![]() Ma is currently away, working as a frontline nurse somewhere in Wales where her agency has sent her. If wounds and scars symbolize growth and honor, then shouldn’t we all be proud of them?, I ask myself nowadays, two decades after I got my forehead scar, as I button my blouse in front of a mirror, ready for my day’s work as a nurse in my second home, England. The wounds solidify into scars that look like the bumps of crocodile skin, symbolizing their rebirth into “crocodile men.” The Maori and Pacific Islanders share a similar tradition of scarification to symbolize honor and prestige, while in the old Sepik region of Papua New Guinea (where it is believed that crocodiles created humans), young men were initiated into manhood by having their skin cut with bamboo slivers. The more tattoos a person bore and the more scarred their skin was, the more valued and revered they were. Each coil of black waves narrated the warrior’s journey, their trials and triumphs. These patterns signified bravery and beauty. When the Spanish colonizers landed on the shores of Visayas and saw the natives of our land, they named them Pintados, “the painted ones.” Ancient tribesmen pricked their skin with sharp wood and rubbed black powder in the wound to tattoo intricate symbols such as sea wave, fire, and curlicues of clouds. Scarification or intentional scarring has been practiced by many cultures around the world. But from time to time a strong gust carrying waves of discarded leaves and grey rain would reveal the bald patch. Whenever my school classmates pushed their hair back with pink polka-dot headbands or pinned their fringes away from their faces with glittering Jolina-butterfly clips, I would always part mine sideways to cover the mark. It breaks the middle of my hairline and no hair can grow from it. When I look at my face now all I can see is an imperfect portrait: the keloid scar, a thick dab of copper-red acrylic, a burnt island seen from a bird’s-eye view. ![]() ![]() It means a “scab formed after a burn,” and literally translates as “hearth” or “fireplace”. The word scar originates from late Latin eschara, eskhara in Greek. Ma nursed my wound-she cleaned it with Betadine and dressed it regularly, and also cut and tweezed out the stitches when we couldn’t afford to go back to the doctor. Ma’s gaze was steadfast, and somehow I felt a sense of comfort knowing she was there. I looked at Ma’s face peering over the doctor’s shoulder. I could not feel anything apart from the cold blood that ran down my temples, the occasional tugging of thread from my forehead. ![]() I was awake when the doctor stitched my wound. I ran back inside our house not with a handful of chillies, but with my palm cupped over my forehead, blood streaming between my fingers. The bright Batangas air flared with the rust-scent of blood. Just the blur of his shirt and his helmet as he sped past, knocking me over. Perhaps it was the glare of the midday sun, but I did not see the cyclist coming. The heat warped the road of our village and stitched the shadows of pandan trees and santan shrubs on the sidewalk. Ma said, “It’s more delicious when it’s spicy,” as she scrambled through a woven bowl for chillies, but found only a couple of tiny dry and desiccated ones. The remnant of a wound from when I was eleven and was hit by a bicycle as I walked to the panciteria eatery at the end of our street to ask the owner, Ka Marta, if she had some red chillies to spare.Ī few days before my mother left our country to work as a nurse overseas, she was preparing a meal for the family. There is a keloid scar at the centre of my hairline, as big as my thumb, thin as a willow leaf. Younger days in Lipa, Batangas, Philippines
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