I have a massive birthmark that covers the left side of my face. It’s brown and vaguely shaped like Africa, with a few errant splatters of pigment under my eye that some have mistaken for fist imprints.
Predictably, I have heard some pretty weird theories over the years to explain my cheek continent: “Hey, you been working on a car?” “Did you get hit by a basketball?” “Are you half black?” and one toothless carnival worker in North Carolina who — without solicitation — proclaimed, “Yer face is dirty.”
Perhaps my childhood friend John best described my birthmark when he screamed across a high school cafeteria table, “Kir, you look like you went tanning with a ‘Phantom of the Opera’ mask on.”
But life wasn’t always tough. When I wasn’t explaining that I hadn’t been in a bruising street fight with the town toughs, I was busy being a pretty confident, well-adjusted kid with a ton of friends, decent grades and a sense of humor.
Sure, I experienced the usual hiccups of growing up, but my peculiar coloring didn’t cause me to shrink in the shadows. Instead, when I was reminded it was there, it was like a magical source of power. From it sprang fortitude, a lot of laughs (see: “Yer face is dirty”) and occasional confusion (how do I apply blush with two different colored cheeks?). But otherwise, it simply wasn’t a big deal. I worked with it. It didn’t work me.
Last week, a friend sent me an email saying, “You should have thought of this idea.”
When I clicked on the link in the email, I saw a feel-good story about a British toy company, Makies, which sells customized dolls including ones with a cane, a hearing aid, or a large red birthmark over her forehead and eye.
After I was finished laughing, I sent her a quick reply: “No thanks.”
At 37, I have long outgrown dolls, but I could never imagine little Kirsten toting around a splotched toy pal named Melissa.
I already had to field awkward questions from curious strangers about my own birthmark. Now I would have to vouch for Melissa’s face, too? No offense, Mel — you’re on your own. Give me a Cabbage Patch Kid, and let’s call it a day.
Makies calls these details “inclusive accessories.” But it’s really code for condescending pity: “Poor you. You have a big stain on your face. We will empower you with the help of a make-believe mini-me.” And since they’re sold on a separate section of the website, they don’t even get to mingle with the rest of the dolls.
I grew up in simpler times. In the pre-Internet era, there were no overly precocious children claiming to feel the crushing alienation from a toy industry that didn’t make products for them. Toys were simply plastic bits to play with — not beauty standards. This was years before American Girl would inflict its money-siphoning tyranny on the parents of young ladies. None of us had dolls that looked like us.
Plus, I never had the sense that I was such a strange creature that I needed to be comforted by a specially ordered doll that couldn’t be pulled off the shelves of Toys “R” Us. I didn’t derive my self-esteem from the contents of my toy chest.
All of that good stuff came from what I was able to achieve on the soccer field, in the classroom and how I was treated by family and friends — my older brothers tortured me like they would any younger sibling; my pals barely mentioned my spotty cheek unless it was to chuckle at one of the aforementioned awkward run-ins. I am now a highly functioning, thick-skinned adult — and I did it all without a personalized $126 birthmark buddy.
Back in February, there was a story about a couple in the UK who had an 18-month-old daughter with red birthmarks covering her legs. In order to make their child feel “special,” they had a replica of her birthmarks tattooed on their legs. As the yarn made the rounds on social media, it drew a collective, “Aww, that’s so sweet.”
Meanwhile, I cringed. These parents were narcissists looking for a pat on the back. They complained that when they went out, her splotchy legs drew persistent stares. How inconvenient for them. And now, by tattooing their own legs, they put a huge microscope on their daughter — and all before she was potty-trained. Way to inflict a narrative and identity on your child.
Gawkers were going to gawk. But my parents never made me feel hyper aware of my birthmark. Sure, I had to go to the dermatologist more than your average kid. But there was no coddling or regular reminders of my aesthetic cross to bear. It didn’t keep me from learning, growing and laughing off the odd wannabe bully. It merely prohibited me from getting an even tan (admittedly tough for a kid growing up near the Jersey Shore). I had pride in the way I looked, not once asking to have it removed. I still don’t know how to cover it up with makeup. But I never wanted to feel “special.” I wanted to be treated like everyone else — albeit with a little more stray pigment.
So having a Melissa doll would have magnified the very thing I learned not to focus on. Want to make your kids embrace their quirks? Leave these inconsequential differences in the wind. You’d be surprised how quickly they float away.