Deeper Scars: The Story Behind The Story

When I was a kid, having an above-ground backyard pool was something I dreamed about. Built-in pools were a rarity (at least in the neighborhoods we lived in), and the next best thing was what we called a "Doughboy." This is the pool at the heart of my essay in Wreckage called "Deeper Scars." It tells the story of me getting injured one afternoon when my sisters and I were swimming and the aftermath of that injury. (I still have the scar from it today!)

What I loved about writing the Deeper Scars essay, and about writing in general, is the discovery of it all. This was one of my childhood memories I knew I wanted to write about, but I didn't really know why...or what the point of it would be. Would it just be to get it out of my system? Was I writing the story as a "vanity project" of sorts, calling attention to the harm I'd suffered? Or, as it turns out, was it about understanding the significance of that event - and the pool era overall? I think, without my conscious knowing, I needed to grasp why I still held such a vivid picture of that day, my injury, and the reaction of my sisters, some five decades later.

When I crafted the first line of the essay, it turned out like this: "Blood gushed between my bony fingers and down the back of my arm. I grabbed my chin, beads of scarlet dripping off my elbow onto the dirty linoleum floor of the kitchen." The (rather un-artistic!) reason those words came to me is that I was submitting the essay to a program that was looking for works (fiction, non-fiction, poetry) that fit into the theme "Scarlet." I thought the theme was pretty silly, but when I considered the word "scarlet," two things came to mind: 1) The Scarlet Letter, and 2) blood.

Blood won out, and hence, the Deeper Scars essay was born!

Since finishing the essay, I've thought a lot about the responsibility my three older sisters had for me, even as they were still kids themselves. When I was born, they were 6, 7, and 8, so when the "Deeper Scars" story took place, they were still teenagers, left with the heavy task of keeping a little kid (me) safe. I'm not sure I ever really appreciated the tough position that put them all in, especially since they never asked for me to be born: the "baby of the family," who came along after them into a household already rife with abuse and neglect.

So, sisters: If I haven't said it enough (or at all?) - Thank You for trying to keep me out of harm's way. Thank you for protecting me as best you could, even if none of us could ever really find safety in those houses we grew up in.

If you'd like to read "Deeper Scars" now, it's published through the Hoffman Center for the Arts. If you'd like to read it in the context of the rest of the essays in Wreckage, sign up for more info and be alerted when it's published!