Skin - Deep Philosophy

"Patrick!" The voice rang out like a clarion call, echoing with familiarity in the summer school corridor, before I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Turning, I faced Jack. Adorned in a tee crafted from sustainable cotton, his pearly whites glinting from beneath an ever-present grin contrasted against meticulously tousled locks. Jack epitomized a certain kind of effortless élan – that 'just rolled out of bed looking this fabulous' mystique.

Yet, in the moment our eyes locked, there was an unmistakable hitch in his self-assured demeanor. The very corners of his mouth seemed to pause, caught in the act of smiling, eyes darting momentarily to my complexion. He appeared poised to comment, but nothing came out. In that prolonged pause, I was visible yet invisible, for Jack didn't see Patrick, the friend; he saw Patrick, the canvas of red and inflamed dots.

For anyone who had navigated the stormy seas of adolescence, those audacious dots needed no introduction. They were acne. My initiation into high school brought with it this unwelcome rite of passage. Mornings, which once centered on preparing for intellectual jousts, now revolved around a meticulous inspection of each new blemish that boldly marked its territory on my face. My mother, exuding the calm only time-earned wisdom can bestow, often reassured me, "It's just a phase, Patrick." But in the thick of teen turmoil, such phases felt interminable.

In a world where the holistic mystique and medical precision vie for primacy, my desperate attempts to find a remedy took on the aura of a modern-day pilgrimage. There was the ubiquitous benzoyl peroxide, whose sting I could barely tolerate; There was the yeast mask, eerily reminiscent of our school's biology lab; Then there was the mystical toner I once overheard being discussed in hushed tones in the corners of the library. As this cocktail of cures sought to reclaim my face, my mother, steeped in the traditions of herbal homeopathy, decided to intervene. The solution, she believed, lay in the lands of her hometown Shantou, a charming town in southern China. This wasn't merely a journey but a leap into the folds of ancestral wisdom.

Upon entering a maze-like alley of Shantou, an elderly healer, whose face narrated tales of decades, briefly examined my pulse. Solemnly, he attributed it to an imbalance in "chi" and the resulting excess heat in my body, and pronounced a list of dietary taboos that seemed, at first glance, to rob a teenager of all culinary joys: no beef, no fried delicacies, no seafood, no dairy, and certainly no sugar. For a moment, I imagined proposing an alternative: perhaps a potion to metamorphose my digestive system into that of a cow or chicken, allowing me to revel in the simple pleasures of grass or sand.

Seeking solace and clarity, I consulted with my pediatrician, half-expecting her to prescribe an intricate skincare routine or shed light on some obscure skin type. "It's the skin type of a 16-year-old boy," she remarked, her answer at once straightforward and profound.

However, did I truly want the skin of a 16-year-old when I was 16? Especially when summer school introduced Lisa, who mirrored the spirit of Lisa Simpson from "The Simpsons." My past lens often reduced girls to a monolithic essence of youth annoyance. Today, though, they emerged as intricate figures with captivating depths. Lisa, especially, weaved intellect with an endearing innocence. I was waiting for my face to get its act together before introducing it to her. Yet, with every fresh eruption on my skin, the bridge to Lisa seemed to elongate, placing her farther from my reach.

Amidst the turbulence of my thoughts, our summer philosophy class ventured into the tranquil teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen master and global spiritual leader. He was the first of three philosophers on our syllabus, with Nietzsche and Plato to follow. His teachings emphasized the importance of being rooted in the present. But even as his insight resonated, I found myself captivated by his portrait on the book cover — his skin pristine, untouched by any trace of blemish. Could his diet, devoid of beef, dairy, and sugar, contribute to such clarity? At that moment, the allure of monastic life seemed enticing, with its promise of transcendent clarity. Would such a life — anchored in the present, detached from the trappings of modernity, and bathed in the radiant glow of inner harmony — offer me the solace and, more importantly, the unblemished complexion I yearned for?

While the rest of the class debated Nietzsche's vision of the Übermensch, another pondering surfaced in my mind: In all his might and self-determinism, would this exalted Overman, shaping his destiny and values, ever grapple with the unpredictability of teenage acne? Indeed, this conundrum merited some philosophical exploration.

Even as Nietzsche's Übermensch stood supreme in existential harmony, my adolescent self grappled with enduring societal expectations rooted in antiquity and today's zeitgeist. The revered Greek ideals, which sanctified unblemished beauty as a reflection of one's soul, lingered in my thoughts. Could it be that Achilles' true heel was not his vulnerability but his vanity? And Helen, for all her fabled beauty, was she not a collection of flaws and fates?

As I turned the pages of history and philosophy, the realization dawned on me: Perhaps I had been looking at everything through a distorted lens. Just as the ancient Greeks, for all their wisdom, had deep-seated inconsistencies like the unsettling practice of pederasty I had recently learned about in class, I was trapped in a modern paradox — that of conflating clear skin with self-worth. But wasn't it true that

the Greeks, despite their flaws, birthed democracy, theatre, and foundational philosophies? Much like ours, their legacy was a mix of brilliance and imperfections.

Similarly, just as pederasty was an accepted norm then, the unrelenting pressure to conform to a certain standard of beauty is our accepted reality today. So, there I sat, in the midst of a philosophy lesson, grappling not just with the weighty thoughts of Nietzsche or the moral quandaries of ancient Greece but also with my very contemporary, very personal conundrum. Each pimple and mark was as much a source of adolescent distress as a testament to the struggles and transitions that defined our teenage years.

As my gaze returned to Lisa, absorbed in contemplation, I couldn't help but recognize the depth in her eyes, indicative of an intellect and justice-driven spirit. Would she not assert that our worth transcends the narratives dictated by the canvas of our skin? Maybe the real journey lay not in pursuing elusive perfection or societal acclaim. Instead, it was about adolescence, growth, and the complexities of coming of age. Thich Nhat Hanh encouraged us to find peace and serenity in the now; Nietzsche's Übermensch, in his fierce individualism, carved his distinct path, and the Greeks, despite their lofty ideals of beauty and perfection, were not without their societal imperfections. The confluence of thought was emblematic of the universal human journey — repleted with its joys, challenges, and the introspection that helped us to make sense of it all. And amidst these reflections, the luminescence of Lisa's impeccable skin served not as a contrast but a gentle reminder of youth's ephemeral nature, urging us to cherish our narratives in all their complexity.