More Than the Shape of My Lip

“What happened to your lip?”

An infamous yet “innocent” question—one that I have begun to anticipate every time I meet someone new. Each time, I notice how their eyes trail down to the bottom of my face, their gaze darting directly at the scar sitting on the philtrum, the indentation in the middle of the upper lip, pulling the left side of my mouth slightly upward while my smile vanishes. I see the way their eyebrows furrow together and how their eyes squint to examine me as I instinctively compress my lips together into a thin line, trying to hide the small bump on my lip tubercle where the scar pulled the tissue upward. I had not yet realized that I was not trying to hide the asymmetry of the cupid’s bow of my cleft lip, rather, I wanted to hide the fear of judgment and, ultimately, the insecurity that lingered with it.

“So, did you, like, fall on your face when you were a toddler?” a second grader would ask during recess while I went down the slide like everyone else. It didn’t matter that I acted just like the other kids in my class. My lip was what they saw first, before they truly saw me. 

“No—,” I would try to explain, before being interrupted by an influx of questions that they didn’t want to hear the answer to anyway. Difference became something to point out, rather than something to be understood.

“Is it contagious? Like, if we shared a water bottle, I wouldn’t have that, right?” another girl in my class would ask, before pointing at their own symmetrical lips and smoothly tracing their perfectly defined philtrums. Meanwhile, I could only admire their flawless features, becoming increasingly jealous that I could not feel that sensation on my own face. 

Full lips: plump, prominent, and beautifully lush, a soft volume on the lips that often appears as equally thick.

Heart-shaped lips: a delicate, well-defined Cupid’s bow on the upper lip, with a fuller lower lip, creating a shape resembling the romantic silhouette of a heart.

Bow-shaped lips: elegantly refined and distinct Cupid’s bow on the upper lip, giving it the appearance of an archer’s bow. 

Round lips: a softly alluring “pillowy” texture, with gentle and rounded fullness.

“Cleft”—meaning divided or split into two—lip was simply classified as a defect: a shortcoming, imperfection, or lack. Each lip term, seemingly except for mine, seemed to celebrate a different kind of beauty, with complimentary definitions attached to each. Each described a version of myself I wish I could have been. While the others were followed by beautiful imagery, mine was simply a diagnosis—a medical label, only spoken in hospitals, identifying a condition. A problem.

It would happen constantly in the midst of ordinary conversations: a gaze would briefly end up between my nose and upper lip, and I would wait to hear them ask. They would often water down any explanation I tried to provide as “something that doesn’t hurt physically, at least,” but they would never be able to understand the unconscious tilt of my head to hide the disproportionate side of my lip in each photo I took, the way I would use my bottom lip to cover the upper, or the sudden tightness in my stomach when I catch a stranger staring just a moment too long. These encounters only intensified the insecurity my cleft lip carried throughout my childhood. Each conversation consisted of an inevitable, sudden shift concerning my abnormality that slowly began to define me as “the boy with a cleft lip” to everyone, instead of qualities that I thought should make me, me. It continued to expose me into a spotlight I did not want to be in. I would use my index finger in hopes of smudging the scar completely, believing that, for once, I could just be normal. 

The scar that prompted so many questions was only the visible, unfortunate reminder of a much larger story unfolding privately. Regular visits to orthodontists, craniofacial surgeons, pediatric dentists for surgeries, and medical evaluations became a defining routine of my childhood, with frequent absences from school and teachers giving exclusive attention to me as if I were someone different. Someone incapable. Someone who was not someone outside of my “deformities.” 

In third grade, my class read Wonder by R. J. Palacio. August “Auggie” Pullman, a home-schooled boy with craniofacial “abnormalities” who has required numerous childhood surgeries to improve his condition, faces challenges adjusting to his first year of school as his atypical appearance causes other students to treat him differently. Each time the novel described Pullman’s Treacher Collins syndrome, a genetic condition affecting the development of the bones and tissues in the face, I could only rest my cheek on my clenched fist, my eyebrows pulling together in a tight line as I felt the weight of my teacher’s and classmates’ stares. It was an ironic parallel: sitting in a classroom where a novel about inclusivity and understanding differences only made me feel more different and exposed than ever. Although Wonder offered a form of representation, it was not the uplifting sensation I had expected. Not only had it presented differences as something that will inevitably be the first thing someone notices, it continued to make me feel more conscious of how I, too, could easily become defined by my appearance before my character. The intention to promote empathy and inclusion was slowly replaced by the realization that what made me “different” would always define me. 

