I have a scar running diagonally across my nose. The reminder of a car accident that killed the other driver and nearly ten-year-old me and my mother and the other two passengers in our car. I have a scar across my thigh from day one of my new kitten. And a big circular scar on my upper left arm from a TB inoculation in St. Petersburg, following an outbreak in the city. I’ve got stretch marks covering thighs and breasts from pregnancies. I told my children when they were little my body was like an accordion that made the most beautiful music—them.
And those are just the visible ones. So many internal scars from so many different losses and sadnesses and traumas. And for so many years I tried to hide them. Putting makeup over that nose scar. Keeping silent about so many traumas still felt in the body, because of—mostly shame. Ah, I can say I wanted to protect my children and I didn’t want to freak people out. But, honestly—it was mostly shame.
The other day I was walking home from an amazing Gaga class (and more on Gaga and embodiment in another post) when walking straight toward me were two shins covered from ankle to knee in identical Medusa tattoos. Glorious snake-filled hair wrapping around her legs, mouths open, baring sharp teeth. Black eyes, deep red lips. Green skin.
To me she was beautiful. The Medusas. And the woman wearing them. You know what it means? my daughter said when I told her later that afternoon. I said I did. That she is a survivor of sexual abuse.
The Greek Myth of Medusa, long-told as a story of a monstrous woman put back in her place by a heroic man, is now retold by many as a survivor of rape taking back her power with the ultimate defense against the male gaze. And the snake, long understood as a phallic symbol is flipped around and used to terrify.
She is taking back her power.
And all I thought as I gazed at this woman’s matching tattoos was—I am so sorry you suffered, and I silently thanked her for reminding me that we are all bearers of one scar or another and that these scars do not need to be covered over with makeup or false smiles or shame. However, This doesn’t mean everyone deserves to know the stories of our scars. Only the most deserving and kind and gentle, who can hold them with the respect they deserve.
The scars on trees are a sign that the tree survived. The picking at by squirrels and birds. The heavy rains and bitter frosts. And diseases. The scars tell their story. And they wear them proudly.
Maybe there is a lesson for us in that.
Comments