I have many scars on my body. You don't grow up as accident-prone as I was and not have your fair share of imperfections.
There's the crater on the left side of my nose--that's from the chicken pox. Currently I have two red dots on my left hand from a fall I took a few months ago.
But by far, my proudest scars are the two on my left leg. I tried to take pictures, but they didn't turn out very good. So I'll just tell the story.
When I was three, my mom took Aaron and I to the grocery store. She put me in the child seat of the shopping cart, and left Aaron to watch me for a few seconds while she went to get something in another aisle. He was ten at the time.
To entertain me, Aaron started running the cart up and down the aisle...and then it tipped over, with my left leg trapped underneath. The scream was heard for miles, an ambulance ride ensued, and then I spent days in the Mather Air Force Base hospital with a cast on my leg.
To this day, I have faded-but-visible scars. On the inside of my ankle is a strange, irregular mark. On the outside, there is a "train track" surgical scar from where the doctors went in to straighten my tiny bone.
Mom still can't talk about it.
We all have scars. Some are more prominent than others. I have had students notice my leg when I'm wearing sandals and ask about it. I'm not ashamed of them--they are simply a part of me, like my too-short neck and gap-toothed grin.
Some scars tell horrible stories of abuse and oppression.
Others tell tales of survival.
All scars add character.
And some scars are not visible to the human eye--but they make us who we are, nonetheless.