I am often faced with the question "Why do you do that to yourself"? I am told I will never have a successful career nor will I lead a productive life. People treat a young tattooed woman as if she has sentenced herself. She has the mark of the damned with a life sentence ahead. I meet these proposed hardships and those who suggest them with determination and the drive to succeed despite the path that others have set for me.
At A Glance Author Sarah Contact [email protected] When N/A I remember well the day I changed my life forever. In some ways life has become more difficult, in others my first tattoo experience has helped shape my life in more positive ways. As a young girl, my body was foreign and awkward. I was uncomfortable in my own skin. When the realization came to me that I could take control and make my body mine, I was elated. My body was mine I was re creating. The ugly duckling was to become the swan. The idea that one could take it upon her self to permanently alter their outward appearance to better match what was inside them, desperate to be seen, was intriguing to me. A tattoo was a permanent marker for growth and change, a reminder of an era in one's life, be it positive or negative a reminder of growth nonetheless. A beautiful battle scar hand picked by you. These ideas excited me, and continue to do so today.
Still fresh in my memory is the day a shy introverted girl tiptoed into the tattoo shop. I remember the small space with its pungent antiseptic smells, the excited buzz of the machines and the knowledge that I was about to be marked for life. Ironically, I cannot remember the name, or even the face of the woman who gave the tattoo to me. But, she was small and friendly with a shock of crimson hair. She was comforting and gentle, careful not to intimidate. I cannot recall the physical pain of that experience either, but I remember fondly how good it made me feel afterwards. It all felt so fresh and new, one small piece of the puzzle that was sure to follow. The shop has long since closed down, or moved away, the red headed woman merely a faded memory. But my tattoo is as bright and as beautiful as the day I received it.
It was enough to nudge me toward the path I am on today. Six years and more hours under the needles later, I have become stronger. In a physical sense, enduring raw open skin, and the searing sensation the needles bring. I go past what I had believed to be my threshold, the breaking point, I push past it and I endure.
More importantly, perhaps, is the strength being tattooed has brought me mentally. I am constantly faced with the reality that there are those who strongly oppose my decision of modification. People point and stare; disgust in their eyes and on their mouths. As a younger woman I lived in the town where I was born and raised. Here, It was obvious that I was the proverbial square peg, not trying desperately enough, I suppose, to fit into the round hole that society had deemed appropriate for me. I once attended a high school party with friends where a casual acquaintance screamed aloud that I did not belong. I was a freak, I was too different, and I did not, and would not, ever belong. I was horrified. It was hard to keep my composure whilst feeling dozens of eyes on me waiting hungrily for an outburst of some sort. I could not believe that I had angered someone to the point of having him scream it into my face solely based on my appearance alone. I did not honor his childish outcry with a response. I simply removed myself from the situation and remained quietly indignant. Since then, I have learned to adamantly stand up for myself, my beliefs and my rights as a free person. When I am faced with rude comments from adults who act like children and who should know better, I tell them how it feels. I try to make them feel the shame they have attempted to push onto me. A simple example of this would be when I was working at a local restaurant in the city and was seating a group of professional-looking men at a table. One of the men asked in an inappropriately loud tone had I had been attacked by a sewing machine, much to the amusement of his easily impressed associates. To their ill fortune, I did not simply ignore them or laugh the comment off; I looked the man directly in the eye and asked him why he felt the need to put me down? Was it to impress his buddies and make himself look good? I told him I should not be made to feel bad about myself so he could get a cheap laugh from his friends. He just scoffed at me rud ely and looked around for support from his previously supportive associates, who were now looking at their shoes in embarrassment. The man apologized grudgingly and sat down to a quiet lunch.
Experience has taught me to become far more self-assured. I deal with the daily onslaught of questions, some of which are ridiculously personal and inappropriate to ask a complete stranger. My favorite, and perhaps the most popular is "Where else are you pierced"? While looking at my chest or "How do you kiss with those", "can you still have sex, eat, sleep or brush your teeth"? I couldn't imagine thinking it appropriate to ask a random person on the street, or in the grocery store to give me a rundown on how they function throughout their day or to report on the details of their sex lives. I do not understand why they assume it is okay for them to nail me with a barrage of insulting questions, backing me into a corner, while I am just trying to go about my business like anyone else. I am often asked if I am a masochist of some kind. People seem to think that if it looks as if it hurts, I obviously do it for the pain, as they see no other reasonable point. I just say, "It h urts to be beautiful", with a laugh. Pain is relative when you look at it from another's perspective. "Pain is weakness leaving the body".
I am often treated as if I am on display for the general public. I am a freak, a degenerate from the carnival of the city's seedy underbelly, a social deviant with no thought or emotion. This hurts sometimes. People refuse to see that I'm just a regular girl. I go to school where I am a good student. I live on my own and work hard at achieving my goals. I have very supportive family and friends who love and support me unconditionally. Because I look different it is assumed I am a bad person. I can only chalk it up to people's failure to relate to what they cannot understand; sometimes fear turns into anger or hurtful behavior. Perhaps they are unable to see my behavior in themselves; perhaps they lack the confidence and it is just easier to fall into lineI've learned to gain strength through adversity and I feel that because I carry myself in an intelligent, confident and well mannered way, perhaps I can change some of these wrongful preconceptions of the modified community in a small but positive way, one person and their questions at a time.