I loved Whispers for her honesty on this one. To me, talking about the ugliness or awkwardness or maybe-beauty of my body was too personal—way too personal, even for me, the one who has no real filter for that kind of thing. As it were, talking about physical scars was the least intimate I could get with you while still saying something that related to the prompt (as it turns out, Dr. PD had to totally redirect everyone after I set us off on some random course, so that didn’t turn out as well as hoped). But Whispers talked about breasts, and I loved that. My breasts get in the way of literally almost every single thing I do. I can’t decide if I love or hate them, and I think it’s probably both, but…my chest isn’t actually the point I’m trying to make. What I’m trying to say about this blog is that I have only been free to rise to the level of what everyone else is doing. If there hadn’t been some vulnerability from others on that first blog assignment, I would have stayed clammed up all semester. As a writer who practices her craft in the public domain (ie as a girl who blogs) this matters very much to me—if I hadn’t had you all to lead the way, what would I have been willing to say? Conversely, if I hadn’t been afraid that you were all going to hate me, what would I have voiced that I have kept silent here? It’s worth considering: the collateral damage of a blog against its collective benefit. 1:31.
I’ve decided that scars are ugly. They are. There is no way to make them pretty or to talk about them as being pretty. End.
I consider mistakes scars. And if mistakes were “beautiful,” they wouldn’t make me cry, I wouldn’t regret them, I wouldn’t wish them away…I would appreciate them, I would have learned from them, I would have benefited from them. Scars make the hands clenth, the shoulders droop, the eyes fall, the voice whisper.The only thing I learned from mistakes/scars was how to be more guarded, more walled up, more callused.
I don’t think the ugly things are beautiful. I think it sounds like a pretty idea, to make something ugly into something bearable, but the truth is, I don’t think many of the ugly things in our lives can be magically transformed. That’s why they’re called scars, they’re pretty permanent. I belive in grace, and forgiveness and I believe these things can make our scars beautiful, but on their own, I think there’s no hope.
So yeah, I just figured out that I think the ugly things in my life are really just as ugly as I thougth they were. Even if I have calluses from playing my beautiful guitar, and I love them for allowing me to play my guitar…they’re still rough and ugly. But I don’t mind them, it’s just the way it is.
Buuuut, just because they’re ugly doesn’t mean I don’t learn from them. I wish I didn’t have to learn from them, but I do. And reading all of your portraits, I saw your scars, long fingers, 6 ½ sized feet, your “stub like legs,” and eyes. And I learned from them. I guess I saw you more, not that I don’t see you three times (sometimes twice) a week, but I actually looked at you and saw what it was you were trying to tell me about yourself, not just about the way something looked.
So here is my conclusion. I learned that scars are ugly, and though they may come from doing something beautiful or remind you of something beautiful, they aren’t necessarily pretty. But, after reading your blogs, I decided that yes, they may be ugly, weird, or whatever you think of them, but they don’t make you as a whole ugly. In fact, they make you unique. They make you, you. Maybe a you who had to cry first, and then laugh or a you who had to watch the skin on your chewed fingernail grow, but in the end, you scars and “self portraits” became like little photographs that, once pointed out to me, told me a honest story of who you are.
Portrait of my body...what did I learn? I learned that every scar has a story. Both physical and emotional. And these stories define your character. I ran into a door frame when I was eleven. I remember it vividly. I was excited and running out of the door down the hill to a travel trailer that my dad and sister and I were camping out in.
I was trying out for the cheerleading squad the next day and I was anxious to show my family my moves. I cut my arm on the door and remember it hurting but not really caring. When I made it to the trailer/camper my dad said, "Court you're bleeding" and gave me a band-aid. It was so insignificant. I had so many other things on my mind. I never suspected there would be a scar. But there is. It's tiny. Barely visible. But I know it's there.
I'm careless. I act first, think later. And when I'm excited...well it's all over then. I have burned myself because I was too impatient to wait for my food to cool. I have cut my legs shaving because I overslept and I was in a hurry. I have even fallen on a pile of boards because my sister and I were playing tag on them. (That one put me on crutches.) Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just last night I left my debit card at Red Lobster. I have missed this class before because I have lost my keys. Careless.
But this is me. Who I am. I've accepted my flaws that plagued me as a teenager. Reading this post helped reassure me that no one is 100% secure in themselves. But in learning that, you accept yourself.
You can talk of your flaws poetically, as part of your story. This way, when I tell you about the time I cried at Captain D's because they didn't have what I wanted you can find it endearing and not annoying.
I loved how so many of you were so honest and personal when it came to this blog. This is a really personal issue and one that many people want to shy away from. Even as I am writing now I am reminded by what I said about my eyes. They are the thing that I like the best, yet they are one of the weakest parts of my body. I can’t even sit here and type without wearing my glasses to see, they hurt and sting from too much reading in dim light yet I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I look at my arm and I see a big ugly scar that I got from cooking when I was in high school. Yet that scar will always remind me of my mom and the fun that we use to have when I was at home, I look at my little finger on my right hand, it bends to the right from when it was broken and didn’t heal right, the scar on my left eye from where I gashed it when I was a baby. The ugly chicken pox scar that I have on my face that makes me self-conscious, yet when I look at it I remember how fun it was when me and my sisters were all sick together. I have to agree with Martha Lee scars are ugly but they can remind you of beautiful things. I have scars you can’t see either. They are on my heart and in my mind. Scars that make me more cautious when it comes to trusting people, scars of losing people that I love dearly, scars that come from growing up. I really do think that the imperfections make us beautiful. They are what tell stories about who we are and what we will become in spite of them. I was not ok with bringing up my imperfections back when we wrote this but it’s ok now. Because I know that it is what makes me. . . me, and I will go ahead and tell you that.
