They appeared pretty quickly, without warning. Strange speckles and splotches of white formed on my knees, arms, and feet in fascinating arrangements. I was 13, tan-skinned, not religious, approaching high school, and not particularly insecure when I began to notice the patches, and the way their unfamiliarity challenged my physical security. After constant research and a significant dose of confusion, I made a single trip to the dermatologist with my parents. It was a plain beige building, much like every other building in Scottsdale, Arizona —unmistakably the desert. When I walked inside, there was a children’s play area surrounded by various chairs and magazines, and a library of brochures and pamphlets urging patients to seek help and information about their medical concerns. But wasn’t that why I was here?
My name was called. I rolled up my blue jeans so the doctor could examine my knees with a flashlight. Plain white patches, small, in shapes that you would see on a cow, not a human. I was uncomfortable, on the verge of learning something about myself that I would probably try to reject. A few minutes passed, and I was told I had Vitiligo. The dermatologist couldn’t tell us much more about the condition, however. He scratched his head.
“Eh, could be an autoimmune disease, causes are still uncertain,” he said.
Courtesy of Google, the only somewhat scientific explanation I later found was that altered pigmentation of the skin is usually brought about by our melanocytes destroying themselves within the comfort of our own bodies. For now, the doctor fidgeted with his ball point pen and spoke to us about topical creams, casually slipping in that there was currently no cure for the disorder — the last words I wanted to hear. Yet I was more concerned about the $300 check my parents were writing for the appointment, than my initial distaste with the doctor. During the moment when I needed the person with the degree to speak to me in a balance of scientific syntax and plain language, he was relatively mute and uneducated, as if this was the first time he spoke to someone “spotted.” I politely thanked him when the appointment was over and left the rubber-smelling cubicle.
Unfortunately, the spots grew more noticeable over the years. After further research and personal analysis, I learned that the disorder did have one consistent trait: symmetry. The imperfections mimicked one another on each half of my body. Elbows, knees, underarms, feet, inner thighs, wrists were now invaded with the abnormality. My olive skin was tarnished. The splotches were pure white and resembled kaleidoscopic images. They were delicate in appearance, popping up without warning or consent, choosing the specific place in which they would like to exist. Every night, I searched online for an explanation. I became a victim to the columns of questions with response boxes left unanswered. There wasn’t an explanation for my condition; there were suggested treatments — treatments like topical creams and PUVA laser. Medical sources encouraged me to stay out of the sun completely, ironic because I lived in the sunniest state in the country. As the blemishes grew more noticeable, I was more susceptible to telling white lies. People would ask constantly, “What is that on your elbow?” “You have something on your arm.” I would reply with “birthmark,” which made much more sense to me then than it does now. With every new confrontation, I crawled sheepishly back inside myself, losing a bit of my identity each time.
I resented the disorder for the way it hindered my potential experiences and opportunities as a young girl. I wanted to play volleyball, but I never did. I didn’t wear dresses in fear of unsolicited comments about my legs. I was disappointed in my situation, and in myself for being disappointed in the first place. During the second semester of my junior year of high school, I joined the girls lacrosse team. I was automatically expected to wear the white and blue miniskirt and matching tank top, exposing the imperfections that lived on the surface of my skin. This was the first jab I took at my skin insecurity.
Over time, I became less self-conscious, but when I was uncomfortable, I felt guilty and wrong, like I was ungrateful. After all, there were people who endured physical pain everyday, patients who truly suffered. My situation was only skin-deep. It was merely an external flaw that stung internally, but it never caused me actual harm. I felt ashamed to talk about the low self-esteem I developed and the experiences I missed out on, so I didn’t. I didn’t want to be the girl who asked herself, “Why me?” It took four years to finally breathe the words, “Why not me?”
This was around the same time that I saw Winnie Harlow on the 21st season of America’s Next Top Model. The black American model lives with Vitiligo as well, but radiates a level of poise I didn’t know was possible among those with the disorder we shared. More recently, Harlow was seen in Beyonce’s music video, Lemonade, as a symbol of strength and beauty. I read article after article about her, finding inspiration in the way she held herself, in the way she accepted the condition while not seeing the discolorations as something to be fixed. It was the first time I had been exposed to another person who made me feel less alone. It was the first time I felt confident enough to reveal myself and the flawed parts of my body, without feeling like I owed the world an explanation.
As an 18 year-old college freshman living in New York, I continue to search for more answers about the condition. However, I am no longer seeking a way to fix it. The past year has forced me to grow, along with Winnie Harlow and the 50 million bodies actively exhibiting the disorder. I now throw myself into new experiences as much as I can and choose to view my insecurity and discomfort with my body as only a segment of the self I used to cover up. I have been with my boyfriend for over a year and owe a good part of my self-assurance to the confidence he instills in me. He loves the marks. To others, my condition may be seen as an unfortunate abnormality, but it isn’t up to me to prove them wrong. It is up to me to accept myself, spotted or not.
