Scars upon Thars

I like scars.  Every scar has a story.  Scars are the physical manifestations of life experiences, experiences worth remembering.  Sure one earns character, and toughness, but you can see a scar.

Some people buy t-shirts or bumper stickers of memorable events; I’d rather take home a nice scar, one with character.  A scar last forever.  Even if it’s hard to see, you still know it’s there.  You always remember.

A scar is like a fireman’s turnout coat covered in soot and char, but much more permanent.  It is a badge of honor.

Up to my thighs in foam and muck fighting a storm drain fire.

A scar happens where you are ‘there’, doing ‘it’.  It comes unpredictably and is never easily won.

Some people, not satisfied with the scars nature provides, decide to take matters into their own hands by getting tattoos.  After all, tattoos are nothing more than designer scars.

I remember a sign my grandpa had that attempted to bestow wisdom on younger generations:
As you go through life, two rules will never bend–Never whittle towards yourself or pee against the wind.
A scar stretches across my first knuckle that shows I finally learned that the whittling advice is sound.  (I won’t say how I learned the truth about the other rule, I’m just glad it doesn’t involve any scars.)

I was awarded my earliest scar (belly button excluded) in 4th grade.  I bought some Mexican Jumping Bean firecrackers before school.  Forgetting that squeezing ignites them, I jammed them into my pocket.  As I ran to class, one of them detonated and sparked a chain reaction that left me doing a fiery Latin dance as a cloud of smoke formed over my head.  My audience burst into applause.  There were no teachers around.  Besides, I couldn’t tell anyone without incriminating myself.  I spent the entire school day with the charred remains of my Levi’s pocket rubbing against a third degree burn.  That was my favorite scar for many years.

My biggest scar is also my most sentimental.  It is the result of a surgery to remove a malignant melanoma.  I was a student without health insurance so the Catholic Community Services clinic arranged for the surgery.  Judging by the jagged scar across the back of my neck, either the surgeon performed the surgery blindfolded, or it was his first procedure.  Even though I tell kids the scar is from a shark bite, it serves to remind me that the kindness of strangers saved my life.

I still can’t think about that scar without remembering my cousin, Brandi.  After battling cancer for five years, she died less than a year after I had my surgery.  But invisible scars are a different matter altogether.

Brandi Jordan

I’ve got scars from wrestling, and some from being the younger brother.  I have one that runs along my jaw that conjures images of swashbuckling and swordplay.   A couple of my scars were given to me by the U.S. Surgeon General.

Richard Carmona, Surgeon General

I earned my most recent scar at the Clarks’ Redneck Waterslide this summer.  Long after my record-setting feat has been forgotten, I’ll still have an Africa shaped trophy on my right shoulder.

I didn't wear a shirt for 3 days after this one.

Mine is a simple philosophy.  Chuck Palahniuk sums it up best in the book Fight Club:  ”I just don’t want to die without a few scars.”

Oh yeah, the best thing about scars–they only come after healing.  So take a few minutes, find all your best scars, and relish in the event, the struggle, the victory.  And if it’s not a good enough story, I’d go with a shark attack.

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