Marked from birth, I was not harmed

Amanda speaking at the mic
Photo shared with permission: Mikaela MacKenzie / Winnipeg Free Press

Writing in the third person is an interesting exercise; using she, he or they when writing about ourself can be immensely freeing and can tease out a story that, when considered from the first person "I" perspective, just cannot find purchase in words. 

The micro story "Marked from birth" (below), written a couple of years ago, found its way onto the page only once I switched from "I" to "she". The rest of today's post, which I felt quite fine writing from the "I" perspective, was sparked by the photo above that appeared a couple of weeks ago in the local paper. I was not expecting to see it, but when I did see it and then really looked at it, I did so without inhibition and with some good degree of joy. 

The whole of today's post is maybe greater than the sum of its parts, or maybe not. I am not sure. All I know is that I have had this story in me for many years and today is the day I am releasing it out into the world. 

***

Marked from birth

She always sat so the left side of her faced out, ensuring the right was held in shadow. But why? Only the bold or brash or very young would ever cross the line and actually say what she believed everyone was thinking: Scarface. Although only once had that actually been said to her — to her face. By two vapid hormonal adolescent boys in the schoolyard as they passed by her. She is — was, always has been, resilient and that word, while remembered to this day, then rolled off her back, did not scar her for life. Her own birthed mark, there since forever, was simply a fact. For all to see and none to care about. But not caring does not mean not noticing. Does not mean not knowing. It simply means not being invested, means being aware but not concerned. See it. Say it. Move on. Like the little kids who point and ask, with all the innocence of their young age, What’s that?

***

Moment 1/1974: England, an extended family gathering, a lovely but rather vague cousin kissing me hello, then wiping her thumb across my right cheek, saying, ‘Oh dear, I've left lipstick on your face.’

Moment 2/1982: University grad photos, the whole nine yards — photographer in a studio, me wearing the black gown and holding a bouquet of roses (!), smiling at the camera. The next week, reviewing the proofs and the studio assistant saying, ‘We’ve airbrushed out the mark on your cheek’ and me wondering why that was necessary. But looking at the photo today, it seems I let their decision stand…

Moment 3/1988: During journalism school, learning about on-camera interviews by doing them. The prof apologizing afterwards to me for having my “bad side” angled towards the camera. Me wondering what he meant, then realizing, and brushing it off with something like, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

The birthmark doesn't matter. The response to the fact of my birthmark matters, maybe, sometimes. It’s right there, on my right cheek. It’s obvious, noticeable. Notice it, of course. Then, move on.

Moment 4/2026: Last month, I spoke at a news conference, invited by the Minister of Health to help announce the new Menopause Clinic the government will open next year. I had been a grateful patient of its forerunner, the Mature Women’s Centre, closed down by the previous government, so I was more than happy to tell my story as representative of “mature” women and our healthcare needs. The photo of me that was included in the next day’s local paper shocked me — in a good way: The photog had shot me from the right side, showing my birthmark as it is. Just there. On my face. Unavoidable. Immaterial, really. It was my story that mattered. My story — my face — helped illustrate the need the new clinic will meet.

I wrote the photographer a note (right), and I bought a copy of her photo for myself (above).

My birthmark has never mattered and, certainly, does not matter today in our world gone mad with power-drunk billionaires ruining just about everything they touch. I am fine with the mark on my face; it has not harmed me. Sometimes I answer a child's question about it with, “It makes me special.” I’m not sure it does, though it’s an answer that satisfies, that is as good as anything else I might say.

These are enough words spent on this subject. The time was right for me to write them; I have made my mark on the matter. Now, on to other things…

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.