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My Scar For Your Viewing
On the inside of my right wrist is a small raised white scar. Measuring just under an inch or so in length, it reminds me of a miniature twig or, with a little imagination, a really narrow poorly printed capital “Y" perpendicularly positioned to my forearm.
I’ve been reporting to work at 9 instead of my usual 8 am. 9 o'clock means riding with the rush hour crowd to University City. It means standing in a bus tightly sandwiched between cologne-drenched MBA students and preppy, yet frumpy-looking law students. So it’s not unusual to see me clinging for dear life swaying back and forth uncomfortably bumping into these random grad students around me with my right arm extended high above my head gripping the handles positioned along the metal rails above us. With my coat and shirt sleeves riding up my arm, the scar is quite visible to anyone who looks long enough.
The reactions I get from strangers vary. Some shake their heads ever so slightly in pity, some frown disapprovingly, others suddenly look alarmed, and the shameless just stare at the scar, then search through the crowded bus to match the face attached to the body that belongs to the wrist with the scar; as though they could pass judgment and figure out my story. Then I feel their eyes on me and I turn to meet their gaze. Caught in the act, they immediately turn away. But only for three seconds – then their gaze inevitably returns to the end of my white raised arm, my wrist bare and exposed for their scrutiny. It makes me want to barrel through the crowded bus and slap the offender. What’s the staring all about?
In the care of a halmoni one humid damp day, I remember asking for permission to open the window. I positioned my two hands against the window panes and pushed upwards with all my strength. But the wooden frame around the glass panes had swollen in the humidity and the window stuck. I tried again and with my right hand being dominant, that wrist naturally exerted more force. The pane cracked, the shattered glass cutting my wrist. I remember running to the kitchen with my left hand gripped tightly around my right forearm all the while 1) worrying that I was staining the carpet in my trek through the living room to the kitchen and 2) being acutely aware of how strangely soothing the warm blood gushing from the wound felt and 3) trying to figure out why in the world I didn’t feel the sharp pain of the glass gash my skin and back to 2) god, that blood feels sensationally warm flowing over my forearm. I don’t remember any pain. I didn’t faint while the halmoni bandaged my arm. I fell asleep. By the time I made it to the doctor’s the next day, I was no longer in need of stitches since my arm seemed to be healing the deep wound quite nicely all by itself. I was pleased that I didn’t have to face a needle.
I nearly forgot all about the scar until very recently when I got onto the bus closer to the 9 o'clock rush when these bus passengers curiously stared above my head on a few too many occasions. When I finally glanced up, it all made sense. I chuckled the first time. The gazer nearly choked in disbelief when he saw my reaction. Little did he know. And so what if I had intentionally created that scar? STOP STARING, fools. It's rude.