Oooo. Scars, beauty marks, flaws, and body image. Should be fun. These are the things that set us apart, make us unique in our insecurities, while drawing on the similarity of our humanity, right? (We all have hands. And if you don't I imagine you're insecure about the loss). But really I notice we wrote about fragments of ourselves, little physical manifestations of our personalities: a scar representing a memory, a feature representing a family member, an insecurity harvested from the past. Images of green olive skin, short stubby legs, beautiful blue eyes, and cracked bitten fingernails appear like mile markers on a journey discovering the images of our bodies. The body is just a collection of it all onto the blank canvas we have genetically been provided. Now it's up to us to make of it what we can, and hope to God (is he the one responsible for all this?) that someone else will understand. The search for acceptance and understanding of our scarred, uniquely proportioned, and intensely personal bodies. You would think by focusing on the physical we could have avoided emotion for once. But really it’s impossible, the body is so attached to the mind and soul, that any attempt to separate one from the other would, I assume, be like getting your hands cut off (or the other obvious one, like dying). But I like to think the truth is somewhere, lost between the mind and body, searching for a way out. The beauty marks, scars, and unordinary features are the truths attempting to come to the surface and give everyone a chance to see a little bit of our story on the outside. Actually, it’s a lot like our writing....
I refused to post on this initially. Why you may ask? My official reason was that I couldn't do it without implicating others (and that still is part of the reason, I did write a response to this, I just refused to post it) but the deeper reason, the reason that even that response was a cover-up for, was insecurity. I've never been a pretty girl, I'm well aware of that fact. I've always gone the way of "not caring" about physical beauty. And to respond to that blog would have been to admit that I do care. That I know that my heels are callused, and my legs scarred, that my face looks like a moonpie and my hands - which could have been beautiful - destroyed by years of incessant chewing. And more importantly, that I acknowledge these things are ugly, and it bothers me. I've always refused to be that girl who picks at every single feature and can never be satisfied with her body. But maybe that's all a facade. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to admit that I too have insecurities and self-image issues and that that's ok. It's ok because it's part of who I am, and if there is one thing we have learned in this class, it is to be honest about who you are, eh?
Body image. Oh goodness. Is there anyone who doesn't have issues with this? It's like stripping yourself naked in a room full of Victoria's Secret models, but I guess I should be used to that since that's how I feel when I post last on the blog. So what did I learn...what did I learn. Scars are beautiful. Nah...I knew that. They make us who we are. Nah... I knew that too. Maybe that we are all the same? Hmm...This seems interesting. I think regardless of backgrounds, opinions, nationalities or religions, our human nature is exactly the same. We have been told since we could understand speach that "there is no such thing as perfect." And I can't decide if this is good or back for society. It is supposed to be leveling the playing field, making us able to be on the same level as others. But maybe it's all making us reach for something that is unattainable? Maybe by telling us no one is perfect it's only encouraging us to keep trying to attain it.
I don't think I responded to this blog and it's because a) I didn't know what to write about and b) I didn't like it. I won't apologize for that because it's not in my nature anymore to be sorry. It seemed at the time to be a girly kind of subject, anyway. I think that's because most guys (I would hope...at least I fit this category), just don't really think twice about scars. Or maybe they do. I can't decide. I think there are some guys who act like assholes and treat scars like fishing stories and there are some who are conscious of them for a little while but then forget about them. I like to think I'm the latter category (no offense to those who actually get cooler scars than me fighting in Iraq or something. In my book, you can brag all you want about that because, quite frankly you deserve to, sir. You've earned it). Honestly, the only legitimate scar I have is on my lower back from surgery a few years ago. There is nothing cool about it except that as it was healing, it became the only spot on my entire back that actually grows body hair (found that out the hard way ripping the bandages off to take out the stitches). Other than that, it just looks like a coin-slot on steroids; an extension of my butt crack. It makes for good conversation, though.
That's all I have to say about this post. There is nothing profound to me about scars and I'm not about to come up with some kind of bullshit to express otherwise.
“Scars are one of my favorite things. It's not a noble thing-- I like them because I have so many, so I want other people to like them too. I want to negate the bad things in me by pretending to love them” (Josie). Josie claims to have thought that originally, but sure she heard me muttering it to myself in the halls. The only problem with my tactic regarding my scars is that I waffle on what I think is good and what I think is bad. I’m not so sure what is scar and what is skin. I do know that I can’t date a girl taller than me, that Jeggings are hot on some people, but disastrous on others, and that my evaluation of my own attractiveness must be the most fragile sentiment available to human emotional capacity. I’m not fat or ugly or anything, and of course this will seem arrogant, but my looks have become more and more important to me because they’ve become more and more important to others. When there weren’t lingering glances, unsolicited numbers, or edifying remarks—I actually had a healthier state of mind regarding not only my body, but all of them. But because my looks have been praised, I want looks to be important. But the more important the aesthetic becomes, the more I need to glances, numbers, and yes-- the carnal.
I'm still learning about myself. I hope this will always be true. This has been possibly the most difficult semester of my life. Describing yourself effectively is difficult, and takes bravery, or at least boldness, because it can often sound like false humility or arrogance (depending on the slant).
I'm learning that I don't always say everything that I have to say, and that I often just let the words pour out of my mouth. I'm learning that people often feel overwhelmed by the rapidity with which I gather my thoughts and regurgitate them, so they often think of my thoughts as being regurgitated.
This blog reminded me that I have so much left to explore about my self, and that I can be a better lover of people. It reminded that I can be a better lover of myself as well, and that there are thoughts I've had that haven't been explored. I think for a while I became tired of things I've thought over and over again. But I'm ready to end this season, and begin a new one.
It's interesting, it seems no one on the blog was content with themselves, which I think is great. Like Josh said, "I'm still learning about myself. I hope this will always be true." The most popular trend was that people like one thing about themselves, whether it be their eyes, or their hair, or their hands.
Having to create a portrait of your body, isn't any easy task. You could be arrogant and describe yourself as a greek god or a Victoria's Secret model with no imperfections.
I loved Portia's quote: "They can be very seductive like Medusa, so guys don't look to close... you just might get caught up in its trap of many. I always smile even with my eyes."
Like I said some talked about body parts, but many talked about scars. Scars are by far the most interesting thing on a body because they come with a story. Almost like an injury with its own personal memoir to back it up, I guess. Personally, I think the only thing I have going for me is a smile. There is nothing profound or sexy about it, I just love to smile and it shows how happy of a person I am.
