The Map of Ireland – Making Friends with My Face

I grew up not knowing what I looked like. This is not surprising, as there were few mirrors in our home, and I was not encouraged to spend time in front of them. My husband, on the other hand, has a pretty good idea what he looks like, because he studied his expressions learning how to draw. That’s why even the most hideous ghoul in his repertoire has that mischievous smile of his.

Mine is not the face that launched a thousand ships, but it does seem to be a face that has been claimed by almost everyone as “One of ‘Us’ “. When I was younger, Greek people was sure I was Greek, Jewish people were sure I was Jewish, Irish – Irish, French - French, Italian, Hispanic – and so it bordered on humorous. Visiting Boston, a little Hindu girl adopted me and called me “Silky”, and her family invited me to come and live with them. Upon a chance meeting with a young Swede (and I definitely do not look Swedish), he was sure he met another European traveler.

As I grew, there were a few years of grief – actually about ten of them – where this stopped happening. I think, in truth, it’s because I stopped smiling. Life happens to people, and during my 30’s there was a little more than an average amount of loss.

But as much as life does happen, it does not stand still, and through no small amount of work, love, help and nurture, I seemed to find my mislaid self. And people started to find themselves reflected in my face again.

I started to notice it when women began to gravitate towards me, and I found myself with an unusual number of social obligations. But then strangers began passing me, smiling and nodding, as though they knew me – as they had done most of my life. Strangers stop to talk to me in grocery lines. The last one told me I had “The Map of Ireland” on my face.

I went back to the mirror to study. My friends will tell you, I don’t like mirrors and I don’t like pictures. The images of myself that I’ve seen seem hideous to me. They do not look like I feel, nor do they look like the person people seem to be responding to.

There was a test done not so long ago about the difference between how beautiful people are treated, both male and female. Theoretically, beautiful people are treated better,

I am not a beautiful people.

Not by media standards of beauty.

But then, I don’t believe in media standards of beauty.

It is a rare person I’ve met that I do not see beauty in.

And sometimes the most beautiful people I’ve ever met are lined, wizened, with thinning hair and bright sparkling eyes.

Or tiny men, with loving, open faces.

Or tough, spunky women covered in construction debris.

Or an alcoholic who manages not to drink, just this one more day.

Or tall men, stooping at the waist, with soft gentle voices, trying not to intimidate others.

There is such beauty in the world. There are so many infinite ways in which human beings grow themselves to be integrous and brave.

We have a culture that worships youth, and I love the young, with their power, and speed and optimism. And yet, I think people become more of who they truly are as they age. They settle into themselves. They have less time for what does not matter to them, so you can see what truly does matter emerge with clarity.

And, little by little, I see that person who knows what matters to her emerging from my eyes.

I don’t see it in the mirror. I see it in the lady by the checkout stand, who thinks I could be her daughter.

I don’t believe that people respond to “beauty” in conventional terms nearly so much as we might suppose.

It has been my experience that people most strongly respond to what they see.

Which is far more than can be captured in a mirror or a photograph.