Scars, or the lack thereof, are the easiest way to identify a person. When police are searching for a suspect, one of the first attributes discussed after the usual description is any physical markers. These markers are the reasons humans are individuals. There are stories for each imperfect mark on our skin. Some of these stories are sad, some are funny and some are quite stupid. Nonetheless, these stories and the marks that represent them, have made us the people we are today. Without them we would be quite one dimensional, matching each living being around us.

From the moment I could walk, I have been collecting these imperfections. I am an extremely clumsy individual so sadly these marks have appeared through stumbling accidents. I have never been self-conscious about the appearance of my scars or wished to change them. That is except for one brief day when I was 16. I had spent the entire school day looking around me, an event which resulted in a disturbing conclusion. I saw other girls in my classes with no scars on their arms nor calluses on their hands, and I began to feel out of place. No, my scars were not large and beckoning. I had not been scalded by the burning flames of a fire. There was no damage from abuse or neglect. But I still felt very uncomfortable. My delusional conclusion was that all girls my age had perfect porcelain skin while I walked around with what I visualized as cracked porcelain.

So that day when I came home from school, I asked my mom how I could get rid of my scars. She said she could buy me a cream to erase my imperfections. After she went to the store that afternoon, I was in possession of said cream. I took the cream out of the package and began to read the instructions. It said to apply three times a day for about a year and the scar would fade. My eyes widened in disbelief. A whole year?! Three times a day?! I was not that patient, and I was not that dedicated. As I looked at the scars on my arm, perfect flesh turned imperfect, I realized that maybe this wasn’t what I should be doing.

It was on this very day I realized exactly what scars are. They are history. If we attempt to erase our imperfections then we are erasing the history which has been created. Without history what are we? Simply a few organs working together, pumping blood, circulating oxygen. No depth, no past and very little hope for the future. After all, what helps us most easily make decisions? Past experiences. Without these experiences and the visual reminders of them, we are left helpless and confused. And when left hopeless and confused how are we supposed to make a difference, impact others or move forward in our own lives? We can’t. It is true, sometimes scars are not pretty. Victims of major accidents often seek plastic surgery for remodeling to erase the scars created. I couldn’t possibly blame them for this because the surgery is less for erasing and more for moving forward in their lives. But let’s strive to keep these little scars. These scars make us who we are; they remind us daily of our past and the potential for the future. They remind us of our beauty. They remind us to always be aware of imperfections. They remind us to never forget.