An Editorial Note: As promised, by popular demand, here is my second draft of A Little Girl’s Little Scar. For those of you interested in craft, and wanting a few interesting details that didn’t make it to draft 2, you can read below the break to see draft 1. Publishing this draft sucks because I really think there’s a powerful story buried in what I’ve written. Hopefully it peeks out for you, especially those of you who are parents or spend time with young children. Okay…here goes:
Draft 2b: A Little Girl’s Little Scar
She looks up at me with bright, inquisitive brown eyes. One tiny had encompassed in mine and the other reaching for my beard. She’s two and half, maybe three, and I’m doubly exotic- a stranger, and an American speaking English. As she reaches up to feel my beard our eyes make contact, but mine are drawn an inch lower to a tiny scar on her face. It small rectangle just a shade darker than the rest of her cheek. It barely registers, and she’s off to fawn over Katie while her two older sisters play a game of musical Americans as they circle past each of us over and over.
While the children are delighted by our presence, John, Katie, and I are focused on the task at hand. A Palestinian man with a warm smile and physical softness that belies an obvious intensity sits at a desk. We’ll call him M. One hand rests on his leg and the other on a wired mouse connected to a large dell desktop circa 2004 and a square flat screen monitor. To his right is an alcove with some 4”x6” photos and a blue and white clock that doesn’t work, but holds a quote that captures our purpose; “cameras are to help people see so that they can see without cameras.’ The quote is unattributed. M. deftly moves through layers of folders to bring up videos of clashes with IDF soldiers. In one, masked soldiers are hurling chunks of cinder block at Palestinian homes next to a bored guard in a sniper booth.
I feel a tugging on my pants and glance down to see that my focus is required by M.’s youngest daughter. I crouch down so she can pull herself up and perch on my thigh. Her little hands reach for the far side of my leg and she begins to pull herself up the same way my daughter, Allie, wiggles herself onto a chair. She wiggles and shimmies herself into the perfect position. I’m half paying attention to the shaky homemade film, but mostly focused on just how similar this girl is to my Allie.
They have the same light brown curls, though Midwestern humidity makes Allie’s much frizzier. The have the same skin, that paleness that you know would turn into a deep brown if they spent too much time in the sun. Mostly though they share boundless toddler energy as they move from entertainment to entertainment, each new experience holding a world of possibility. Their eyes have that bright intensity of a child who is constantly soaking in a new world.
I glance up at the computer screen and realize that I’ve spaced out. The film of the soldiers is gone and M. is pulling up the next video. My Allie surrogate, M.’s youngest daughter, has moved on to someone more immediately interesting and engaged, not unlike what Allie would’ve done had she been there with me. My eyes wander across the room. Opposite M.’s desk, which sits in the front corner of the room between a window and the lone doorway, a variety of traditional headwear and scarves are hung on display. They cheer up the otherwise drab concrete walls. Many are a white and black checked pattern that makes me think of a Yasser Arafat press conference from the early 2000s. Others though are a rainbow of colors; one ,mostly purple with a single narrow band of green, reminds me of the color palate of my wedding, and I make a mental note that this will be a good gift to bring home which is convenient because M. is likely to ask if we’d like to buy anything before we leave.
Suddenly M.’s daughter is back, but this time on the computer screen instead of at my feet. She’s sitting on his lap and he’s applying gauze to a small cut on her cheek just under her left eye. Despite the slow trickle of blood from the cut, and the palpable tension emanating from her family inside the computer screen, the little girl sits quietly. Calmly.
—
One time when Allie and I were visiting family in Connecticut, we went to visit my mother’s office. Allie was running around in these purple and white high-top Adidas sneakers that were a half-size too big. But her Uncle got them for her, and she loved them, so we let her wear them. She was bounding up and down the hallway, in and out of rooms, holding a bear she’d found on a bench in one hand. She was exploring every inch of this new wonderland, soaking it all in. She started to go down the stairs to the bottom level of my mom’s office. Her left hand stretched up to the wooden railing on the wall; her right hand clutched that bear. She carefully took each stair, inching her way down the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the toe of her right sneaker catch the top of the stair as she went to take her next step down. Her hand slipped off the railing; her body pitched forward; her legs flew up over her head. I raced down the stairs after her, perpetually a half stair too late; her arms would hit a stair, then her legs, and her arms again. Eleven stairs she fell down, and I was helpless to stop it from happening; I could only be there when she landed, a collapsed heap on the bottom of the stairs. The initial fear and helplessness gave way to frustration. Why did I let her wear shoes a half-size too big? Why was I behind her on the stairs instead of in front? What if she’d been really hurt? She looked up at me, cried for a minute as I picked her up, and was back to playing mere minutes later. My fear and frustration seemed to linger long past when she’d moved on.
