Out Out Damn Spot

As a child, I was plagued my own imperfection. 

I was born with a birthmark on my thigh.  It is no big deal really—a “café-au-lait” spot around an inch in diameter.  It is not raised; nor does it raise any medical concern.  It is just there, and that was the problem.

My beloved great-grandmother, who I saw regularly, had the same spot.  Hers was on her cheek, providing the illusion that she was kissed by the gods.  But she was an adult; it was no comfort to me.  Everything is so much harder for kids.  As kids, we have the weight of the world on our shoulders, not to mention the harsh scrutiny of dozens of catty classmates.  If you are not wise enough to get ahead of your flaw, it can quickly become your eternal weakness.   

Around the age of seven—when kids become cognizant of differences among them—my birthmark was, if you’ll pardon the pun, spotted.  When one quick barb from an aggressive classmate drew an immediate reaction from me, the youthful offender knew he had found blood.  From that point on, there might as well have been a sign permanently adhered to my back saying, “Kick me.”  My insecurity—it was shame, really—exaggerated the impact of this congenital smudge until I felt as if it was larger than life.  Who could see me for who I really was when blinded by this hideous splotch?

Growing up in South Florida this “defect”—for indeed it was one to me—was hard to disguise.  We spent a lot of time in the pool or at the beach in bathing suits.  As a girl, we were required in those days to wear dresses to school.  Even though policy dictated a skirt length that just about covered the mark, it became easily visible when I sat down.  And on the weekends, when shorts were the only appropriate attire, I was paralyzed.  One day I realized that my birthmark fell at about the same height as my hand.  I spent years of my life walking with my left hand clasped to my thigh.

Secretly, I tried everything but witchcraft to eradicate this embarrassing mark.  I used to scrub it almost raw in the bath each night hoping that the stain was only skin deep.  I tried dabbing Clorox on a sponge and saturating the area, hoping to bleach it out.  Once, I even cut a piece of construction paper in the shape of the mark and attached it to my leg while sunbathing, expecting that I could tan the rest of my body until the offending spot was obscured.

Thank goodness for the relaxed attitudes of the 60s.  By the time I hit junior high, we young ladies were welcome to wear jeans to school.  It would have been the end of my self-imposed stigma were it not for the hideous bloomer-style gymsuits we were forced to wear in junior high.  Fortunately, high school opened a new world to me, turning my sights from my own self-indulgence to more important priorities. 

Years later, when my son was born, I did as all mothers do:  I scanned him from head to toe.  He was long and thin, fair-skinned with hair so platinum it was almost invisible.  Eventually I found what I was looking for, a dime-sized birthmark folding over the edge of one ear.  I smiled inwardly at glorious inevitability of DNA and held my baby close.  He was perfect.

Tomorrow's blog:  Where's Johnny?