My Life Through Tattoos

Me, and my tattoos, have become more meaningful and interesting with age. I’ve also learned a lot from tattoos; the value of planning, going after what you want in life, and patience.

I was eighteen and had just been dumped when I got my first tattoo. It was the early 90’s and tattoos were still thought of as a little … dangerous. Definitely wild.

I went to a shop on Colfax avenue in Denver, Colorado. Maybe it’s because I know what Colfax avenue was in the early 90’s, but even the name, “Colfax,” sounds sharp and a bit threatening. It gets stuck in your mouth – those hard consonants gluing your throat until you cough it up like phlegm.

I remember it was a Saturday night in summer. My only plan that night had been to sulk and cry in my bedroom over yet another break-up with my then boyfriend. We broke up every couple of months. Got back together. Rinse. Repeat for five more years. Ah, young love.

My friend called me crying. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend. She asked me if I wanted to go get a tattoo. The words, “Sure,” were out of my mouth before I even processed the question. Anything would have been better than sitting around the house wondering what he was doing, at that moment – without me.

We called our other friend, who was way more edgy and dangerous than us (as in she knew where on Colfax to go because she occasionally found the weed) because neither of us had a clue where to go. And it had suddenly become the thing we must go do, to feel better.

There was no online back then. I didn’t even have a cell phone. This was done via telephone and the yellow pages.

Three of us made it to the tattoo parlor shortly before closing. I remember the tattoo guy’s name was Swede. He had a beard that somehow crawled up his face, and grew down his chest, yet somehow met in the middle. It was a thing of beauty and terror.

He scared the crap out of me.

Swede’s shop was empty except for us three high school girls that burst in with nervous giggles and relatively empty wallets.

His gruff voice of, “Whadda ya want?” Terrified me and I would have probably run right out if not for my third friend who bravely asked to see a book.

Ah, a book. Books I understood. Books are my life and if I could pick something from a book all would be fine.

Swede showed us a binder with little drawings that looked like stencils I’d seen at Michael’s craft stores. Tattoos are like crafts. This would be alright.

My brave friend picked a small panda. Me and my other friend, nursing our broken hearts, picked … a heart! But it was “cool” because it had a leaf on either side. Like – love grows! Get it?

I know, I’m sorry. I’m rolling my eyes too.

To make matters worse we decided to have it put low on our abdomen. Exactly the part that stretches a ton if you decide to have kids. I was not even remotely thinking of having kids – so tattoo away Mr. Swede.

I went first - still not sure why. I was not the brave one. Swede asked me to hop up on the chair that alarmingly reminded me of the gynecological exam table. My blood pressure freaked out when he asked me to take off my top.

No – Swede wasn’t that bad. I was wearing a fucking bodysuit. Because that’s how well I planned for this tattoo. I excused myself to the bathroom where I could unsnap the crotch of my white t-shirt body suit and reemerged to lay down, only pulling up the shirt, while pushing down my pants, enough to bear the skin. And my soul.

At least it felt that way.

My nerves must have been palpable – mixing in the air with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Swede took pity on us and locked the front door so no one would come in while we were in the room alone with him. At this point I remember thinking we’re either going to be killed by the scary man with the humungous beard and the buzzing gun, or he was just a really nice guy.

The entire thing probably took less than 30 minutes. It felt like 3 hours.

I survived my first tattoo. Swede was nice and a great storyteller. He kept us distracted from the torturous pain (please insert another eye roll right about here) and regaled us with stories of his tattoo career. I remember he told us a story about the oldest person he’d ever tattooed - an 80 year old woman. She had to have her daughter drive her to the shop because she could no longer drive. She’d wanted a tattoo her whole life and finally did it.

I remember thinking, I hope I don’t wait until I’m that old to really do the things I want to in life.

The next time I got a tattoo, I was in my mid-twenties. I need to preface this one by saying, I feel like it’s a rite of passage for genXer’s, and in my defense, I’m a middle child.

I got a tramp stamp.

