Beauty, brains, and black eyes

This is one way to intimidate the competition.

What defines an individual? When I pass strangers on the street or bump into another student at school, their appearance dictates everything I quickly assume about them. As convenient as it would be to open another’s mind like a chest of drawers to examine their memories and morals, humanity just isn’t that simple.

It is difficult to anticipate your first black eye. Unlike more traditional milestones like riding a bike or turning 16, the swollen, blackened sensation can’t be predicted or celebrated. I just reached it. For a brief period of time before the colors faded, I was able to experience an entirely new perspective.

It was crowded at the pool that day. (This will serve as my excuse and feeble attempt to appear less of an idiot.) There were lots of people using the pool during swim practice. From underwater, I was watching the elderly attempt water aerobics, which in itself was distracting and slightly disturbing. The scuba divers floated underneath us making it impossible to concentrate. Sometimes during practice, I have brief periods where I will bow my head and plow full throttle as fast as I can. Unfortunately, it was during one of my spurts of energy that I smashed headfirst into another swimmer. Hard.

Whenever I get hit, I always imagine stars circling my head like in a cartoon. The fact that we both had goggles on didn’t make the blow any less painful. In fact, when my goggles snapped at the nose piece, a little bit of my skin came off too.

As I burst into the locker room nursing my bloody and quickly blackening face, the old women gathered around me to comfort and offer suggestions. When I finally could squint enough to see, I observed that most of them were naked. I think old people enjoy being nude. Some may even like to show off their ancient tattoos.

I tried ice. I tried praying. I even tried to concentrate hard enough for the medicine Harry Potter used for all his magical maladies to materialize. By the next morning, it was clear my eye wasn’t going to be one of those miraculous injuries that heal overnight. I felt utterly atrocious.

School that day was downright awful. People gawked at me. We had to use protective goggles for our experiment in biology class that my face wouldn’t tolerate. I retold the story literally dozens of times. By the end of the day, I was amusing myself by telling a different account of the accident to everyone who asked. I said I had been in a burning building and the fireman accidently smashed my face as he carried me to safety. I was viscously attacked by an escaped black panther. I even said that I had been in a bar fight with some girls from the Brighton swim team who tried to steal my letter jacket. Most people actually believed me.

Slowly the colors faded and the swelling disappeared. I noticed fewer little kids pointing at me and less daddies muttering how they would talk about it later. I watched the scab form and the black, purple and yellow steadily fade. I even noticed less nervous freshman creating a path for me (out of fear) in the hallways.

I also learned. At first, I wanted to correct everyone who thought I was abused or in a fight. I wanted to rip every false assumption from every stranger’s thoughts that looked at my face disapprovingly. Quickly, I learned that it simply can’t be done. Perhaps those with permanent disabilities come to the same conclusion I did, and learn to adapt. Despite the clichés, I finally understand that others should never decide who you are, especially based on appearance.