Dammit, I didn't post on this one originally either. I guess I got a little lazy. =/
I'm not really sure what to say either. I love what Trillium wrote. It was beautifully honest. Mad props to you, girl.
My body is what it is. Despite years of ballet I carry myself with zero balance and grace, my boobs are too big, my ass is concave, my neck is too short, I have permanent dark circles under my eyes, and I have chicken legs. But it's mine and I love it anyways.
And I think that is important. I have known so many people who have unhealthy self-image. Own your flaws, I say. Your body is part of your story (continued from the previous post). I find it so interesting how old presidents get when they finish their four year terms. Their eyes and their faces tell the story of all the stress that they see on a daily basis. I guess running a country will do that to you.
Seeing my Dad for the first time in 5 months after he had been dealing with his MS diagnosis-inspired depression and insomnia, I could physically see his pain. To hear it in his voice is one thing, but to see it on his face and body was entirely another. He was thin, and weak looking. Each step he took looked like his shoes weighed 200 pounds. I have to look away sometimes. He used to be so quick and strong.
This was my best blog by far. I never really thought about how your body can tell a story until this blog topic.
Josie- you, my friend, are in your own league. You have beautiful writing and I love your entire blog post about your scars.
I think this round I'll write about something more holistic. My entire body. Needless to say, post Victoria's Secret fashion show last Tuesday I might become a rabbit and eat nothing but grass and carrots. Seriously.
Overall, it's not that bad, but it took me a while to get there.
I was always the tall girl throughout middle school. Puberty came early and I hit my final height in 4th grade...a whopping 5'2.Clearly my dreams of walking the runway are immediately shot down, but with my short legs and freakishly long torso comes a beauty that Amazon goddess can't really embrace. 6 in heels!
The discovery of tanning beds became my guilty pleasure in high school. I was always the pale girl, and I mean ghostly pale. I guess with being the bronze bombshell that I was, I also developed an early onset of wrinkles. Yes, what they say about UVA rays being terrible for you is true. STAY AWAY FROM THE SUN!
So now, I have completely embraced being the almost legal midget with red hair freckles and skin that burns in the dead of winter that I was always destined to be.
Yup, half-assed this one too. Feeling guilty about that right about now.
I'll tell you, though, that not much will make you feel as lame about your own body as being a scrawny white kid trying to run hurdles/sprints, even just in high school. It was around my third year of high school, when the hurdles started getting higher and I stopped growing, that I pretty much gave up on trying to be an athlete. I kept getting hurt, my feet were scarring on the inside, my Achilles tendon was tightening, and I was too small to throw very well. I decided that I'd just stick with being a band nerd.
My most significant scars are on the bottom of the muscles in my feet, and after football games and band camp (less scandalous than you're led to believe) they're hurting so bad that I just sit down the rest of the day. They're more personal than the scar on my finger from where I cut myself in kindergarten, or the chicken pox scar on my forehead that I don't remember getting, or the one on my chin from an iron that fell on my face. But I think I like the ones on my feet more because they weren't by accident. They happened because I was doing something that I enjoyed, and was willing to sacrifice part of myself to do, even for a short time.
“I wash my body, and dress it, and take care of it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite part is the part no one can see. I like the me behind the body. That’s the part of me that’s the ugliest:…” I think Martha Lee Ann said that the best. All the people that spend hours working out and trying to take care of their bodies or even though that invest all of that money into plastic surgery still see what is really there. In thinking about my body as art or a lack there of, it reminds me of how we all see things so differently. I am sure we can all agree we see flaws with our body that no one else can see because we are our own worst critics. Like I mentioned the first time around with this blog, I was so ashamed of my birthmarks that I never wanted to wear shorts, but when I got older I started to get a lot of comments on my “long, athletic legs”. It took me forever to actually start to take this comment seriously because I had been so self conscious all of this time. Now, I actually do love my legs because they are me. Without them I would not have been able to dance for more than ten years or to run and experience my life as I have. On another note, I always make the joke that I cannot get engaged or married yet because I do not have my adult hands yet. My fingers are so long and thin and my palm seems so small compared to anyone elses. But when I look at my hands they remind me of my mother. She had the same exact hands. I remember trying on all of her rings when I was smaller. I remember her painting my nails and how good it felt to spend time with her. So, all of my “flaws” tell a story that I hope to never forget and to always accept. I hate that it took me so long to understand that my “imperfections” are what make me perfect. Another thing to remember is that the scars always heal, but the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story.
“I wash my body, and dress it, and take care of it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite part is the part no one can see. I like the me behind the body. That’s the part of me that’s the ugliest:…” I think Martha Lee Ann said that the best. All the people that spend hours working out and trying to take care of their bodies or even though that invest all of that money into plastic surgery still see what is really there. In thinking about my body as art or a lack there of, it reminds me of how we all see things so differently. I am sure we can all agree we see flaws with our body that no one else can see because we are our own worst critics. Like I mentioned the first time around with this blog, I was so ashamed of my birthmarks that I never wanted to wear shorts, but when I got older I started to get a lot of comments on my “long, athletic legs”. It took me forever to actually start to take this comment seriously because I had been so self conscious all of this time. Now, I actually do love my legs because they are me. Without them I would not have been able to dance for more than ten years or to run and experience my life as I have. On another note, I always make the joke that I cannot get engaged or married yet because I do not have my adult hands yet. My fingers are so long and thin and my palm seems so small compared to anyone elses. But when I look at my hands they remind me of my mother. She had the same exact hands. I remember trying on all of her rings when I was smaller. I remember her painting my nails and how good it felt to spend time with her. So, all of my “flaws” tell a story that I hope to never forget and to always accept. I hate that it took me so long to understand that my “imperfections” are what make me perfect. Another thing to remember is that the scars always heal, but the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story.
I'm not going to not relate bodily scars with writing scars. This is a writing course, so why wouldn't I? Right?..... Right?
My papers are a product of myself put into words, so it's like my body in a very metaphorical sort of way. I have scars on my body, my thoughts, my past, so in putting myself into words I also put my scars into words as well. Poor grammar, weak vocabulary, awkwardly structured sentences- my written body scars.
