Hurting People

My second cousin traveled to the East Coast one scorching summer, joining us at the pretty beach cottage my grandfather had rented for a month. Like me, she was ten, but even though our similarities ended there, we had fun palling around.

We spent weeks frolicking at the shore, filling our pails with horseshoe crabs and periwinkles. Anchoring our feet beneath the ocean’s sandy floor, we braved the waves—diving in and splashing each other, our skin briny, clean. As the sun tilted and dropped, hushing in its hushed afternoon descent, we combed the beach for sea glass.

And so the days passed, until one afternoon I heard a relative’s voice rising on the wind. There she sat, sprawled in her striped chair, heels pushing a pile of dug-out sand, nose smeared with zinc oxide.

To the family lounging alongside, she laughed and pointed:

Look! Kristin’s skin is so fair compared to her cousin’s, beautifully tanned and as brown as a berry.

Until that moment, I had not given a moment’s thought to my skin. But now I studied my arm alongside my cousin’s as we patted down our sand castle.

The waves buckled and crashed, as seagulls soared and mewed overhead. Throngs of children tiptoed along the ocean’s edge, giggling, as they scurried away from foamy waves, peanut butter sandwiches clutched in one hand and a pail of ocean treasures in the other.

Amid waves, wind, and whooping laughter, this was no quiet beach, yet my relative’s voice superseded all, a scream in my ears.

A seed of worry was born, a sprig of self-consciousness.

I felt embarrassed and oddly apologetic, but could not say why.

I kept digging, digging, digging, pretending I did not hear. My eyes filled as my heart crumpled.

Family ought to be the kindest people of all.

***

My senior year of high school, our family spent spring break vacationing in the Caribbean. I had high hopes of returning, tanned.

The previous summer—in early June—one of our teachers hosted an end-of-the-school-year pool party.

The yard was packed, and I was dressed in a soft t-shirt and Umbros, an unassuming cover-up over my bathing suit. With so many boys in attendance, I did not plan on swimming (although I loved swimming), given that my skin had not seen much sun since the previous summer.

My friends jumped in, stirring up a game of Marco Polo, with a Come on, Kristin!

So I threw caution to the wind.

What a time! Splashing, laughter, fun! A competitive ruckus. I forgot all about myself and reveled in the game.

As the grill sizzled, a delicious scent wafted through the pretty backyard. Our teacher whistled between her fingers, summoning us to the patio.

Hamburgers are ready!

We lunged for our thick beach towels, cinching them around our waists in a fashionable knot. Squeaking in wet flip-flops, we lined up on the concrete slab, ravenous from our water games. Everyone heaped paper plates with pasta salad and chips, spreading swaths of ketchup and mustard atop cheeseburgers. Styrofoam coolers were stuffed with icy-cold cans of Dr. Pepper.

And that is when it happened.

Kelly.

Kristin, you are so pale. Don’t you tan?

Silence all around.

A friend piped up.

So rude, Kelly. Not everyone is as tan as you.

It was awkward. Waiting an appropriate amount of time, I rose and tossed my uneaten food in the trash. Stepping behind a flowering shrub, I slipped my t-shirt over my head and ran my fingers through my damp hair.

Seventeen years old, but feeling like a ten-year-old, all over again.

For the next few months (in between shifts at my summer job), I spread a thin beach towel on our back deck, lathered myself in oil, and implored the sun to work its magic.

And it did. Gradually, I browned, returning to school that September with tanned limbs and high hopes that Kelly would leave me alone.

***

Senior year and Spring Break.

We flew to the island and took a winding bus tour before heading to the oversized pool. I was a New England girl, not accustomed to intense heat. I smiled at my good fortune.

My mother passed me the bottle of sunscreen, but I quietly turned to my old friend, the beloved oil.

All was well until I readied for dinner later that evening. As I stepped into the shower, the water droplets became rapid-fire bullets, pelting my tender skin.

I gasped, horrified at my mirrored reflection.

I was as red as a cooked lobster.

My skin bubbled and blustered, despite slathering on vast amounts of soothing aloe vera. Sleep eluded me; the agony of my burn was indescribable.

I was on fire.

At two o’clock in the morning, whimpering in misery, I awakened my mother, who led me to the swimming pool. Slowly, gingerly, I submerged myself in the cool water and wept in sweet relief.

The next two days were agonizing, until at last my skin peeled. I smeared sunblock liberally over my tender skin and ventured to the beach in the early hours, returning indoors at high noon. The rest of our vacation was pleasant, and I landed upon my native soil—and homeroom—tanned.

***

Others were not to blame for my sunburn.

That was my own doing, a pathetic attempt to meet a silly standard.

Yet this I know:

Thoughtless words are taloned creatures, beasts that sink their claws deep, painfully clutching our minds and hearts, a painful reminder that we are frail, easily wounded people, mortal dustlings prone to injuring others with careless speech.

Yes, death and life are in the power of the tongue.

How wise to pause and think before speaking.

And the tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness. The tongue is set among our members, staining the whole body, setting on fire the entire course of life, and set on fire by hell. -James 3:6