It wasn’t a secret; in fact, it was so obvious that people often gasped, yet my parents never talked with me about it. For them it was easier to ignore the problem and pretend normality. Where they saw only perfection in their firstborn child, others saw tragedy. In later years, I asked my parents all my plaguing questions, but everything was “fine,” no difficulties remembered. Without a dangerous excavation, I could not unearth my parents’ disappointment they hastily buried in 1951. Their reticence during my childhood made me fearful of probing too deeply, so I pretended all was “fine” and kept quiet. In my silence, my secrets remained buried.

***

I was born with a birthmark.

Doctors called my birthmark a port wine stain, like the color of a rich port wine. While some colored areas ranged in hue from a pale rosé to a dark zinfandel, other areas were as dark as grape juice; moreover, the colored patches felt warmer compared to my white skin and turned shades darker whenever I was cold. The birthmark’s texture, as smooth as my white skin, didn’t curtail the shock. In the fifties, doctors didn’t know much about birthmarks but discouraged skin grafts to hide the purple color because the grafts were as unsightly as the purple coloring. My parents agreed with the doctors. I would live with the irregular color splashes. By the time I was six, my parents had learned to ignore my difference and treated me as if I was the same as any other kid.

Never realizing I was truly different, I started first grade. Miss Trainer, the first grade teacher, exuded kindness, vitality, and patience as she awakened our minds. I liked her from the beginning. Liking all my classmates was another matter.

“What’s that red stuff on your arm?” a freckle-faced girl named Lois asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, instantly aware that I should know the answer but didn’t. A strange feeling of shame came over me as if Mom had just caught me making ugly faces at my brother. Unable to explain, I sank lower in my desk.

“Did you paint your arm?” a chubby boy in the back row asked.

I buried my nose in my wide-lined pad of paper, fiddled with my new plump pencil, and tried to look busy, but their questions lingered in my mind. “What was that red stuff on my arm?” I wondered, and stole a peek at the offensive arm. Mom once told me it was my birthmark as if saying, “Yes, that’s your ear.” I didn’t understand what a birthmark was. Would it go away? Would it get bigger? Was it catching? Since neither Mom nor Dad talked with me about my birthmark, I concluded that the subject, like bad words, shouldn’t be mentioned, so I locked away my questions.

Despite my confusion, I tried to be a good student, tried to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, and tried not to cry like my baby brother when classmates teased me. Lois, the freckle-faced, smart-mouthed girl in my class, tormented me the most. I hated her.

Tall for a first grader, Lois displayed the athletic ability of a fifth grader. Whether swinging effortlessly on the trapeze bar or climbing like a squirrel on the jungle gym, she hurled barbs in my direction. “Debbie’s got a red arm. Debbie’s got a red arm,” her singsong voice rang over the playground.

I wanted to bury her head in the sand beneath the high jump standard. I wanted to yell, “Shut up!” I wanted to run and hide; instead, I pretended not to hear words meant to inflict the first of many scars on my soul. Suffering shame was a burden, a tough and solitary assignment for a six-year-old.

The day Lois fell off the monkey bars and broke her arm was the best day of first grade. With Lois sporting a pasty white cast, the wisecracking boys laughed at her misfortune. Sidelined from the playground equipment, Lois sulked and lost some of her nastiness, but she never passed up an opportunity to needle me.

While I became aware of my difference, I quietly fell in love with Jeff, who sat next to me in class. He stole my heart because he never teased me. Although Jeff didn’t know I considered him my boyfriend, I told my parents he was to satisfy their concerns about my adjustment to school. To this day, Mom remembers my first grade infatuation with Jeff. I remember an awakening awareness, seeing myself for the first time as others saw me, seeing my difference. My awareness baffled me. I didn’t understand why Lois was cruel while Jeff was nice, so I shuttered my confusion inside, away from the light of reason.

In my baby book, my mother describes me at birth as “adorable, intelligent, beautiful, and a complete joy.” She writes that I had “dark curly hair, blue eyes, and a beautiful face” and “all the nurses thought [I] was the prettiest baby they had ever seen.” Neither Mom nor Dad mentioned my birthmark. Neither saw my difference.

Reading Mom’s entry reminded me of the day my brother accidentally broke one of two plaster casts of my handprints. Before I could pound the living daylights out of him, Mom interceded with a promise to fix the plaque.

“It’s not the same,” I sobbed upon seeing Mom’s repair job. “It’s not perfect.”

Mom surveyed the two casts side-by-side and said, “I hardly notice the difference.”

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