Tattoo Me
I’ll cut to the chase here: I got a tattoo. I swore I would never get a tattoo. Back in 2008, my son and I made a pact: we would never get tattoos. Then, in 2016, he broke the pact. Little did we know, at the same time his younger sister got a tattoo as well. Hers is tiny and discreet; many in the world who know her don’t know she has a tattoo. My son’s (now 4) tattoos are loud, large, and colorful. Me, I got 6 small words written in script on the inside of my forearm: “the body is not an apology,” a mantra from the author Sonya Renee Taylor. I had the opportunity to speak to Sonya earlier this year (via Zoom), and I let her know I was getting the words permanently imprinted on my body. A reminder that I love my body unconditionally.
Getting back to “I will never get a tattoo,” I changed my mind - obviously. Somewhere in my early life, I adopted a bias. Tattoos were ugly. Tattoos were taboo. My religious heritage states that if you have a tattoo, you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery. My earlier self would have worried about this proclamation. My current self doesn’t worry so much. I don’t plan to be buried in a cemetery. While the plan is ultimately up to my children, I plan to be cremated, and that locks me out of the Jewish cemetery as well.
All that anti-tattoo sentiment, yet here I am. A woman with a tattoo. Even in my 20s, 30s, 40s, and early 50s, I had judgements around tattoos. Who gets a tattoo? What would they do when they got old and wrinkly? What would they do when they didn’t like the tattoo anymore? Now I know. They just get it removed. A painful process, but no big deal.
At some point in the last 5 years (perhaps it was when my kids got tattoos), tattoos suddenly weren’t that bad anymore. I noticed more and more people in my personal circle with tattoos. Close friends and not so close friends. I started to wonder about getting a tattoo. Nope, I wasn’t going to do it. It’s a permanent thing, and I don’t do permanent things (says the woman with 6 holes pierced into her head). Getting a tattoo seemed like a major jump across a chasm. Even though I was starting to accept and even like tattoos, I couldn’t imagine myself with one - until I started to imagine myself with one. At the end of 2018, I decided I wanted to carry the word “respect” around with me. No, I wasn’t paying homage to Aretha Franklin. I wanted to remind myself daily to respect myself. I wanted to hold my boundaries and be kind to myself. I told my daughter about my interest, and she had a bracelet made for me that said, “respect.” No need for a tattoo when you have a bracelet that you only take off for bathing, swimming, and sleeping.
Then I decided I wanted more. I wanted 6 words that would remind me every day that my body is perfect. My body does not need to be changed to look differently, fit into something, or make someone else feel a certain way. “The body is not an apology.” I decided it was time for me to get a tattoo. I reached out to my tattooed son and asked him for advice. I wanted him to hold space for me while I got the tattoo. We decided I would get tattooed when I visited him. He found me a studio that specialized in tattooing text (as opposed to images). I called the studio and spoke with an artist. Then I paid the non-refundable deposit. Now I was committed. As the weeks went by, I started to have doubts: what if I have an ink allergy? Is that a thing? How soon would they know? How long will it take? What if it hurts like hell?
When the day arrived for the tattoo, my son, niece, brother, and I went to an art exhibit. I was hopeful that viewing the exhibit would take away any nervousness I had about getting the tattoo. It didn’t. Afterward we went for lunch. At the restaurant, I went to the restroom. While washing my hands, I looked in the mirror. I thought, “This is the last time your forearm will be bare.” I noticed my upper arms. I thought they looked really puffy. I started to question their aesthetic. Then I remembered, “the body is not an apology!” It was time to get that tattoo and take back the compassion for my body.
We ended up running late at lunch. My son had to drop me off at the tattoo studio while he took my brother and niece back to their car. Walking into the studio alone, I was more anxious. My appointment was at 4:30. I looked around the space. I didn’t belong here. Everyone here was younger and seemed more self-assured than I was. Could I just leave? I went to the front desk. The artist who was supposed to draw my tattoo was still working on a prior customer, so I was given a different artist. Was that okay? I said “sure.” I wasn’t really so sure; I was just figuring it was now or never. I waited. I waited. The tattoo artist, Mike, finally came to get me. We talked about what I wanted. I showed him the font I wanted to use. I told him I wanted blue ink like the blue on a peacock feather. Mike worked on creating a drawing of a stencil for me in multiple sizes. I chose the size I wanted. Then he disappeared to make the stencil and find some ink. I sat alone at a table waiting. The music in the studio was awful. Loud, cacophonous rap - not my thing. While I was waiting, my son returned. I felt some relief.
Then Mike took me back to the tattoo table. He placed the stencil on my arm. I went to the mirror to look at it. It was at an angle, not straight across. I didn’t like it. Mike removed it, and tried to place it again. This time the stencil was smudged from reuse. Mike removed it and put on a new stencil. Mike said, “Take a look and make sure there aren’t any typos.” I looked at the tattoo. All the words were spelled correctly. My son took a look also. He pointed out that, while all the words were spelled correctly, one of the words was incorrect. I almost got an incorrect tattoo that said, “the body is not and apology.” I could have been one of those tattoo “victims” that you see in articles on the internet. I was so grateful my son caught the error. Now it was 5:25 and I still didn’t have a tattoo. My anxiety was on high alert.
Finally it was time for me to get on the table. I’m short. I couldn’t reach my body up on the table! Mike pulled over a chair, and I climbed up. He started the process. I was very concerned about the pain. My son, daughter, and Mike all said, “You’ve had kids! This isn’t going to be that bad.” They were right. It wasn’t something I would do for fun, but it was more uncomfortable than painful. There were some pinch-y spots. It was hard to concentrate. But I had my son at my side chatting with me. 45 minutes later, I was done. I wondered if Mike thought I was lame, just getting 6 little words when other people come in to get their entire arms covered. He assured me I was just fine. He told me to come back for another one.
I’m not going to say that I am suddenly a changed woman, but there was some transformation for me in getting a tattoo. Now I was on the other side of the fence. Now I was someone with a tattoo, just like all the other people I had seen with tattoos before. Now I was just like all the people I had judged in the past. I may not like what they have chosen to put on their bodies, and I can still respect them. Because if I don’t respect them, how can I respect myself?
A few days later, I flew home. Sitting next to me on the plane was a young man with a few tattoos. One struck me as interesting. It was just below his ear. It was a dripping heart with initials printed inside of it. I wondered what the story of his tattoo was. I assumed someone close to him was no longer in his life. That person was so important to him that he chose to put their initials permanently on his neck. Before, I might have felt disgusted by what I saw. Now, I felt compassion for this man and his personal message on his body. I felt some new and interesting gratitude for my tattoo. I realized not only is it a valuable message that I can view on my body, but it is also a way for me to connect to others and understand they too have their own valuable messages. In that moment I felt a better understanding of people I have felt less connected to before. That feeling? It felt pretty special.