I really see these scars whenever the teacher has her way with it and leaves blood (or is it red ink?) all over the page, with a paragraph at the bottom feeding me some buh-log-nuh about how I should pay closer attention to the editing process and constructive reviews along the way, I don't know I didn't bother reading all of it.
These scars though, whether they're on our skin, or in our writing, always seem to give us a reason to figure out how it got there and how to prevent another one, or what we're going to do with what we've learned from them.
Omgwtfug it seems that my old post didn't go through. And it seems that this pattern has continued with all the other postslol.
Well, reading everyone else's now, it reminds me of this fantasy novel I was reading a while back. "My body is the vessel the good god made to contain my soul." But is it just a vessel? Proven with everyone else's, obviously 'no.' " These are scolding scars, ones to remind me that a moment of bad judgment could cost me the people I love" (Josie). Memory is in the body. I can't walk like I used to because I ran my legs to death in high school. The body never forgets. I never forget. There is that pain of remembrance, but, as TeNesha said, "the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story." Being a part of you, it 'tells you. It is you.
So I was honest again, talking about my hair, eyes, and height. And I talked to you about my bald baby head and my growth plates being closed in the seventh grade.
And then Martha talks about “And though I like my long hair, I’m aware that it’s dead: I have dead growing off the top of my head, sitting on my shoulders, and falling, in chaos, down my curved-in back” which made me feel kind of sad/pathetic that the one physical trait I’m most recognized for (my hair) is dead.
I didn’t talk about my scars. Like Paul, “All my scars know what actually happened even if I don’t, and I don’t know that I’d want the truth out of them if they could talk because then all my scar stories would be uber lame.” The scar on my right knee looks like it should have an awesome story to accompany it but it’s actually from when I fell in the middle of the street when I was two. Talk about uber lame.
“Every moment I spend writing bullshit serves no purpose. Every moment I spend being dishonest and distrustful only sets me back” (Josie). So true. I’m sorry I wrote some bullshit at the beginning of this blog.
I have a huge scar on my leg from a dirt bike accident. It was one of the stupidest/best things I have ever done. I was flying, way too fast, and I knew it. I was free, nothing could stop me. It was the best feeling, until I hit a curve too fast and ran into the fence. It’s interesting how that scar does not remind me of the pain of the accident, but of that feeling of purposely being reckless. Purposely not being hindered. I think I write every paragraph trying to get that feeling. And I can see, even in the few months of this class, how much easier it has become.
Confession: I did not do this one because what I got out of the original post was so different than what people responded with. My biggest problem with blogging is exactly what this blog involved – the subjective portrayal of (in this instance) body parts, characteristics, experiences, people. I just struggle with trusting people, including myself, in these short responses.
How many times I have accused myself of being someone I want to be when I write, even in my diary. How many times have I known who my audience is (the me I want to read) and what they want to hear. Sadly, I find myself guilty of what I abhor most, of becoming what’s expected and doing/saying what people want to hear. But the truth sucks. The true me has warts, has scars, has wounds that will never fully heal. Has things/body that I try to hide at all costs.
I find myself writing about the person I want to read about. As the human being I idolize. I think all writers have some sort of self-awareness that keeps them insecure and scared. And they write to change their perception of the ugly. As for me, the real me, the one hiding sheepishly behind my alter-ego is the one that comes out only in moments of complete abandonment, I know I’m depraved. I know I’m egotistical and narcissistic. But there is only one version of my scared/warty/ugly self. And it’s the broken/ugly/disgusting/real stuff that makes me the human I was created as, which I am slowly realizing is the most interesting me.
I still don't think some people really understood what this post was really about. It seemed that everything was about scars to some people and I don't think it was...but then again I could be wrong. I thought that we was suppose to actually point a picture with words of our body or body parts, not scars and what they mean. Anyways, I feel I really was free in this one.
I don't think people missed the point of this blog. It's just that, when you begin to write about your self-image, what is the first thing that comes to mind? Scars. Although I don't have many scars on my flesh, I am just as scarred on the inside as the next. And those scars force me to see the scars on others, and it disgusts me. I notice poor teeth, bad hair, shitty fashion. I wonder at times what in the hell some people were thinking when they looked at themselves in the mirror. But I don't voice them aloud, because I notice the same things on myself. I see my big forehead, the mole between my eyes, my short stature, my slouch. I know every lock of my too puffy hair, every chewed nail, every single extra pound. I hate it because I know I am just as shallow as the next person, and I don't know how to stop it.
Can it be stopped, though? I sincerely hope that it can, but as cheesy as it is, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I wish I could help it, but I also feel that by helping it, I am settling. My mind knows what it wants, so why should I try to justify my petty attractions? I shouldn't, but since I write, I probably always will.
I love the way this blog was set up with dual perspectives... When it comes to personal identity and especially outside appearances our perspectives are molded by so many different experiences and people and places. Strip away my skin and I am multifaceted. No one is simple.
I like the way Josh decided to take this post when he said, "This blog reminded me that I have so much left to explore about my self, and that I can be a better lover of people. It reminded that I can be a better lover of myself as well, and that there are thoughts I've had that haven't been explored. I think for a while I became tired of things I've thought over and over again. But I'm ready to end this season, and begin a new one."
To come out of all of this loving oneself and others more...well, damn. That is one of the most beautiful things I've seen happen on here so far. Discussing body image...well I could honestly get pretty depressing, but to move from image to truth and caring...props to that. I should do that more often. Really though, I don't like talking about my body image that often (unless I've just eaten Mexican food and then I say "Oh my god I feel like a house"). The thing is I'd like to keep it that way.
Every time I see my grandmother the only thing she ever says to me is, "You're so pretty". And every time it hurts me more. She only sees the outside. All I want to do is yell at her, "You know people are so much more than that!" I'm a mess. Bitten nails, blue eyes, shortness, dimples... isn't what I am.
