Everything I own has a stain on it, or a scratch. So much so that I’ve made it my “thing”. How do you make something your “thing”? Well, you’ve just got to say it to yourself in the silence of your mind.
“yes, this is my thing”
I started buying 10$ sunglasses knowing I’d drop or scratch them at some point. 10$ sunglasses are a safer bet than buying 200$ sunglasses. By lowering my standards, I shall lower my expectations, I thought to myself.
“I’m lowering my expectations”
Reasonable. I once bought these ray ban sunglasses thinking I would treat them different than I do my other objects, thinking that something that would signify luxury would change me. But it didn’t. I managed to scratch them too. And even I, am scratched all over like my sunglasses, cuts that I didn’t treat with care scarred over, boo-boo’s I let ooze into light scars. And one would think, ones own skin is more expensive than a pair of sunglasses, I mean skin… the ultimate luxury. Yet still, mine contains little scratches everywhere.
“I’m just like Edward Scissorhands” I say to myself.
A thought that makes me smile creepily in the darkness of my own home.
As a child I loved him because of his scratches and imperfections. I loved how he didn’t fit in, and how he wanted so badly to help but would always end up hurting himself. Could I somehow extend that love to myself? If Tim Burton made an Edward Scissorhands 2 I would audition. Can you imagine? latinx Edward. Edwardx?
I have so many 10$ sunglasses now waiting to be used, some scratched, some not. Accepted the random oil stains or paint stains on my shirts and pants re-framing them as “fashion” in my head. Like I’m making my own Maison Margiela tattered wears. When a friend first showed me Maison Margiela, my heart lept up, it was so… romantic and frayed, exactly how I feel. But how are these stains considered luxury, and my handmade ones so cheap and worthless in comparison? Perhaps it’s just a perception thing. Why is it that some stains are expensive? Why are mine so cheap? Or maybe the question is, why do I seek to cheapen myself?
A while ago I read a line from a Cecilia Pavon book I got at the poetry project during the new year fundraiser. The book is called Little Joy. There was a chapter about her home, where she says something about stains being integral to being a writer. It tells a story, something about the wear and tear of time. It made me proud of my imperfect life, my inability to care too much about objects. Almost like I’m ready to go, at a moments notice, leave behind my mark in every object I’ve ever touched so that my friends and family could put together a story of my frantic life.
“They worked so much they scratched it here! Probably from dropping it on the ground when they’d bend over to tie their shoes”
“Omg I just found the same scratch here! Maybe they had both of the sunglasses on but didn’t know! What a silly idiot!”
I imagine them all laughing at me leaving a legacy of accidents behind for those that I love, how nice of me.
Fingerprints near every door that I clean monthly and reappear within seconds. My grubby little hands. I thought there was something wrong with me, how ready I am to lose material things, to see them wear and tear yet keep them around, to stain almost everything.
Stains and scratches. Where I was forever haunted by the spector of seeming unclean I am now communing with the ghosts of my own judgement. I am making it integral to my being. A strength, if you will. Showing my stains and scratches proudly.
“Great glasses”
“Thanks! They were 10$ because I scratch and lose everything”
“Omg me too!”
Surprisingly accepting my stains and scratches has invited people into to share their own silly griefs. And suddenly, connection. From what I was so ashamed of revealing; my poverty, my messiness, my carelessness — a life line. Other lives in a funny shame, revealed and here we are laughing together. And I guess try and what all this is about, acceptance.
I made a new white male friend and was nervous to meet with him, what if his kindness was a trick? What if I get groped? I met him in Williamsburg at a vegan restaraunt. Safe enough, if anything goes wrong I could just pretend I work there and tell him my shift just started, force my way into the kitchen and start making burgers by putting my hands on the hot plates or whatever is back there. Luckily, it wasn’t so bad. The intensity of his gaze wasn’t predatory, like i thought. It was more like his heart was showing through his eyes, an intense love and gaze. He told me about his past, his shame, overcoming the pain of his own adultery in order to heal. Then, after listening intently and also prepared to run at any moments notice (what I do so well) he asks me a question that would unknowingly hook into me like a nail.
“Have you accepted yourself?”
I was caught off guard finishing a mushroom latte.
“Uhm… yeah…sure…uh…I think?”
For weeks afterwards the question wouldn’t leave my mind. Had I accepted myself? And why was this white man so fucking deep? The answer at the time was no, self hatred is a lot to separate from, where that has been your comfort for so long, critizing ones self, how could one possibly turn away. But since then, I’ve unraveled much like my clothing and sunglasses. Revealing my stains and scratches. And everyday, just a little more, loving my wear and tear. I’m kissing my self on the shoulder, finding affirmations I write myself and would’ve laughed a few years ago, waiting for me in my books.
”I am a miracle”
”I am magic”
”I accept myself”
You are magic Edwxrd Scxssorhands :P