By this time, I’d moved away, out of state from my family, and was home visiting. My younger sister picked me up from the airport and proudly displayed a somewhat Celtic looking swirly design right there in the middle of her lower back.

Instantly I knew I had to have the same thing. We convinced our older sister to also get one by using the very persuasive argument that it would be like we were the sisters on Charmed.

May I please repeat in our defense that it was the early 2000’s which was basically still the 90’s and, well, just look it up. It was a whole thing.

The three of us got matching tattoos but my older sister was at least reasonably smart and got hers on her calf. But I cannot regret the decision I made because my sisters mean so much to me that even a tramp stamp won’t lessen my love for them.

From there, the sisters tattooing became kind of a thing. I don’t know if part of it was excitement for my visits – the occasions needing to be marked with something more weighty and permanent than a night out for a glass of wine - but tattoos became a small way the three of us bonded. Marking ourselves to each other even if we were separated by states.

We also fly out to see each other for very important movie releases that can only be seen together, like all of the Sex and the City movies. And Aquaman. Because Jason Mamoa.

The next sister together tattoo was one that I spent time – a lot of time – thinking about. I read Emily Dickinson’s poem I dwell in Possibility and was moved. I don’t write poetry. I don’t even read it often. But I read those words, I dwell in Possibility, and something in me shifted. The poem leaves me feeling a little sad about writing. But those words, they felt to me like something I could live by. Everyone says things like, Dream big or Keep working for what you want.

No, I say. You must dwell in what is possible. You must sit and marinate and hold your dreams until you’ve become so heavy with them that the only way to continue living is to work to let them go – set them free so that they may become their own thing and only then will you feel normal once more.

I wanted these words to be a part of me so badly. But I was working at this job and my boss was so conservative and I felt this nervousness that I would get in trouble. I felt small. I felt infantile and weak that I had to hide what I wanted.

I wanted to be able to look at those words, so whenever I felt like giving up on something, a dream or a goal, I could read the words and remember that I had to dwell in what was possible for my life until it was a reality.

I flew home to visit my sisters. My older sister knew of a guy who was a friend of friend and we went to the dude’s house. I was old enough to know better. It wasn’t even that it was particularly bad, but I think he was out of work and just really needed the money.

I asked for gray writing on the inside of my wrist. I liked it for about one month and then it started to fade and look like I just had a smear of something on me.

My next visit home, my older sister found another shop (it may have even been on Colfax again but way down on the "nicer" end). There were bright lights and chairs strewn all about. I got a cover up of the gray ink, and he had to incorporate a gray’ish design around it to mix up the faded words. I think he was going for an abstract flower. It kind of looks like a gray Star of David. I’m not Jewish. But I love it and those words – and there’s no hiding it.

My next one, my older sister came to visit me, and we decided on another sister tattoo. I knew of a shop recommended by a friend. We went and got a cute swirly heart design on the back of our shoulders with the writing, Big Sis and Little Sis. She chose the color for mine – pink. I chose hers – green. It was a fun visit and that was the new beginning for an obsession that has taken over for both of us.

By this time, I feel it’s important to mention that I’ve had two kids. Been married. Divorced. Then remarried. I’m not exactly young anymore.

We need to revisit that first tattoo because it has not weathered time, and two pregnancies, well. The heart and leaves merged into an indistinguishable blob. Have you ever had a balloon with Happy Birthday, or something written on it? Have you deflated it, blew it up again, then deflated it and then looked at the words? It’s not a good look.

I’ve learned in life that you usually have to put in more than twice the effort to cover something up, than if you’d just taken the time to do it right the first time. Nevertheless, I had a blob on my belly, and I needed it transformed.

I decided I needed something custom. I was going to actually *gasp* plan for something for once. I went to a shop and had a consultation. There was an estimate and a rough drawing. He looked at the area I wanted covered up.

I remembered to not wear a bodysuit.

That tiny blob tattoo turned into one that spans my lower belly, around my hip, trailing off on my back. It has flowers and beautiful designs, and the artist worked in the names of my two kids. I figured they were the ones who kind of ruined the initial one so I should pay homage to them. They are also the only names I will put on my body – because I kind of love than more than myself.