I loved Whispers for her honesty on this one. To me, talking about the ugliness or awkwardness or maybe-beauty of my body was too personal—way too personal, even for me, the one who has no real filter for that kind of thing. As it were, talking about physical scars was the least intimate I could get with you while still saying something that related to the prompt (as it turns out, Dr. PD had to totally redirect everyone after I set us off on some random course, so that didn’t turn out as well as hoped). But Whispers talked about breasts, and I loved that. My breasts get in the way of literally almost every single thing I do. I can’t decide if I love or hate them, and I think it’s probably both, but…my chest isn’t actually the point I’m trying to make. What I’m trying to say about this blog is that I have only been free to rise to the level of what everyone else is doing. If there hadn’t been some vulnerability from others on that first blog assignment, I would have stayed clammed up all semester. As a writer who practices her craft in the public domain (ie as a girl who blogs) this matters very much to me—if I hadn’t had you all to lead the way, what would I have been willing to say? Conversely, if I hadn’t been afraid that you were all going to hate me, what would I have voiced that I have kept silent here? It’s worth considering: the collateral damage of a blog against its collective benefit. 1:31.
ReplyDeleteI’ve decided that scars are ugly. They are. There is no way to make them pretty or to talk about them as being pretty. End.
ReplyDeleteI consider mistakes scars. And if mistakes were “beautiful,” they wouldn’t make me cry, I wouldn’t regret them, I wouldn’t wish them away…I would appreciate them, I would have learned from them, I would have benefited from them. Scars make the hands clenth, the shoulders droop, the eyes fall, the voice whisper.The only thing I learned from mistakes/scars was how to be more guarded, more walled up, more callused.
I don’t think the ugly things are beautiful. I think it sounds like a pretty idea, to make something ugly into something bearable, but the truth is, I don’t think many of the ugly things in our lives can be magically transformed. That’s why they’re called scars, they’re pretty permanent. I belive in grace, and forgiveness and I believe these things can make our scars beautiful, but on their own, I think there’s no hope.
So yeah, I just figured out that I think the ugly things in my life are really just as ugly as I thougth they were. Even if I have calluses from playing my beautiful guitar, and I love them for allowing me to play my guitar…they’re still rough and ugly. But I don’t mind them, it’s just the way it is.
Buuuut, just because they’re ugly doesn’t mean I don’t learn from them. I wish I didn’t have to learn from them, but I do. And reading all of your portraits, I saw your scars, long fingers, 6 ½ sized feet, your “stub like legs,” and eyes. And I learned from them. I guess I saw you more, not that I don’t see you three times (sometimes twice) a week, but I actually looked at you and saw what it was you were trying to tell me about yourself, not just about the way something looked.
So here is my conclusion. I learned that scars are ugly, and though they may come from doing something beautiful or remind you of something beautiful, they aren’t necessarily pretty. But, after reading your blogs, I decided that yes, they may be ugly, weird, or whatever you think of them, but they don’t make you as a whole ugly. In fact, they make you unique. They make you, you. Maybe a you who had to cry first, and then laugh or a you who had to watch the skin on your chewed fingernail grow, but in the end, you scars and “self portraits” became like little photographs that, once pointed out to me, told me a honest story of who you are.
Portrait of my body...what did I learn? I learned that every scar has a story. Both physical and emotional. And these stories define your character. I ran into a door frame when I was eleven. I remember it vividly. I was excited and running out of the door down the hill to a travel trailer that my dad and sister and I were camping out in.
ReplyDeleteI was trying out for the cheerleading squad the next day and I was anxious to show my family my moves. I cut my arm on the door and remember it hurting but not really caring. When I made it to the trailer/camper my dad said, "Court you're bleeding" and gave me a band-aid. It was so insignificant. I had so many other things on my mind. I never suspected there would be a scar. But there is. It's tiny. Barely visible. But I know it's there.
I'm careless. I act first, think later. And when I'm excited...well it's all over then. I have burned myself because I was too impatient to wait for my food to cool. I have cut my legs shaving because I overslept and I was in a hurry. I have even fallen on a pile of boards because my sister and I were playing tag on them. (That one put me on crutches.) Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just last night I left my debit card at Red Lobster. I have missed this class before because I have lost my keys. Careless.
But this is me. Who I am. I've accepted my flaws that plagued me as a teenager. Reading this post helped reassure me that no one is 100% secure in themselves. But in learning that, you accept yourself.
You can talk of your flaws poetically, as part of your story. This way, when I tell you about the time I cried at Captain D's because they didn't have what I wanted you can find it endearing and not annoying.
I loved how so many of you were so honest and personal when it came to this blog. This is a really personal issue and one that many people want to shy away from. Even as I am writing now I am reminded by what I said about my eyes. They are the thing that I like the best, yet they are one of the weakest parts of my body. I can’t even sit here and type without wearing my glasses to see, they hurt and sting from too much reading in dim light yet I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
ReplyDeleteI look at my arm and I see a big ugly scar that I got from cooking when I was in high school. Yet that scar will always remind me of my mom and the fun that we use to have when I was at home, I look at my little finger on my right hand, it bends to the right from when it was broken and didn’t heal right, the scar on my left eye from where I gashed it when I was a baby. The ugly chicken pox scar that I have on my face that makes me self-conscious, yet when I look at it I remember how fun it was when me and my sisters were all sick together. I have to agree with Martha Lee scars are ugly but they can remind you of beautiful things. I have scars you can’t see either. They are on my heart and in my mind. Scars that make me more cautious when it comes to trusting people, scars of losing people that I love dearly, scars that come from growing up. I really do think that the imperfections make us beautiful. They are what tell stories about who we are and what we will become in spite of them. I was not ok with bringing up my imperfections back when we wrote this but it’s ok now. Because I know that it is what makes me. . . me, and I will go ahead and tell you that.
