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What's in a Face?
Feb. 16th, 2006 12:21 amOkay, so I've been putting off writing about this, but it's been weighing on my mind terribly and I think to make it go away I need to record my ideas and see what other people might have to bring to it.
Yesterday, keeping with a new personal goal of walking home once per week, I stopped by Starbucks to get my first cup of commercial coffee I'd bought in several days. I was tired and caffeine-headachy, and it felt extremely convenient and on-the-way. As I approached the café, I noticed that there was a man sitting at one of the outdoor tables, seeming to sip from a small straw.
He had no face. Although I didn't get an -excellent- look, it appeared that his mouth and much of his jaw had been gouged out, and thus his upper lip had been pulled down to create the roof of his mouth. This projected his nose and (eyes? I didn't see if he had any, though he must have)...forward, basically making it look as though his head had folded into itself. Slightly disconcerted, but not really thinking about it, I entered the Starbucks, stood in line, and waited for my coffee. As I was waiting, I noticed that the deformed stranger had entered the café, and was standing near a group of people nearby. I don't think he knew them, but again, my observation of him and the others was somewhat stilted.
What I remember foremost is that my hair started to stand on end, and I got a strange smell/taste in my mouth. The man wasn't looking at me, as far as I knew, but he was close, and it made me really uncomfortable. I turned around nonchalantly a couple of times, took quick, passing glances at his deformity, before hastily staring the other way. For reasons I can't even begin to explain, I was terrified. I couldn't wait for my coffee to come soon enough, so that I could grab it and remove myself from the situation, get away from the man. It was almost like an inner frenzy, like a confined panic. It was making me literally feel ill.
And even as the feelings caught onto my adrenaline and rushed through my system, I was appalled by how wrong it was. The man was probably perfectly nice; he had probably suffered an unfortunate disease or accident. I was alive with sympathy for him--and it was as though there were two sides of me in desperate conflict. On one level I wanted to approach him, to talk to him, to find out what had happened to him, maybe make friends with this poor unfortunate creature. Assuming most people reacted at least similarly to how I did, the man must shoulder an enormous social pressure, to create tension and disgust wherever he goes, for reasons that are likely not his fault at all. I wanted to help him, to try to relate to him. However, that was only a little voice of conscience within me, greatly overshadowed by the deep instinctual discomfort and fear that grabbed hold of me. I wanted to say hi to him--but even transient glances at him made my heart race and my stomach clinch. It was a serious ordeal being in the same area as him--even for the few minutes I withstood it. I felt deeply disturbed and ill by the time I left the shop with my coffee, and it took the remainder of the walk home before I could mentally revisit the situation and think about it in a more direct, logical manner.
Why did he disturb me so much? What is is about a face? People with damaged limbs, huge scars--twisted bodies--inspire sympathy, and perhaps are a bit awkward to interact with at first, but I have never, ever felt so gravely affected by someone's appearance before. It was as though his contorted features made him a monster, a perverted being, someone unsafe and unnatural, and it's just not true. However, faces -do- seem to have a sort of telling power. I remember (I think it was) in driver's ed, we watched a video about a drunk driving crash victim who had been burnt all over. First it was a torrent of words and admonishments-- don't drive drunk, it hurts people, it ruins lives, etc. Such sentiments have been voiced countless times by thousands of teachers, counselors, parents, and others. It was nothing new, nothing shocking. However, when the footage played and a burnt face appeared, masklike and shiny, the room of students stood aghast. While the victim's words were not any different from those so often reiterated, they held a strange power coming from the inhuman face. It was a message that sobered all who received it, and awoke some deep instinct in their souls.
Why is this?
Why are faces so important; why do they have power to make one a monster?
He was not a monster. But my mind--the most basic of instincts--treated him thus. And even now, I'm hating myself for it, innately inspired or not.
Rarely in my life have I ever felt so shallow.
Yesterday, keeping with a new personal goal of walking home once per week, I stopped by Starbucks to get my first cup of commercial coffee I'd bought in several days. I was tired and caffeine-headachy, and it felt extremely convenient and on-the-way. As I approached the café, I noticed that there was a man sitting at one of the outdoor tables, seeming to sip from a small straw.
He had no face. Although I didn't get an -excellent- look, it appeared that his mouth and much of his jaw had been gouged out, and thus his upper lip had been pulled down to create the roof of his mouth. This projected his nose and (eyes? I didn't see if he had any, though he must have)...forward, basically making it look as though his head had folded into itself. Slightly disconcerted, but not really thinking about it, I entered the Starbucks, stood in line, and waited for my coffee. As I was waiting, I noticed that the deformed stranger had entered the café, and was standing near a group of people nearby. I don't think he knew them, but again, my observation of him and the others was somewhat stilted.
What I remember foremost is that my hair started to stand on end, and I got a strange smell/taste in my mouth. The man wasn't looking at me, as far as I knew, but he was close, and it made me really uncomfortable. I turned around nonchalantly a couple of times, took quick, passing glances at his deformity, before hastily staring the other way. For reasons I can't even begin to explain, I was terrified. I couldn't wait for my coffee to come soon enough, so that I could grab it and remove myself from the situation, get away from the man. It was almost like an inner frenzy, like a confined panic. It was making me literally feel ill.
And even as the feelings caught onto my adrenaline and rushed through my system, I was appalled by how wrong it was. The man was probably perfectly nice; he had probably suffered an unfortunate disease or accident. I was alive with sympathy for him--and it was as though there were two sides of me in desperate conflict. On one level I wanted to approach him, to talk to him, to find out what had happened to him, maybe make friends with this poor unfortunate creature. Assuming most people reacted at least similarly to how I did, the man must shoulder an enormous social pressure, to create tension and disgust wherever he goes, for reasons that are likely not his fault at all. I wanted to help him, to try to relate to him. However, that was only a little voice of conscience within me, greatly overshadowed by the deep instinctual discomfort and fear that grabbed hold of me. I wanted to say hi to him--but even transient glances at him made my heart race and my stomach clinch. It was a serious ordeal being in the same area as him--even for the few minutes I withstood it. I felt deeply disturbed and ill by the time I left the shop with my coffee, and it took the remainder of the walk home before I could mentally revisit the situation and think about it in a more direct, logical manner.
Why did he disturb me so much? What is is about a face? People with damaged limbs, huge scars--twisted bodies--inspire sympathy, and perhaps are a bit awkward to interact with at first, but I have never, ever felt so gravely affected by someone's appearance before. It was as though his contorted features made him a monster, a perverted being, someone unsafe and unnatural, and it's just not true. However, faces -do- seem to have a sort of telling power. I remember (I think it was) in driver's ed, we watched a video about a drunk driving crash victim who had been burnt all over. First it was a torrent of words and admonishments-- don't drive drunk, it hurts people, it ruins lives, etc. Such sentiments have been voiced countless times by thousands of teachers, counselors, parents, and others. It was nothing new, nothing shocking. However, when the footage played and a burnt face appeared, masklike and shiny, the room of students stood aghast. While the victim's words were not any different from those so often reiterated, they held a strange power coming from the inhuman face. It was a message that sobered all who received it, and awoke some deep instinct in their souls.
Why is this?
Why are faces so important; why do they have power to make one a monster?
He was not a monster. But my mind--the most basic of instincts--treated him thus. And even now, I'm hating myself for it, innately inspired or not.
Rarely in my life have I ever felt so shallow.