After that one, I was hooked. But I was still hiding. Still worried about if people saw them at work. I was at a different job but those old insecurities surfaced. All my tattoos were easy to hide. But I really wanted three little birds on my shoulder.

When I was younger, I spent three years living in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. I don’t know if it was nostalgia, or that I was going through a really hard time in life, but I wanted three little birds on my shoulder to remind me of the islands, since that is where I developed my love for Bob Marley.

As I’ve gotten older one thing I’ve learned is that every little thing will actually, eventually, at some point, be alright. That’s not quite as catchy as the song though.

I feel like you should probably know what’s coming at this point in the story, but I have to repeat it because it’s 100% true - I was home visiting my sisters and we all went to a tattoo shop.

Me and my younger sister got three little birds tattooed on our shoulders. Hers has cherry blossoms with the birds. I left mine plain because I had this feeling. I knew I wanted something with it, and it would involve more than one visit and I would need to be in my own state so I would have access to the person who would work on it. It’s just not economically feasible to have to buy a plane ticket every time you need a tattoo.

Me and my three little birds went home and went back to the shop where I got my hip tattoo done. I was going to plan something out and it would go on my shoulder.

It would be seen.

It would be visible to others if I wore short sleeves. I could think of no other thing I would want to be visible on me more than books. I love stories. I read books like I need them to sustain my lifeforce.

The artist I went to before was too busy. I went with a new artist in his shop. I was hesitant but went for it. This artist is so wonderful with his line work. My books came to life. They were so amazing that I couldn’t stop with just the birds and the books – I had to tell a story. I had to tell my story.

Now, on my left shoulder there are the original birds, and birds flying out of a book. I have a stack of books up along my outer shoulder, a little girl reading (hiding) behind a big book, and a huge ass old fashioned typewriter on the back of my shoulder. The typewriter has ink blots and black birds flying out. Then I had a quote added (with ink blots splattered around) The world was hers for the reading.

Last year, I finally went on vacation back to St. Thomas. I hadn’t been back in thirty years. One of our tour guides was a wonderful woman (who I instantly liked so much that I wished I could move back just so we could be best friends) and she had a tattoo on her forearm of all of the state flowers of places she’d lived.

Up until this point, all my tattoos were mostly gray and black, with an occasional pop of color. I was working on a fiction novel based on my time living in the islands and I decided I need to live more colorfully. A bit more out loud.

The artist I went to for the books had moved to his own shop. Of course, I followed him. He’s amazing and your tattoo artist is important. Make sure you LOVE their work. This is going to be on your body forever after all.

I consulted him on my idea for flowers of every state I’ve lived (5 total but we did 2 flowers per state). He is really busy so I had to make an appointment and wait a long time, but after several appointments I had the flowers on my right arm.

Then the great pandemic of 2020 happened before I could get the final coloring done.

All bets are off in a fucking pandemic.

I’ve been working from home since March. People sometimes see me on a video call. I’ve forgotten what other humans, outside of my family, smell like. I don’t know how to talk to strangers anymore.

As soon as tattoo shops could re-open (and trust me I was maniacally texting him for updates because I’m too burnt out on life to actually watch the news) I was in for an appointment. Since I had to wait so long, I also had a hummingbird added to the top of the flowers.

I texted a picture to my friend in St. Thomas. She texted a picture back of hers with an added dragonfly.

And because it’s 2020 and I’m a grown ass woman and can do what I want, and look like what I want to, and I’m not going to wait until I’m 80 fucking years old to get all the tattoos I want, I decided that she and I should be tattoo pen pals. It’s a thing now because I say it is.

Three days ago, I had a dragonfly added. When the islands reopen, and my friend has income again, she plans to get a hummingbird.

Life keeps going forward, even in a pandemic. I like to have things to look forward to, so I have another appointment in December to turn the flowers into a half sleeve.

Patience.