Oooo. Scars, beauty marks, flaws, and body image. Should be fun. These are the things that set us apart, make us unique in our insecurities, while drawing on the similarity of our humanity, right? (We all have hands. And if you don't I imagine you're insecure about the loss). But really I notice we wrote about fragments of ourselves, little physical manifestations of our personalities: a scar representing a memory, a feature representing a family member, an insecurity harvested from the past. Images of green olive skin, short stubby legs, beautiful blue eyes, and cracked bitten fingernails appear like mile markers on a journey discovering the images of our bodies. The body is just a collection of it all onto the blank canvas we have genetically been provided. Now it's up to us to make of it what we can, and hope to God (is he the one responsible for all this?) that someone else will understand. The search for acceptance and understanding of our scarred, uniquely proportioned, and intensely personal bodies. You would think by focusing on the physical we could have avoided emotion for once. But really it’s impossible, the body is so attached to the mind and soul, that any attempt to separate one from the other would, I assume, be like getting your hands cut off (or the other obvious one, like dying). But I like to think the truth is somewhere, lost between the mind and body, searching for a way out. The beauty marks, scars, and unordinary features are the truths attempting to come to the surface and give everyone a chance to see a little bit of our story on the outside. Actually, it’s a lot like our writing....
ReplyDeleteI refused to post on this initially. Why you may ask? My official reason was that I couldn't do it without implicating others (and that still is part of the reason, I did write a response to this, I just refused to post it) but the deeper reason, the reason that even that response was a cover-up for, was insecurity. I've never been a pretty girl, I'm well aware of that fact. I've always gone the way of "not caring" about physical beauty. And to respond to that blog would have been to admit that I do care. That I know that my heels are callused, and my legs scarred, that my face looks like a moonpie and my hands - which could have been beautiful - destroyed by years of incessant chewing. And more importantly, that I acknowledge these things are ugly, and it bothers me. I've always refused to be that girl who picks at every single feature and can never be satisfied with her body. But maybe that's all a facade. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to admit that I too have insecurities and self-image issues and that that's ok. It's ok because it's part of who I am, and if there is one thing we have learned in this class, it is to be honest about who you are, eh?
ReplyDeleteBody image. Oh goodness. Is there anyone who doesn't have issues with this? It's like stripping yourself naked in a room full of Victoria's Secret models, but I guess I should be used to that since that's how I feel when I post last on the blog. So what did I learn...what did I learn.
ReplyDeleteScars are beautiful.
Nah...I knew that.
They make us who we are.
Nah... I knew that too.
Maybe that we are all the same?
Hmm...This seems interesting.
I think regardless of backgrounds, opinions, nationalities or religions, our human nature is exactly the same. We have been told since we could understand speach that "there is no such thing as perfect." And I can't decide if this is good or back for society. It is supposed to be leveling the playing field, making us able to be on the same level as others. But maybe it's all making us reach for something that is unattainable? Maybe by telling us no one is perfect it's only encouraging us to keep trying to attain it.
I don't think I responded to this blog and it's because a) I didn't know what to write about and b) I didn't like it. I won't apologize for that because it's not in my nature anymore to be sorry. It seemed at the time to be a girly kind of subject, anyway. I think that's because most guys (I would hope...at least I fit this category), just don't really think twice about scars. Or maybe they do. I can't decide. I think there are some guys who act like assholes and treat scars like fishing stories and there are some who are conscious of them for a little while but then forget about them. I like to think I'm the latter category (no offense to those who actually get cooler scars than me fighting in Iraq or something. In my book, you can brag all you want about that because, quite frankly you deserve to, sir. You've earned it). Honestly, the only legitimate scar I have is on my lower back from surgery a few years ago. There is nothing cool about it except that as it was healing, it became the only spot on my entire back that actually grows body hair (found that out the hard way ripping the bandages off to take out the stitches). Other than that, it just looks like a coin-slot on steroids; an extension of my butt crack. It makes for good conversation, though.
ReplyDeleteThat's all I have to say about this post. There is nothing profound to me about scars and I'm not about to come up with some kind of bullshit to express otherwise.
“Scars are one of my favorite things. It's not a noble thing-- I like them because I have so many, so I want other people to like them too. I want to negate the bad things in me by pretending to love them” (Josie). Josie claims to have thought that originally, but sure she heard me muttering it to myself in the halls. The only problem with my tactic regarding my scars is that I waffle on what I think is good and what I think is bad. I’m not so sure what is scar and what is skin. I do know that I can’t date a girl taller than me, that Jeggings are hot on some people, but disastrous on others, and that my evaluation of my own attractiveness must be the most fragile sentiment available to human emotional capacity. I’m not fat or ugly or anything, and of course this will seem arrogant, but my looks have become more and more important to me because they’ve become more and more important to others. When there weren’t lingering glances, unsolicited numbers, or edifying remarks—I actually had a healthier state of mind regarding not only my body, but all of them. But because my looks have been praised, I want looks to be important. But the more important the aesthetic becomes, the more I need to glances, numbers, and yes-- the carnal.
ReplyDeleteI'm still learning about myself. I hope this will always be true. This has been possibly the most difficult semester of my life. Describing yourself effectively is difficult, and takes bravery, or at least boldness, because it can often sound like false humility or arrogance (depending on the slant).
ReplyDeleteI'm learning that I don't always say everything that I have to say, and that I often just let the words pour out of my mouth. I'm learning that people often feel overwhelmed by the rapidity with which I gather my thoughts and regurgitate them, so they often think of my thoughts as being regurgitated.
This blog reminded me that I have so much left to explore about my self, and that I can be a better lover of people. It reminded that I can be a better lover of myself as well, and that there are thoughts I've had that haven't been explored. I think for a while I became tired of things I've thought over and over again. But I'm ready to end this season, and begin a new one.
It's interesting, it seems no one on the blog was content with themselves, which I think is great. Like Josh said, "I'm still learning about myself. I hope this will always be true." The most popular trend was that people like one thing about themselves, whether it be their eyes, or their hair, or their hands.
ReplyDeleteHaving to create a portrait of your body, isn't any easy task. You could be arrogant and describe yourself as a greek god or a Victoria's Secret model with no imperfections.
I loved Portia's quote: "They can be very seductive like Medusa, so guys don't look to close... you just might get caught up in its trap of many. I always smile even with my eyes."
Like I said some talked about body parts, but many talked about scars. Scars are by far the most interesting thing on a body because they come with a story. Almost like an injury with its own personal memoir to back it up, I guess. Personally, I think the only thing I have going for me is a smile. There is nothing profound or sexy about it, I just love to smile and it shows how happy of a person I am.
