Inked

It was a week before my 19th birthday, and I was getting my first tattoo.

There were layers to why I was nervous.

1. It was my first tattoo, I didn't know what to expect. Would I handle the pain okay? Would it heal properly? Would it look good?

2. I went with a college friend I'd officially known for approximately 3 months. She chose the shop, and I didn't know anything.

3. A tattoo would be the biggest and most flagrant act of disobedience against my parents that I had ever done.

I grew up with my dad trying to instill in me a very specific set of rules or beliefs. Among others, the most clear were: no sex before marriage, and no tattoos.

My father believed that marking your skin was against God or the Bible, I'm not really sure. He would "quote" to me (I never knew the passage in the Bible, but apparently Old Testament), your body is your temple, and you shall not mark it.

The irony is I'm not the only one of my siblings to want a tattoo. My elder sister was the one to first say "I would get a tattoo". But I was the first to actually do it. Technically, I'm the only one.

I now have five tattoos. Every time I get a new one, there's another speech, another argument. When I came home with the first, I could've gotten away with it. I had placed it on my right side, under my bra strap. I don't remember the exact instances of the conversation, but I was home for Christmas, just a week after I'd gotten the tattoo. It was still healing, and it itched under my shirt when my dad brought up the topic of tattoos. I remember him saying "You don't have one right?" And I blurted out "Yes, I do, and if you want to yell at me fine, but I got it" with my heart pounding. We got to our driveway, and I could tell my dad was going to burst. My little brother was kicked out of the car and I'm sure my dad had words while we were in the car, but all I remember was the screaming match in my parents' bedroom. I was crying and screaming, my father was yelling, my mother silently cried on the bed. My father tore apart a shirt we'd gotten him for Father's Day one year that read "Dad's Rules" with a list underneath. He claimed I didn't care or respect him anymore. The details of when I was eventually released aren't clear after years, but I know my father was tense with me until I left to go back to school after winter break. I remember having to promise to not get another one until I graduated. I didn't keep the promise.

My second tattoo was also "well-hidden", a couple months before my 22nd birthday, and better received, but only because I could tell my mother was more bothered by the fact that I lied about getting tattooed. My father was defeated. This was the beginning of him realizing he couldn't dictate me anymore. This time, my argument was that it was my body, and I could do what I wanted with it. His response was to claim I was being influenced because "he didn't know who came out of my mouth just then". It frustrated me that he couldn't see tattoos were something I enjoyed and that I did believe it was my body to do what I wanted with. I did feel guilty that I didn't keep my promise, but it was overshadowed by my desire to immortalize my memories on my skin.

See, that is what attracted me to tattoos. I didn't want random, meaningless ink. I wanted them to connect me to memories, to people, to places. I wanted my life to last forever. I don't know if my father fully understood that this was my reasoning. His arguments, after he accepted I'd keep getting tattooed, were about the cost, the dangers, the way tattoos would make people perceive me. This also frustrated me. I didn't care. I chose what I did for a reason. He has a good relationship with his co-workers, and after talking to one who is heavily tattooed, informed me that getting tattoos from multiple artist is dangerous and I should stick to one. Or so claimed his friend. It was hard for me not to laugh at this.

My third tattoo was done in New York, and by this time, I was paying significantly more than I was for my first two that were done in a small Philadelphia shop. I made the crazy decision to now have this one incredibly visible; I put this one on my wrist. It was nearly a year until I saw my parents, but I was upfront this time and told them the night I arrived in their house. Again, disappointment, and this is when I got the lecture of not going to multiple artists. It was within the next couple days I got a lecture about what the tattoo could make other people see me as. My father said it was trashy (this specific tattoo because it was a margarita glass, so god forbid it makes men think I'm loose and easy), which I of course did not like coming from my father, but I always like to think that if anyone did think that and act on it, they'd loose the ability to reproduce. But this is when I realized they wouldn't fight me on getting them, just complain about the cost and placement.

Thus, my fourth tattoo on my upper arm was greeted by a slight eyeroll and 30 minute interrogation. My fifth was commented on but I wasn't questioned. And I'm sure my 6th, 7th 8th, 9nth will be scrutinized, but hopefully left alone. Because believe me, I have many more planned.