No one asks to be different. It’s just something that happens, something that you sort of get stuck with. Some choose to accept their circumstances, and others try to change them. I have learned to accept the fact that I’m different, but I still can’t help but wonder how different things would be if I never walked into the kitchen of my old home years ago.

The incident happened when I was four years old, living in Port-au-Prince, Haiti and left unsupervised. My mother had hired a babysitter for the day, but the girl was young and not too careful. With a single parent’s income, my mother could only get what help she could afford, which wasn’t much. That morning, I started off in the care of a stranger, and by nightfall, I was on my own. Unaccompanied in my house, I wandered aimlessly from room to room until I found myself in the kitchen.

In Haiti, it’s custom to prepare dinner in the morning and leave it stewing on the stove for the rest of the day. The smells that wafted into my nostrils all day were intoxicating, and even now, I still remember them. That day, desperate to cure my hunger pains, I found myself drawn to those smells even more. Standing on the balls of my feet, I stretched the tips of my fingers across warm smooth metal.

The moment I yanked, my head was engulfed in extreme heat. Closing my eyes and covering my face with my hand, I felt the boiling slime penetrate my hands and cover my back. I stood there screaming while the oil burned my skin. There was no longer the aroma of spiced chicken and buttered rice, but instead, the smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the room. That’s when I realized I was burning. My hair, my scalp, my back — all of me was burning.

After the skin grafts, after I left the hospital and after I was “fixed,” I returned home and looked in the mirror. I no longer saw a happy little girl with sparkling brown eyes. Instead, I saw half a little girl and half of something scary — half a head of hair, half a face and half a person. Although the hospital had done what they could, the medical care in Haiti at that time wasn’t up to par. My mom tried to bring up my morale, but I wasn’t her happy little girl anymore. She decided that I needed to go to the United States so that I could have a proper operation.

With the help of a friend, I was introduced to the Kline family, who already had 13 kids of their own and11 of whom had been adopted from different countries. To them, I was just another kid who needed a home.
But to my mom, they were the answer to her prayers. Even more miraculously, a cosmetic surgeon looking to perfect an intricate procedure involving burned skin thought I was the ideal candidate. I was to move to Los Angeles and live with the Kline family for a three-year procedure that would give me a full head of hair, minimal scarring and the chance to lead my life looking like everyone else.

Fast-forward 17 years, and here I am, graduating from the University of Michigan. After my surgeries, I regained a full head of hair and was left with a scar covering only a quarter of my face. Instead of going back to Haiti, I became the 14th child to join the Kline family. While my mother and I have stayed close, I spent most of my childhood in another country with another family. It’s not the normal family dynamic, but then again, my accident had made sure that my life has been anything but “normal”. That hasn’t been a bad thing, though. As I grew up, I began to more resemble more of a happy child and less a deformed being. I was able to make friends, go on play dates and interact well with others.

A while ago, I was asked how I grew up to be the person I am today. This person was confused — how do I walk around slightly disfigured and yet act so outwardly confident? For a while, I couldn’t answer the question. I just said that I must be lucky. But once I truly thought about it, I knew that getting burned wasn’t an accident but more a step in my life journey. My scar is how I came to America and how I met my family. My entire life, I’ve had to try harder to let people see the “real” me because I wanted to prove that I was something special and not just the “girl with the scar”. It has never been enough for me to be like everyone else because I know that I am not, and I couldn’t allow people to judge me based on my looks. Strangely enough, the scar that might seem to be a source of embarrassment has actually given me a stronger sense of self than I might have otherwise had.

About six years ago, I received a call from the same doctor that helped me before. He was interested in doing a surgery to remove my scar. This was something I had dreamt about in the past, but I was shocked when I automatically responded, “No.” At that point in my life, I had spent more than half my life with the scar. With everything I had been through, the scar had molded me into a strong, fearless person.