Dammit, I didn't post on this one originally either. I guess I got a little lazy. =/
ReplyDeleteI'm not really sure what to say either. I love what Trillium wrote. It was beautifully honest. Mad props to you, girl.
My body is what it is. Despite years of ballet I carry myself with zero balance and grace, my boobs are too big, my ass is concave, my neck is too short, I have permanent dark circles under my eyes, and I have chicken legs. But it's mine and I love it anyways.
And I think that is important. I have known so many people who have unhealthy self-image. Own your flaws, I say. Your body is part of your story (continued from the previous post). I find it so interesting how old presidents get when they finish their four year terms. Their eyes and their faces tell the story of all the stress that they see on a daily basis. I guess running a country will do that to you.
Seeing my Dad for the first time in 5 months after he had been dealing with his MS diagnosis-inspired depression and insomnia, I could physically see his pain. To hear it in his voice is one thing, but to see it on his face and body was entirely another. He was thin, and weak looking. Each step he took looked like his shoes weighed 200 pounds. I have to look away sometimes. He used to be so quick and strong.
This was my best blog by far. I never really thought about how your body can tell a story until this blog topic.
ReplyDeleteJosie- you, my friend, are in your own league. You have beautiful writing and I love your entire blog post about your scars.
I think this round I'll write about something more holistic. My entire body. Needless to say, post Victoria's Secret fashion show last Tuesday I might become a rabbit and eat nothing but grass and carrots. Seriously.
Overall, it's not that bad, but it took me a while to get there.
I was always the tall girl throughout middle school. Puberty came early and I hit my final height in 4th grade...a whopping 5'2.Clearly my dreams of walking the runway are immediately shot down, but with my short legs and freakishly long torso comes a beauty that Amazon goddess can't really embrace. 6 in heels!
The discovery of tanning beds became my guilty pleasure in high school. I was always the pale girl, and I mean ghostly pale. I guess with being the bronze bombshell that I was, I also developed an early onset of wrinkles. Yes, what they say about UVA rays being terrible for you is true. STAY AWAY FROM THE SUN!
So now, I have completely embraced being the almost legal midget with red hair freckles and skin that burns in the dead of winter that I was always destined to be.
Yup, half-assed this one too. Feeling guilty about that right about now.
ReplyDeleteI'll tell you, though, that not much will make you feel as lame about your own body as being a scrawny white kid trying to run hurdles/sprints, even just in high school. It was around my third year of high school, when the hurdles started getting higher and I stopped growing, that I pretty much gave up on trying to be an athlete. I kept getting hurt, my feet were scarring on the inside, my Achilles tendon was tightening, and I was too small to throw very well. I decided that I'd just stick with being a band nerd.
My most significant scars are on the bottom of the muscles in my feet, and after football games and band camp (less scandalous than you're led to believe) they're hurting so bad that I just sit down the rest of the day. They're more personal than the scar on my finger from where I cut myself in kindergarten, or the chicken pox scar on my forehead that I don't remember getting, or the one on my chin from an iron that fell on my face. But I think I like the ones on my feet more because they weren't by accident. They happened because I was doing something that I enjoyed, and was willing to sacrifice part of myself to do, even for a short time.
“I wash my body, and dress it, and take care of it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite part is the part no one can see. I like the me behind the body. That’s the part of me that’s the ugliest:…” I think Martha Lee Ann said that the best. All the people that spend hours working out and trying to take care of their bodies or even though that invest all of that money into plastic surgery still see what is really there. In thinking about my body as art or a lack there of, it reminds me of how we all see things so differently. I am sure we can all agree we see flaws with our body that no one else can see because we are our own worst critics. Like I mentioned the first time around with this blog, I was so ashamed of my birthmarks that I never wanted to wear shorts, but when I got older I started to get a lot of comments on my “long, athletic legs”. It took me forever to actually start to take this comment seriously because I had been so self conscious all of this time. Now, I actually do love my legs because they are me. Without them I would not have been able to dance for more than ten years or to run and experience my life as I have. On another note, I always make the joke that I cannot get engaged or married yet because I do not have my adult hands yet. My fingers are so long and thin and my palm seems so small compared to anyone elses. But when I look at my hands they remind me of my mother. She had the same exact hands. I remember trying on all of her rings when I was smaller. I remember her painting my nails and how good it felt to spend time with her. So, all of my “flaws” tell a story that I hope to never forget and to always accept. I hate that it took me so long to understand that my “imperfections” are what make me perfect. Another thing to remember is that the scars always heal, but the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story.
ReplyDelete“I wash my body, and dress it, and take care of it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite part is the part no one can see. I like the me behind the body. That’s the part of me that’s the ugliest:…” I think Martha Lee Ann said that the best. All the people that spend hours working out and trying to take care of their bodies or even though that invest all of that money into plastic surgery still see what is really there. In thinking about my body as art or a lack there of, it reminds me of how we all see things so differently. I am sure we can all agree we see flaws with our body that no one else can see because we are our own worst critics. Like I mentioned the first time around with this blog, I was so ashamed of my birthmarks that I never wanted to wear shorts, but when I got older I started to get a lot of comments on my “long, athletic legs”. It took me forever to actually start to take this comment seriously because I had been so self conscious all of this time. Now, I actually do love my legs because they are me. Without them I would not have been able to dance for more than ten years or to run and experience my life as I have. On another note, I always make the joke that I cannot get engaged or married yet because I do not have my adult hands yet. My fingers are so long and thin and my palm seems so small compared to anyone elses. But when I look at my hands they remind me of my mother. She had the same exact hands. I remember trying on all of her rings when I was smaller. I remember her painting my nails and how good it felt to spend time with her. So, all of my “flaws” tell a story that I hope to never forget and to always accept. I hate that it took me so long to understand that my “imperfections” are what make me perfect. Another thing to remember is that the scars always heal, but the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story.
ReplyDeleteI'm not going to not relate bodily scars with writing scars. This is a writing course, so why wouldn't I? Right?..... Right?
ReplyDeleteMy papers are a product of myself put into words, so it's like my body in a very metaphorical sort of way. I have scars on my body, my thoughts, my past, so in putting myself into words I also put my scars into words as well. Poor grammar, weak vocabulary, awkwardly structured sentences- my written body scars.
