ON THE SUBJECT OF BRUISES AND CUTS...

When I was a child, unconscious and unashamed of society’s rules, I used to adore showing off my scabs or bruises or various assorted other boo boos. The attention, the fascination of scab tissue and bruises, it was all quite wonderful to behold. In time I learned to be ashamed of scars and bruises and scabs. I learned to desire flawless, smooth skin, free of pimples or marks of any kind, and believed that this was the ultimate achievement of feminine beauty. As society dictated, I worried about such things, and just as surely embraced stereotypical views of my role as a woman in a male society.

I entered the work force biased against my own gender, always ready to respect a male opinion even over my own, no matter how ridiculous. I also competed viciously with fellow sisters on the job, joining the cattiness of the ranks, the gossip and back stabbing and always, always feeling utterly inadequate as a woman crammed every day into pantyhose and dress shoes, makeup and concealer in a pathetic attempt to achieve that flawless feminine ideal. No matter how competent my work, I was usually judged on appearance first, performance second. In different venues and at different jobs, more often than not, appearance meant more than anything else, first and foremost.

At last I’d had enough and, guided by some bizarre instinct to pursue another concept of work, entered the trades and became a carpenter. This world was one of true performance, at least for those of us not related to the boss. Makeup and pantyhose was as far removed from my new world as airplanes are from cavemen. I began to develop muscles I’d only dreamed of, but for a price. It started with scrapes and the occasional odd mark or sore limb, but through the days, weeks and months, developed into full fledged, honest to God bruises, not to mention cuts or even the most horrible bane of feminine beauty, scabs.

Like a good girl, I at first attempted to hide these scabs and scars and marks by wearing long sleeve shirts for the evening. In warm weather I contemplated make-up for my arms. I almost cringed in public, afraid someone, anyone, would notice my scars and scabs and bruises, and would wonder about whichever horrid boyfriend or husband did that to me. Looking in the mirror, I would find myself ugly because of my lack of flawless, china like skin.

One day, as I contemplated how to hide my bruises before going out for the evening, I thought about the hard week I’d had to get them. I’d acquired these marks in what has been traditionally a man’s world of labor. Indeed, millions of women have suffered endlessly in "man’s world" for the last 10,000 years or so, and have sacrificed their bodies, minds, dreams and lives at the hands of so many men. And for the last 10,000 years, so many men have taken for granted and spit upon the sacrifices and sufferings of their mothers and sisters that their wives and daughters never had a chance.

It occurred to me that thousands, even millions of women had suffered throughout time, fighting for an equal footing in all aspects of existence, sending their hope to future generations, and I’d really lucked out to be born in an age when I could nonchalantly take a chance and apply for the job of apprentice carpenter. Here I was worrying about my skin, as if this was truly the most important part of being a woman in our 21st century. Women today are insisting on making themselves heard and known in every field of endeavor, even though we’re still paid 71 cents on the dollar compared to men, still have our reproductive and sexual rights constantly threatened and in certain continents can still be bought and sold by men.

I was deeply ashamed for my lack of integrity and strength in the face of fashion magazines. The best part of me conjured up images of slave women throughout time, raped, beaten and trapped into their existence, but capable of loving their children enough to survive for them and capable of hammering, sawing, cutting, trapping, WORKING as hard as any man ever in the history of creation, and for longer hours to boot.

In that moment, it occurred to me that these bruises, these scabs and scars on my arms, shoulders, and legs were nothing more than the product of hard physical labor that I had managed to perform to the best of my ability and gotten paid for at the same rate as any man. Never mind the fact that these bruises made me less desirable for a certain segment of the male population.

I decided to view my scabs and bruises in a different light. I decided that they were not things to be ashamed of, but rather badges of honor, however bizarre to mainstream America, that I would from here on out wear with pride. I ran out of the house and bought a halter top, to show off every part of my upper limbs that I could.

Now a big, knowing smile takes over my face whenever I notice people noticing my arms. Sometimes, they shake their heads and walk away, ashamed for me, or embarrassed by me or just plain bothered. But sometimes they come up to me, and ask me where I got those bruises, their faces ready to cringe, and then I tell them, I got them on the clock, at the job, on the site, whilst earning my pay in what used to be a man’s world, as I tell them that I am a carpenter. Then I smile and look into their eyes, and present no fear, only self-satisfaction and gratitude to all those who came before me, and hope I please my foremothers with my response.

I am a fat, single carpenter living in Chicago, currently recovering from back surgery. When I am not writing, I am reading or beading.

SINCE June 3, 2001 YOU ARE UPPITY VISITOR NUMBER 1760