Scar Story

On strange days, when people are wary and loopy together, my friends cock their heads and stare at my nose. Chatter halts and, despite best efforts, my face ignites.

“What are you looking at?”

Often the heads will cock the opposite direction—as if that will change the effect.

“You look worried.”

“I’m not.”

“Do you always look that way?”

“This is my face, thanks.”

“No, I mean worried.”

“Uh, I hope not.” I drop my eyes here, cheeks still blazing. “It was just an accident.”

“Oh, it’s a scar!” They congratulate themselves on the identification.


Yes, it’s a scar. Right across the bridge of my nose, like a bulging slip-stitch. I’m surprised it’s lasted this long; my worst have all disappeared.

.........

It was eleven at night. I sat at Mum’s feet, trying to undo a knot in the yarn without her seeing. Her brow was furrowed over the ears of a floppy white bunny; in a few minutes, she would need the yarn to stitch the face. My three-year-old fingers slipped and stumbled through the soft fibers, making the knot even bigger. I abandoned the bird’s nest and clambered up onto the couch.

“Whoa, hang on!” Mum said, hastily pulling the doll away. “Almost finished.”

“When?” I craned to look. “It doesn’t even have eyes yet!”

“Is it time for you to go to bed?”

I flumped down on my bottom. “Umm, no…” I smiled innocently as possible. “Dad’s not home yet.”

Mum sighed. “He won’t be home ‘til morning, Katie. I told you already.”

I grinned. “Uh huh.”

Rolling her eyes, Mum wound her thread and put it all back in her sewing bag. I hoped she wouldn’t see the yarn. I rubbed my itching eyes.

“Up we get,” she said, scooping me up onto the floor. I might have protested, but Mum warned me never to wake Calvin up. We ambled down the hallway toward mine and Calvin’s room. Mum shushed me as the door opened.

“Will you tuck me in?” I whispered.

“Sure.”

It was dark; I could barely make out Calvin’s monkey head through the bars of his crib. My bed stood under the window, veiled in mountain moon, inviting. I scampered into the room.

My foot slipped. I pitched, face-first, to the floor—with a resounding CLANG! I hit the bed’s iron frame. Pain erupted between my eyes. Calvin woke; his cries mingled with mine—my tears must have been big as Alice’s, how they spilled down my face!—

Mum snatched me off the carpet and sprinted to the bathroom. She wrenched on the water and I stood in the tub, surprised at the torrent of red swirling down the drain. My head was unraveling like Mum’s red thread, leaving nothing at all.

Calvin still cried, trapped in his crib. Mum sat on the toilet with the phone trailing through her fingers. Her telephone voice was still cheerful as ever.

“Yes, I need an ambulance. My address is—”

It just kept going. I stopped crying, feeling dizzy.

“No, I’m in Skykomish, not Issequah! Please don’t transfer—”

The water mixed with blood squished between my toes. It was so warm.

“Okay. No, my daughter split her head open—”

My knees were stiff. Split open—like a watermelon? But I wasn’t a fruit. I sat on the edge and my head quit spinning.

“Thank you so much!” Mum hung up. “Oh, Katie,” she sighed. “You poor thing!”

.......................

Three giant Band-Aids later, the blood was scraped off my face, I was bundled up, and we tromped out into the night. I didn’t care where we were headed. At the end of the gravel road waved red signals, like angry Christmas lights.

The ambulance was stuffy and smelled like rubber. Men swarmed around me—I tried to hide my face—my head throbbed as though a panting dog were trapped inside. One of the men shooed the rest out. He sat me on the cot. He had dark hair and smiling eyes; in his hand was a bright blue bear.

“Look,” he said, putting the teddy in my lap. There was a yellow Band-Aid across its nose. I giggled.

“See, it looks like you!”

I clutched it to my chest. The man helped me out onto the gravel. “See you tomorrow, ok?” he said.

The night was fitful. I slept in Mum’s bed while we waited for Dad; Calvin squirmed and squirmed. I showed him the bear. He fell asleep wrapped around it.
The next day, we arrived at a faraway hospital. The doctor’s office was too bright. I lay on the crinkly paper, wondering vaguely why anyone would put paper on a bed. Mum sat in a chair in the corner, bouncing Calvin on her knee.

“Am I getting better?” I asked her.

“Yep.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. Calvin burbled contentedly. A nice nurse in pink came in and started talking to Mum.

...............

I jerked awake. Six people in white masks hunched over me. I screamed. It was exactly like that doctor show Mum and Dad always watched! Was I trapped in the TV?! I screamed and screamed—the nice nurse reappeared, trying to shush me, asking if it hurt—it didn’t, but I just couldn’t stop roaring—I wished they would all disappear—the nurse grabbed a needle and the masked people held me down—

When I came to, the masks had gone, replaced by tons of balloons. I sat up, amazed. Had it been a dream? Mum sat smiling in the corner. My head felt sore; I fingered my nose.

“Careful. Don’t undo the stitches.”

“Stitches?” I asked, confused. Like the unfinished rabbit’s face. Would I be turned into a doll too?

POW! Calvin had popped a balloon. He clapped happily, chasing after a second.

I shook my head. “Can we go home now?”

Mum laughed.