I really see these scars whenever the teacher has her way with it and leaves blood (or is it red ink?) all over the page, with a paragraph at the bottom feeding me some buh-log-nuh about how I should pay closer attention to the editing process and constructive reviews along the way, I don't know I didn't bother reading all of it.
These scars though, whether they're on our skin, or in our writing, always seem to give us a reason to figure out how it got there and how to prevent another one, or what we're going to do with what we've learned from them.
Omgwtfug it seems that my old post didn't go through. And it seems that this pattern has continued with all the other postslol.
ReplyDeleteWell, reading everyone else's now, it reminds me of this fantasy novel I was reading a while back. "My body is the vessel the good god made to contain my soul." But is it just a vessel? Proven with everyone else's, obviously 'no.' " These are scolding scars, ones to remind me that a moment of bad judgment could cost me the people I love" (Josie). Memory is in the body. I can't walk like I used to because I ran my legs to death in high school. The body never forgets. I never forget. There is that pain of remembrance, but, as TeNesha said, "the physical evidence stays as a reminder of your story." Being a part of you, it 'tells you. It is you.
'Love' you.
So I was honest again, talking about my hair, eyes, and height. And I talked to you about my bald baby head and my growth plates being closed in the seventh grade.
ReplyDeleteAnd then Martha talks about “And though I like my long hair, I’m aware that it’s dead: I have dead growing off the top of my head, sitting on my shoulders, and falling, in chaos, down my curved-in back” which made me feel kind of sad/pathetic that the one physical trait I’m most recognized for (my hair) is dead.
I didn’t talk about my scars. Like Paul, “All my scars know what actually happened even if I don’t, and I don’t know that I’d want the truth out of them if they could talk because then all my scar stories would be uber lame.” The scar on my right knee looks like it should have an awesome story to accompany it but it’s actually from when I fell in the middle of the street when I was two. Talk about uber lame.
“Every moment I spend writing bullshit serves no purpose. Every moment I spend being dishonest and distrustful only sets me back” (Josie). So true. I’m sorry I wrote some bullshit at the beginning of this blog.
I have a huge scar on my leg from a dirt bike accident. It was one of the stupidest/best things I have ever done. I was flying, way too fast, and I knew it. I was free, nothing could stop me. It was the best feeling, until I hit a curve too fast and ran into the fence. It’s interesting how that scar does not remind me of the pain of the accident, but of that feeling of purposely being reckless. Purposely not being hindered. I think I write every paragraph trying to get that feeling. And I can see, even in the few months of this class, how much easier it has become.
ReplyDeleteConfession: I did not do this one because what I got out of the original post was so different than what people responded with. My biggest problem with blogging is exactly what this blog involved – the subjective portrayal of (in this instance) body parts, characteristics, experiences, people. I just struggle with trusting people, including myself, in these short responses.
How many times I have accused myself of being someone I want to be when I write, even in my diary. How many times have I known who my audience is (the me I want to read) and what they want to hear. Sadly, I find myself guilty of what I abhor most, of becoming what’s expected and doing/saying what people want to hear. But the truth sucks. The true me has warts, has scars, has wounds that will never fully heal. Has things/body that I try to hide at all costs.
I find myself writing about the person I want to read about. As the human being I idolize. I think all writers have some sort of self-awareness that keeps them insecure and scared. And they write to change their perception of the ugly. As for me, the real me, the one hiding sheepishly behind my alter-ego is the one that comes out only in moments of complete abandonment, I know I’m depraved. I know I’m egotistical and narcissistic. But there is only one version of my scared/warty/ugly self. And it’s the broken/ugly/disgusting/real stuff that makes me the human I was created as, which I am slowly realizing is the most interesting me.
I still don't think some people really understood what this post was really about. It seemed that everything was about scars to some people and I don't think it was...but then again I could be wrong. I thought that we was suppose to actually point a picture with words of our body or body parts, not scars and what they mean. Anyways, I feel I really was free in this one.
ReplyDeleteI don't think people missed the point of this blog. It's just that, when you begin to write about your self-image, what is the first thing that comes to mind? Scars. Although I don't have many scars on my flesh, I am just as scarred on the inside as the next. And those scars force me to see the scars on others, and it disgusts me. I notice poor teeth, bad hair, shitty fashion. I wonder at times what in the hell some people were thinking when they looked at themselves in the mirror. But I don't voice them aloud, because I notice the same things on myself. I see my big forehead, the mole between my eyes, my short stature, my slouch. I know every lock of my too puffy hair, every chewed nail, every single extra pound. I hate it because I know I am just as shallow as the next person, and I don't know how to stop it.
ReplyDeleteCan it be stopped, though? I sincerely hope that it can, but as cheesy as it is, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I wish I could help it, but I also feel that by helping it, I am settling. My mind knows what it wants, so why should I try to justify my petty attractions? I shouldn't, but since I write, I probably always will.
I love the way this blog was set up with dual perspectives... When it comes to personal identity and especially outside appearances our perspectives are molded by so many different experiences and people and places.
ReplyDeleteStrip away my skin and I am multifaceted. No one is simple.
I like the way Josh decided to take this post when he said, "This blog reminded me that I have so much left to explore about my self, and that I can be a better lover of people. It reminded that I can be a better lover of myself as well, and that there are thoughts I've had that haven't been explored. I think for a while I became tired of things I've thought over and over again. But I'm ready to end this season, and begin a new one."
To come out of all of this loving oneself and others more...well, damn. That is one of the most beautiful things I've seen happen on here so far. Discussing body image...well I could honestly get pretty depressing, but to move from image to truth and caring...props to that. I should do that more often.
Really though, I don't like talking about my body image that often (unless I've just eaten Mexican food and then I say "Oh my god I feel like a house"). The thing is I'd like to keep it that way.
Every time I see my grandmother the only thing she ever says to me is, "You're so pretty". And every time it hurts me more. She only sees the outside. All I want to do is yell at her, "You know people are so much more than that!"
I'm a mess. Bitten nails, blue eyes, shortness, dimples... isn't what I am.