Two mysterious “pimples” on my face lasted much longer than the average 41-year-old break out I’m accustomed to. I applied all my usual “get off of my face” creams. I washed twice daily. I used lots of moisturizer. I said a little prayer as I thought I was going to have a photo shoot just a couple of days after they appeared. I consulted other people about them, asking how bad they looked. And still, nothing made them go away.
One day, the “pimples” started changing colors, from an exact replica of my natural skin tone to a darker, more pronounced brown. I knew that color brown like the back of my hand, or the back of my mother’s hand to be exact. I’d seen it all my life in the faces and on the hands, backs, legs, arms and everywhere else of my mother, sister, cousins, aunts and grandmothers. They were moles. Oh my moly, I made it to the club!
I’ve had the occasional mole on my body since birth, a couple of which have had to be removed with no indication of horrible things to come thankfully. I absolutely understand the seriousness of what some moles represent. None should be taken lightly, but moles have been a staple to many a woman walking this earth with Walker blood (at least in my part of the Walker family). Thankfully, there have been no physical harm from the moles that have been a staple on the bodies and in the faces of the females in my family for as long as I can remember. To me, they’ve grown to become a rite of passage almost, signifying wisdom, endurance and grace under pressure. Like the moles that plague us, those characteristics simply won’t go away.
Now, I’m fully aware that everyone with moles hasn’t experienced what the women in my family have dealt with, but everyone in my family with moles (and all of those without if you must know) have triumphed through some “thangs” as the little girls in my neighborhood used to say while I grew up in the western section of Birmingham, Alabama.
For a reminder of the blood from which I’m bore and the strong, amazing, courageous, tenacious women that are a part of that bloodline I am grateful. As I pick at the new guest stars on my face, as I look around a family function with cheekbones elevated and moles pronounced, or as I hear my niece point out the assortment of moles on the face of my mother and sister I know each time I see it them I am reminded of the fact that I’m still here,we’re still here and are a part of an elite legacy of women who endure. I’m reminded of the notion that, in this club, membership (and moles if you will) definitely has its privileges!