I am not perfect. My body has stretch marks. I have acne. My breasts are uneven. I have moderate keloid scarring on my upper arm, meaning my skin repaired itself from an injury with a surplus of scar tissue; in other words, I have some very noticeable scars on my left arm. I’ve had these scars for the past four years or so. It’s obviously not something that I advertise, but I don’t go out of my way to hide it either. I wear tank tops in the summer. I wear sleeveless dresses. I wear bathing suits. I don’t like it, but I’ve accepted it as part of my body. I’m really an introvert, so I’ve never really felt the desire to approach someone in public and strike up a conversation. I’m not a stickler for propriety, nor am I passionate about social convention. I fully support free speech and I vehemently oppose censorship. However, I also believe in respecting other people and their personal boundaries. Wandering up to someone in a waterpark and inquiring about a physical flaw would fall into the category of violating said boundaries. Encountering a father and daughter in a hotel lobby and proceeding to ask the daughter how a clearly private injury occurred isn’t a valid exercise of your right to free speech; it’s just rude.

Do you ask a stranger in a wheelchair why she is unable to walk? Do you ask a passerby with an amputated limb why his arm stops at the elbow? In my experience, except for the occasional curious child, that doesn’t happen. After a certain point, we all know it’s just inappropriate. So then why have I been asked time and time again what happened to my arm? Why can’t you extend me the same courtesy as you do to the woman in the wheelchair? Do I think the two injuries are even remotely comparable? No, of course not. But do I think that I should have the same right to privacy? Call me self-righteous, but yeah; as a matter of fact, I do.

In the past three weeks I have had two of my college professors ask me about my arm. This is a sensitive topic for me, and I have never reacted confidently when it has been brought up. I can excuse the lifeguard at the pool, my boyfriend’s grandfather or even the man sitting next to me at my baby brother’s eighth grade graduation. They were out of line, yes, but at least they didn’t owe me the courtesy of a professional relationship. I actually cried after the first incident with the professor, who also happens to be my academic advisor, and for the next three days she harassed me via email to come talk to her. She did not once apologize or even acknowledge her responsibility in causing the situation; she merely threatened to report me to the Dean of Students if I did not come meet with her. Though I wanted to answer telling her to go again and alert her higher-up so I could report her for her inappropriate conduct, my reluctance to continue talking about the whole thing got the best of me, and I agreed to meet with her as long as she understood that I would not be disclosing any personal information to her. Thankfully, my interaction with the second professor was far less dramatic; though, I would like to add, no less humiliating, as she asked in front of the entire class.

I know that this will continue to be a problem for me, and I know that there is nothing I can do to prevent it from happening again and again, aside from hiding this part of my self for the rest of my life, which I have no intention of doing. I understand the ramifications of wearing short sleeves in public, and I can accept that people’s curiosity will continue to get the best of them. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to run to the bathroom to cry before I can answer, "What happened?" with dignity; I just hope that one day I can.