—
The same scene plays out in real time as the tension mounts in the room. M.’s prior warmth and quiet intensity fade to nothing as he barks what I imagine is a command in Arabic and the girls’ mother ushers them out of the room despite protests from the older siblings. The toddler just holds her mom’s hand and walks out, seemingly oblivious. After they’ve left, the wooden door firmly shut, M. explains that the cut is from a tear gas grenade that was launched into the house and grazed the little girl. She was fine he says in broken English- cried only for minute. But what if she hadn’t been, I think. I imagine the same thought runs through M’s head each time he looks at her scar, like each time Allie took the top step of the stairs for a few weeks after her fall. I think about are her bright, intense brown eyes. I think about Allie’s. Eyes that are soaking in the world. Eyes that see scars and maybe start to understand.
Draft 1:
A Little Girl’s Little Scar
She looks up at me with bright, inquisitive brown eyes. One tiny had encompassed in mine and the other reaching for my beard. She’s two and half, maybe three, and I’m doubly exotic- a stranger, and an American speaking English. As she reaches up to feel my beard our eyes make contact, but mine are drawn an inch lower to a tiny scar on her face. It small rectangle just a shade darker than the rest of her cheek. It barely registers, and she’s off to fawn over Katie and her sisters play a game of musical Americans as they circle past each of us over and over.
While the children are delighted by our presence, we’re focused on the task at hand. A Palestinian man sits at a desk and deftly moves through layers of folders to bring up videos of clashes is with IDF soldiers. In one, soldiers with their faces masked are hurling chunks of cinder block as Palestinian homes next to sniper booth. The guard on duty seems no more interested in the world around him than parking attendants who sit in similar booths all over the world. The snippet of film ends and our guide starts the next one.
The computer thinks for a minute and then a picture of a handful of young Palestinian boys being detained by IDF soldiers pops up. With the film comes the immediately recognizable anguished cries of young, terrified children. The boys seem to be between ages nine and twelve and are holding their hands out seemingly pleading with the soldiers. Later we find out that their trying to show the soldiers there is no dust on their hands, thus proving that they weren’t throwing rocks as the troops. One boy is brusquely led away with the efficiency of a professional soldier. I feel a tugging on my pants and glance down to see that my focus is required by my small wandering friend. She wants to hold my hand again and I think sit on my lap the way her sister is on Katie’s.
I look up to see another boy pleading, still with his hands out. He is now trying to explain more calmly and rationally. John and our new friend are doing a question and answer. “Why does the IDP let you film/” John asks.
“A permit. You can get one; it’s signed by the minister of defense for Israel. Then you can take pictures,” our guide explains about the situation. I’m half paying attention and half focused on just how similar this girl is to my daughter, Allie. They have the same light brown curls, though Midwestern humidity makes Allie’s much frizzier. The have the same very lightly tanned skin, and that universal boundless toddler energy. Mostly though, they have that same bright intensity in their eyes of a child who is soaking in a new world all the time.
I glance up at the computer screen and realize that I’ve spaced out. The film of the boys is gone and our guide is pulling up the next video. My Allie surrogate has moved on to someone more immediately interesting and engaged, not unlike what Allie would’ve done had she been there with me.
Suddenly she’s back, but this time on the computer screen instead of at my feet. She’s sitting on her father’s lap and he’s applying gauze to a small cut on her cheek just under her left eye. Despite the slow trickle of blood from the cut, and the palpable tension emanating from the family inside the computer screen, my little girl sits quietly. Calmly. The same scene plays out in real time as the tension mounts in the room and the girls’ mom ushers them out of the room despite protests from the older siblings. The toddler just holds her mom’s hand and walks out, seemingly oblivious. Our guide is explaining that the cut is from a tear gas grenade that was launched into the house and grazed the little girl. But I’m only half-listening again. All I can think about are those bright, intense brown eyes that are soaking in the world all the time.
Goals for draft 2:
- increase clarity &sensory detail
- More juxtaposition between Allie and little girl (same kid, different life experiences)
- Emotional Truths: Inequity & Impermanent innocence
My Land, Your Land, God's Land 