Growing up, I would look at images on the internet to only find a blur of perfect smiles with flawless, symmetrical lips, a perfectly sculpted indentation between the nose and the upper lip, and airbrushed teeth. I’d flip pages of comic books and magazines countless times in the Scholastic Book Fairs at my elementary school, only to find that no matter how many pages I skimmed through, I would not once find the scar in any of the characters I recognized in the mirror each morning. I’d find on the internet that my cleft lip was one of the most common congenital birth defects worldwide, occurring in one of every 700 births. And even still, there was a gnawing sense of isolation that constantly settled in me, where it felt that I simply didn’t really exist. Seeing how I didn’t have the same appearance as everyone else, whether it be the people around me, the people I saw on the internet, or in the media, I constantly felt that I didn’t truly exist. That my own reality was constantly being edited out of frame. That I didn’t deserve to be me until my philtrum was the same as everyone else’s.

When the pandemic began in March of 2020, the months following my first semester of third grade, I found myself at peace for the first time in years. While COVID-19 isolated many people physically, the widespread adoption of masks gave me a rare opportunity of freedom from the self-consciousness I had carried for years. The soft, light blue fabric rested against my face as if it naturally belonged there, forming a barrier between my cleft lip and the way people perceived me. The usual instinct to use my hand to cover the bottom half of my face faded, and the constant reminder to arrange my features in a way that made my difference less noticeable had disappeared. For once, I felt that people noticed my words before they noticed my lip. I wanted to remain in that version of myself—one where I could finally afford the normalcy I craved. When people began to treat me less as “the boy with the cleft lip,” I began to wonder how much my own self image was a reflection of external judgments, and whether I was truly afraid of my cleft lip and its difference, or if my insecurities were simply shaped by the judgments others held. Was it that I learned to view my cleft lip poorly because of others?

In sixth grade, I was asked a simple, yet unexpected question. Except, this time, it wasn’t the infamous “what happened to your lip,” rather, it was “why do you still wear a mask?” The uneasy feeling still lingered in my stomach, but only when someone had pointed out what made me different. What became a form of comfort that helped me fade into the background was now something that made me stand out even more, except only in a different way, exposing me once again after attempts to hide what I hated most. I did not realize my desire to suppress the visibility of the features that made me unique had less to do with my cleft lip or the mask, and more to do with how my self image was shaped by judgment more than by who I actually was.

Starting seventh grade with that realization in mind, I dropped the mask knowing that nobody in my middle school had seen my face before. I noticed that the palm of my hands would no longer cover the bottom half of my face when I spoke to others, how I began to smile more frequently when I took pictures even if my scar became more visible, and how I would proudly respond with “I was born with it!” each time someone asked about my lip. I was no longer “the boy with a cleft lip” to others and myself. I didn’t allow myself to be defined solely by “a birth defect,” rather, I saw it as one part of me—of the many identities I hold, and continue to hold.

My first year at Stuyvesant brought a welcoming transition, as the relentless spotlight on my cleft lip had finally faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance from others. Instead of the constant, prying questions that once overshadowed my identity to “the boy with a cleft lip,” I was greeted with “What did you get on the biology quiz?” and “Have you studied for the exam next period?” I eventually found myself surrounded by people who were just as driven and motivated to succeed as I am, and who shared similar passions. It created a sense of belonging, allowing me to express myself for myself, and not for the assumption that I wasn’t someone outside of my defect.

What I once interpreted in Wonder, that differences define people, now serves as a lesson about how easily perception from others distorts how we understand identity and ourselves. My cleft lip is no longer something I hide, but it isn’t the only thing that defines my identity. In the novel, Palacio writes: “Courage. Kindness. Friendship. Character. These are the qualities that define us as human beings, and propel us, on occasion, to greatness.” At the same time, what made me feel “different” now reminds me that identity is not about avoiding visibility, but about acknowledging who I am—every part of me.

So, I am not “the boy with the cleft lip.” Or someone who simply has a defect.

I am Nicholas, alongside having a cleft lip.

I am me. And I don’t owe an explanation further than that.