“We can’t fit all these in the car,” she said, gesturing at the balloons. She looked mischievously at me. “We could leave Calvin here,” she suggested.

The baby looked up at us and slobbered all over his green captive.

“No!” I slid off the cot. “I don’t like hospitals. He shouldn’t stay here.”

Mum laughed all the way out to the car, balancing Calvin and his balloon on her hip. I couldn’t figure out why.

This Is My Anthem

I will not be guiled

I cannot be cheated, stolen, or bought
I will not be replaced with someone I'm not

I will tend and mend and befriend
And never, ever end

I will laugh at me
I will be fierce and I will be tender
Believe in man and always defend
Their divinity

They will not find me guilty
They cannot shut me down
And when they lose everything
It is I who will be found

I will not settle for less

I will live
With wild abandon
I will stand and reprimand
And when push comes to shove
I'll still believe in love

I will not fear

I am an old soul
And I'll live without shame
Take all my pain
And swallow it whole
Till it bursts from my fingertips
And the ends of my hair
And transforms

I won’t regret that I still breathe

I will sing
I am small but
I will give until I have it all

I will kiss the rain
Scold the sun
Shoot the breeze
Live in the trees
Chase the shadows
Climb the dawn
I cannot be tamed
Kidnapped, scared or maimed
By their poor tries
To control

I will never wear, bend, or break
I will be strong
I'll carry on

I'll show them all
Who they really are

I will break free
Carve my destiny
Out of a muddy world

I will be sure
That when it seems to end
It is only
The beginning

This is my anthem

To the Writer of "Mens' Fashion Rights At BYU"

(This is a response to the hideous slough of articles published in the Daily Universe's Viewpoint January 23, 2009.

The catalyst? An editor who, shocked that students did not respond to an article labeled "Gay Fashion" printed a few days earlier, demanded that BYU students show a "little more passion.")

.................................................................................................................

In response to the valiant effort to fight for mens rights and against male sexism everywhere, I prefer to answer the writer's demands that we conduct our affairs with “a little more passion.” Dear, as cute as you and your sentiments to fight the good fight are, perhaps you will allow me to instruct you on the ways and means of what you call “passion.”

Upon coming to the university, I rather expected educated people to care about something with a little more substance than we did in high school—but am unable to find anything beyond complaints about cleavage, the Bookstore, PDA, what he said, what she said, or some other pathetic offense. Like you all think you're so original.

While you carry on about BYU fashion injustice, may I remind you that children are starving to death every day—within the United States? Gaza has been torn apart by tanks and rocket fire for three weeks and has received no aid. The first African-American president was inaugurated less than a week ago. The Executive, the Senate and the House are all now Democratic. Guantanamo Bay will close and its 245 detainees released to U.S. Attorneys within the year. The Congo and Rwanda have formed a military alliance against Hutu insurgents after decades of hostility. Last year, the UN removed its surveillance from North Korea's main nuclear complex in Pyongyang. Two in China face the death penalty for selling watered-down milk that has killed six infants as of now, yet six doctors in France were acquitted from a case of negligence that killed 114 people.

Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Is no one enraged at the fact that trillions of dollars change hands each year in the human trafficking of over 27 million slaves worldwide, including sex slaves and child soldiers? Does no one care that over ten million females have been aborted in India because their dowries are so expensive, or that 2,500 bride burnings are reported annually?

There are things that matter. And things that don't. In the paper written by students for students, I expected better than this. Forgive me if I've offended anyone who's ever written to the Forum—or for the entire Daily Universe. There are 35,000 people on this campus; studying, testing, doing homework, putting together theses and projects and lessons to accomplish what they are passionate about. So they don't care about some kid saying men look gay in V-necks; so what? The writer seems to think these soon-to-be lawyers, doctors, teachers, engineers, artists, writers, and musicians have no passion.

Last semester, I viewed some of this passion first-hand. In addition to their schoolwork, my roommate found the time to put together Christmas care packages to comfort a few of the 200,645 men and women serving in Iraq. My visiting teacher and her roommate brought relief to countless victims of domestic violence at the Center for Women and Children in Crisis. Ward clerks tutored kids with Downs at the local elementary school. Our FHE mom organized groups together to sing and play music in Provo nursing homes.

But why did no one hear about it?

Because these gormless freshmen would much rather put their variety of talents into the work they cared about than insert articles alongside “Mens Fashion Rights at BYU”. They refuse to belly-ache and whine and waste their time writing down wailing articles about how things ought to be—they take their passion and make things how they ought to be...if only for their small moment.

If the DU would rather we were like Heather Fraley and her noble cause for Facebook breast-feeding pictures, then I apologize in advance. Perhaps more of us actually believe the world is our campus—and not the other way around.

Caution: Rameumpton Under Construction

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my very first weblog! Here, anything goes.

It may be a slow, awkward, foolish start, but it's all going here. (I should've started one of these years ago. )

If I succeed in offending you, your mother, your childhood idol, your parakeet, the mailman, or that nice old lady down the street--please understand that it is nothing personal. Truly. I am simply a teenager with big ideas about the world and her place in it. I offer a cheap telescope so that you may see a little of what I see.

Yours respectfully,

Katie