I like that they remind me of the frailty and strength of my body. Of every body. I like that they remind me how precious movement is. Help me to find gratitude in the things my body can do instead of anxiety over the things it can’t. I like that, like Achilles, my weakness lies in my heels. Another friend’s seven-year-old daughter recently told me her own birthmark helps make her unique. Isn’t it cool that we have marks that make us different? she said. And I agreed.
So maybe my scars are shocking, ugly, strange. Maybe they’re more visible than I think. But I am so grateful for what they have given me, grateful for the ways they help me move through the world. Grateful of all they remind me about my body, about the bodies of others. I know it’s a cliché but even if I could, I don’t think I would trade them for perfect tendons, for unscarred, perfectly smooth skin. They’re part of me. Part of how I see myself, part of how I understand myself moving through the world.
Poet and essayist Andrea Scarpino is a regular contributor to POTB. You can visit her at: www.andreascarpino.com
Planet of the Blind 
The concept of perfection is so important to many kids. And its easy for adults to lose sight of those feelings, even though we were kids once, too: One zit can feel like the end of the world for a child. And, in the eyes of their peers, those feelings are often justified. Is it learned or is it hard-wired? As is usual in most nature/nurture questions, it’s probably a little bit of both. I always think of the book “Lord of the Flies” for a great description of how a society of children would operate — scary! I liked your quick backtrack — quick thinking like that is really admirable. My dad always says to his children that Father Knows Best always had a speech at-the-ready because he had script writers; when you kids suddenly did or said something, I’d usually just be utterly speechless with my mouth agape.
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