By Julia Corzo

I loved how the sun made the water sparkle so beautifully, and I hoped it would do the same for me.


As a child, I was told  never to walk under the sun without protection, as it would be a disaster if I did. I never dared to ask what the disaster would be. I just knew that I should always hide from the sun, to “act like you’re too embarrassed to be seen by it.”

It was almost comical, the routine my mom would put me through whenever the temperature hit above 80 degrees and the sky got oh, so blue. Her ritual was predictable like clockwork.

It went like this:

        1. Stand in front of her for five minutes as she lectured me about the dangers of the sun and how I should never look it in the eyes. If my skin became hot or heavy, I was to immediately return to her.

        2. Turn around so she could spray my entire body with two very, very, thorough coats of sunscreen. Feel her hands rub my back raw just to “make sure it stays pretty.”

        3. Face her for the same treatment on my face. Receive a quick little kiss on the forehead (score!) while she puts the last of the sunscreen on, smearing a white dollop on my nose extra hard.

As I grew older, I began to think I was above routines. They became a weight on my shoulders, an embarrassment I was not willing to take while all my friends tanned and bragged about the way the sun had given them such a sweet kiss.

I was tired of hiding in the shade. I wanted to step out into the sun. 

-

One summer, I finally did. It was a beautiful day — the weather was above 80 degrees, and the sky was oh, so blue. My sister had just texted from her friend's pool to update me on her perfect tan. My sister belonged to the summer, turning a beautiful golden color under the sun and gaining the most lovely flush in her cheeks.

My mom liked to emphasize that I was a cooler beauty, prettier when the sun lost its powers and the shade made my eyes a cool grey. That day, I wondered why that mattered. The sun was right there, alluring and inviting. 

I decided it was my turn to find that summer beauty, my turn to be kissed by the sun. For the first time, I decided to go without sunscreen.

As I eased myself onto the pool lounger and floated lazily around, I could feel the pinpricks of the sun on my skin. I felt powerful; the sun made me feel free. I loved how the sun made the water sparkle so beautifully, and hoped it would do the same for me.

The steady heat lulled me into a false sense of security, and eventually, I started nodding off.

I dreamt of skin like my sister’s, beautiful and glowing, basking in the attention of the sun. I thought of the tan the sun would leave behind — unnatural on my body, but even more beautiful. I dreamt of the compliments, of the attention.

Ever since I was a child, my mother would dress me head to toe in the “cutest” clothing she could find: adorning me with sparkly earrings and tying bows into my hair. I modified aspects of my body before I learned to do algebra. I was used to manicures, threaded eyebrows, and dyed hair.

Showing skin made me feel pretty. Having others look at me was an intoxicating feeling. Painting my face in makeup and glitter made me feel safe, like I was protected by something that would make me alluring, make me beautiful. I learned to like the eyes; I learned to love the compliments.

I dreamt of the feeling. I could feel the warmth.

-

I woke up two hours later and immediately knew something was wrong. I could feel the sun through my sunglasses, and there was a tingling sensation across my body I couldn’t quite name. I felt numb, disconnected from my body from the head down.

The first thing my mom did when I made my way back inside was laugh: she couldn’t believe I was stupid enough to sit outside for so long. When I asked her why she didn’t come get me,  she insisted I could handle myself. She knew I couldn’t, though; the sunburn was just the perfect punishment for not listening to her years of warnings. 

I rushed upstairs to the mirror. I watched as the burn began to take form, crawling up my feet to my thighs and sliding its way across my stomach. The burn crept up my chest and onto my face, where it comically avoided the spots my sunglasses covered. It felt wrong. It looked terrible.

I delicately peeled off my swimsuit and changed into something looser. I'd never felt the need to cover up my body so strongly. My skin had never felt so delicate, so fragile.

I wonder if this is how porcelain dolls feel. I hope my skin doesn’t blister.

My mother taught me that a sunburn was a death sentence — a slimy, slippery red snake that would curl up around me and leave me nothing like I was before.

I felt silly then. I wanted to chase something for myself, I wanted to uncover a new aspect of my beauty that I thought would make me unique. Instead, I was left with a mark of shame. It felt like a sick joke. I felt humiliated, and worst of all, I felt ugly.

After weeks of hiding behind drawn shades and blankets, I finally decided to go out with some friends. I spent hours in front of my mirror trying to cover the sunburn with endless amounts of concealer, desperately lathering it around my face, shoulders, and chest.

I felt like every person we passed knew I was sunburnt. They could see right through the concealer like an X-ray, looking right at the girl who flew too close to the sun, chasing something that was never hers to begin with. 

A week later, I noticed a little white layer of skin growing over the redness. I was peeling. The peeling was calming, like watching the deepest source of my shame slide right off. I watched the burn soothe itself out and slowly fall off.

Watching the little white wrapping of skin gather together at different points across my body reminded me of the dollops of sunscreen my mom forgot to rub on me. I laughed at the irony, reveling in relief.

The pink of my skin began to take a stronger color, evening itself out into a rosy tone. The color reminded me of the moments before summer sunsets, when the sky turns a mixture of light blue and pink. I remember staring at myself in the mirror, thinking about how my skin resembled that soft, flattering light, even if it wasn't the golden tones of an actual sunset.

While I peeled, I went to California. The rolling hills of Santa Cruz and the cloudy weather felt like a refuge for me. Even though I was less pink, I was still sensitive. The clouds hid the way the sun made my burn look that much more intense, which made me feel less alien in my own skin. It almost felt nice to look in the mirror in the dewy hue of the morning and see a lighter color instead of my usual burning red. It looked beautiful in its own way.

I inspected myself in the mirror. I saw little bits of peeling skin left and the flush in my cheeks. My skin was still pinkish but also slightly golden. I’d never seen myself like that before, never imagined I could feel okay with the enveloping tingle of a burn all over my body.

I liked the way the golden-rosy color spread across my cheeks, down my chest, along my stomach. The coloring ran up and down my thighs, accentuating the muscle in my leg I had built while running from the sun, and to my feet, where it had already begun to fade out. That quiet, shady morning in Santa Cruz, when it was only me and the girl in the mirror, I felt genuinely beautiful for the first time all summer.

I never did get a real tan. I stayed rosy until September, until my pale skin finally pushed its way back, but I still have an outline of the sunburn in some places. I can still see the light outline of my bikini straps when I’m changing.

That summer, I discovered something about myself: that there is a version of me that can exist beautifully in the summer. I revel in the fact that even though I was set up to never find it, I did anyway. Even though the sun had barraged my skin and rubbed it raw, it still left me with a kiss goodbye. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll skip the extra dollops of sunscreen on my face this summer. ■