My real name is Katharina. I am seventeen. I am overweight. I am not heavily modified. The only piercings I have are the eight gauge pincers in my ear lobes, and the ten gauge plugs above them. I had both gunned at a mall, screaming, as a baby, and then calm and excited inside as a teen. The only tattoos I have are the ones that I slap on and run cold water over for thirty seconds. And yet... I still see myself as a modified individual.
At A Glance Author wicked1 Contact [email protected] IAM wicked1 When N/A Recently, I was at the First Annual Virginia Suspension Social, hosted by iam:Warner and iam:Mighty_Mouse. Very nice, very open human beings. I met the most wonderful people: iam:Cere, Phoenixxx, Toby, FREE COCAINE, Thorn, Carterlite, Rainshine, Poisonedyouth138, LexTalonis... The list goes on and on. I shook hands with members of the ROP Suspension team, got to meet Allen Falkner!
It was a defining moment in my life; I got to see one of the first friends I ever had here go up on his first suspension. I got to watch him as the hooks were thrown, as he went up by the knees. I saw the bliss on his face and the moment that he was in that place. I can say that I was part of that; I was there.
I was, with the exception of one other girl, the most unmodded person there. And that was okay. Nobody gave me haughty looks or sneered. No one made fun or laughed at me. And that was odd to me.
I work in a decent chain retail store; it's one of the only places I know where anyone in the BME community could get a job regardless of piercing or tattoos. I love it there. I can have stretched lobes and pink hair and black nail polish. I could have a face full of titanium and skin covered in ink. And I would still be accepted.
My family, on the other hand, thinks that I'm insane. I told my mother what suspensions were, and she actually vomited. She promptly told me that she would never allow me to get anything punched, poked, inked, or scarred, so long as she had to sign papers. After I was legally an adult, I could be as much of a freak as I wanted; I just should not expect to be invited to eat Christmas dinner with the family.
My father gets angry every time I bring it up. "You are disgusting!" he actually said to me once. He rails against modification, although he said nothing about my brother's tattoo. I love my family dearly. They are very important to me. They make my world go 'round, they make me happy.
But they choose not to understand me, or to educate themselves. So I do not bring it up anymore. I do not say a word when my mother and I pass someone in the mall with an eyebrow ring, or God forbid, a surface piercing. She actually gasps, and grabs my arm, and asks, in a horrified voice if I saw that freak.
I have always seen something else inside the freaks and weirdos of the world. I have seen it in them because I have seen it in me.
Inside of me, there are ideas and thoughts and hopes. When I turn eighteen, I will have them put onto my outside with needles and rings. I want to be that tattooed, red-haired girl walking down the street. The one that people point at. The one that awe-struck children come up to and ask: "Did that hurt? Is that real?"
I want to have older adults shake their head with a smile as I walk by, saying "children today!" under their breaths. I want to have that secret smile on my face all day, knowing that my outside matches my inside. I yearn to feel... real.
I want to feel like I am everything I could be. Like I have reached the peak of my existence, and I can go no higher.
But for now, as a child in the eyes of the world, I will stick with the things that do not require parental consent: hoping and wishing. I will keep stretching my ear lobes until they are 00ga. I will keep doodling the designs for the heavy black ivy sleeves I have wanted since I was twelve. I will keep on sending pictures to BME and writing on my iam page. I will keep laughing and discussing with my newfound friends my ideas and my jokes. I will keep up my research and my hunt for the perfect artists. I will send e-mails and letters to professionals.
I will just be what I have always been: a work in progress.
After all, I only have another 90 or so days until I am free.