Elisa Petrini

Word Count 347

I wish I knew what I looked like then—as a surly, withdrawn teenager caged in an iron brace, rising from my leather-girdled pelvis to my chin, tilted upward by a padded bar. Traction pads on either side locked onto the frame, training my S- curved spine to erectness. Without the brace I listed to one side; with it I moved like a robot. At the time the brace was a miracle intervention, since the only other treatment for my severe scoliosis was surgery, to implant a steel rod.  

I wore the brace for four years, from ages eleven through fourteen, with an hour off to bathe each day. I even became a spokes-teen for the contraption, showing other young patients how it strapped on, over a hip-length undershirt; how I slept in it, ate in it, and, to read and write, used an inverted wooden box, built by a family friend, to elevate my school desk. If anyone commented—even kindly, even my parents!—I rebuffed all whiffs of sympathy, unwilling to admit my acute anxiety and self-consciousness. 

Mirrors were a horror. I couldn’t bear the sight of my awkwardly craned neck and the gleaming bar running down my body. From the side I loathed seeing the padded headrest, bolted to two rails stretching down my back, which were riveted to the girdle. All my clothes were tents with gaping necklines to accommodate the apparatus. When I washed my face, bending from hips, I’d straighten and lock on my eyes in the mirror, deliberately blurring out the rest of my tortured image. 

Today, scanning my memory for that image, I come up blank. Unfortunately, I was also adamant with my family: No photographs. Occasionally, in a fuzzy home movie, I pop up in the background, crabbing along, herky-jerky; turning away the instant I spot the camera. 

Decades later, I regret my defiance. Not entirely, because it felt like a gift, less like denying reality than shielding a young, vulnerable self from data that seemed too toxic to ingest. The capacity to filter gave me confidence; knowing I could protect myself made me brave. It let me risk freefall, over and over, starting with braving New York at age twenty-three, with no friends or connections, to seek adventure. 

And yet I long to know—what did I look like? I finally feel ready to bear witness.

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Elisa worked for twenty-odd years as senior/executive editor at such major publishers as Dutton (twice), Rolling Stone, Macmillan, and Bantam. She then spent seven years developing and overseeing projects at two prominent literary agencies. In between (and concurrently), she collaborated on twenty books, primarily memoirs and novels, nine of which were New York Times bestsellers. This is her first solo turn.