I got my first tattoo when I was 19. Since then, I haven’t been able to stop; within a year, I managed to get nearly a full sleeve. That’s full on, but I didn’t care.
Out of all the tattoos, I’ve only told my parents about one. My mom found my first tattoo one afternoon whilst I was baking some chive scones; my dad saw it when I came back from Australia, eight months later. I always wore 3/4 sleeves when my parents visited, but really, I hardly ever saw them, and they were never interested in social media. I was safe, I thought.
Then one day, I logged onto Facebook and saw a friend request. I looked at the man and he vaguely resembled my dad. To preface, I haven’t seen my dad in a little over three years. I clicked on his profile and realized this man was indeed my father. Shit, he knows about my tattoos. My heart started to pulsate so quickly, I felt a bit faint. I avoided calling my parents for weeks, since I was afraid they would confront me on the situation. I finally called, and the first question my dad asks is whether or not the artwork on my arm was real. I tried to be coy, but my dad called me out, and I heard the disappointment in his voice. In the background, I heard my mom asking, “it’s not real, is it?” and then proceed to get louder and louder with each repeat in hopes that I would say no. Finally, she grabs the phone away from my dad and I reluctantly confirm.
I don’t think I have ever heard my mother cry as hard as she did that day. I heard the actual hurt that resulted from my skin inkings, and all I wanted to do was take it all back. There are moments where I wish I didn’t have my tattoos. I think about why I got them in the first place, and where I was in my life that caused me to get so many. I didn’t choose to ink myself to spite my parents, despite what my mother thinks; I honestly got them because I simply wanted to, with no regard to the affect it would have on others. Granted, there was definitely an extent of peer pressure that affected me subconsciously. All of my friends had tattoos and I had an amazing artist, whose company I really enjoyed. I craved the likes and attention on social media, even though it was all very temporary, unlike what I had done to my skin.
Suffering, my mother says. She doesn’t understand why I would put myself in that position to sit through hours of needles being stuck under my skin, and I don’t understand it either. The outcome always leaves me wanting more, and I think that’s why some people end up with their whole body covered. I try to convince myself that future employers will somehow become more open minded, and my credentials will trump my looks; I’m still hoping. I’m also trying to prove to my parents that I am able to get a capable job by being a tattooed being. My mother fears that people will assume I’m a delinquent, or my favorite, my dad asked if I had joined a mafia.
Why are tattoos so taboo? Why do people fixate on things that aren’t their business, instead of focusing more on something that’s affecting the world? The last time I checked, my tattoos weren’t influencing who was going to be the next president of The United States. Honestly, are tattoos hurting others, besides the people who have them? It’s a personal choice, just like people who choose to be vegan or those who are religious. Those who have tattoos also don’t pester others to get them, and yet I constantly find myself defending mine.
Anyway, this weeks thoughts revolve around whether or not I regret my past decisions. But then again, I snap out of it and remember it’s the past and I’m in the present, as it does not bode well to dwell on the past. It’s funny how distance can bring people closer together than ever before. I know this is the first I’ve ever felt a closeness with my parents, and I now can relate to others who are close to theirs; I never want to let go of this connection.
