Fitting in- on belonging
At A Glance Author Lara Contact [email protected] IAM ta2lu When N/A One year ago I felt as though I didn't fit in anywhere. It prompted me to write "Where do I fit in?" �This past weekend, I realized something- even if I'm not exactly like the people around me, it doesn't mean that I don't BELONG. Heck, being slightly different also means being (at least slightly) special. Right? So, just like last year, I've been inspired to write. To share with others what's so different this year from last. Has my situation changed? Or, has something inside of me changed? Is it a combination?
I'm still a tattooed thirty-something administrative assistant. That hasn't changed. Still with the same conservative pharmaceutical company. With the same managers and co-workers. I continue to push myself at work. I read business books and then write reviews on them. I'm starting to work on expense reports. When other admins are out, I'll take on their work. In other words, if it's not in someone's job description, I'm doing it. My tattoos are still, for the most part, under wrap. Everyone knows that they are there. In fact, I went so far as to wear SHORT SLEEVES on moving day a month ago. Not one derogatory or reprimanding word. Only "Your tattoos are beautiful" comments. My tattooed sleeves are starting to extend below my � length sweaters. I finally feel confident enough to ask my executive director what the consequences will be if I don't wear long sleeves to completely cover my ink. All he can do is tell me that I have to. Or, better yet, he can tell me to show my true colors. He WAS the one who was most impressed by the photo of Jay and me in Tattoo magazine...
My family has always been my biggest worry when it comes to offending by way of my modifications. They surprised me when it came to my nostril piercing. Even my dad told me that I looked good with it. My mom mentioned the daughter of a friend of theirs who sports a nostril stud like mine. They liked it! As for my tattoos, that's a slightly different story. In private, at their home or mine, my tattoos are on display. They'll get covered up if I'm cold. However, I normally respect their wishes when we go out in public. Recently that has changed. Of course I still respect them. But, damn, it's been an especially hot summer! It's also been a rough summer on my family. My dad is gallivanting in Hungary, writing his memoirs and playing mini-golf. My sister is in a depression about as bad as any bout that she's been in since she was diagnosed with clinical depression 15 years ago. And my mom is dealing with this alone. So, a few weeks ago I headed up to Boston to lend a little bit of support to my two favorite female relatives. Got to my parents' home to find that they had no food. Had to drag mother and sister to the grocery store. Picture this: three women step out of a Lexus; one is in her late sixties, dressed in khakis and a sweater set; one has on too much eye-makeup and is covered with tattoos; the other is in sweats and stinks like a homeless person due to sitting in her apartment smoking and not showering for 3 days. Was my preppy, Lexus-driving mom horrified to be seen in the town that she lives and teaches in with these two daughters of hers? Not at all. She didn't rush us out of there. She stopped to say hello to a fellow teacher. Said hello to a neighbor. Guess that's unconditional love. That same weekend I got a lovely email from my dad. He said that I was a first-class sister and daughter. First-class.
I've become more involved with my church in the past year. You'd think that someone who worries about their tattoos and about fitting in would shy away from organized religion. Organized Roman Catholic religion. Not me. In my parish, I've found a sense of community. While I don't always agree with some of the tenets of Catholicism, I always feel good when I step out of church on Sunday morning. I've learned a little something, I've visited with extended family, and, most importantly, I feel as though I fit in there. I belong! The priests know about my tattoos and have seen them. I edit the weekly bulletin, so they've seen me, literally, with my sleeves rolled up, working. Like at work, not one negative remark. In fact, our pastor calls me "princess." I email, and have exchanged gifts with, our funny little Indian priest. And I told our summer seminarian that, with a name like Mariusz Wolf, he might want to reconsider this whole priesthood thing and consider a gig as a rock star. Yes, priests, young and old, are accepting of me in all my tattooed glory.
All that is only one side of my fitting-in tale. The opposing side is feeling left-out in the tattoo world of my tattoo artist husband. Since I'm no artist, and barely tattooed compared to him, I've always felt like somewhat of a poser in his realm. Instead of showing what fairly little ink I have, I have, in the past, tended to cover up completely. Better people guess what I am hiding. A woman of mystery. No more ambiguity here. Why? It could be that my husband is finally starting to tattoo my arms. I have short sleeves which are creeping down onto my forearm. I'm now willing to show them off. In fact, I've- gasp- even posed for photographers! Maybe the fact that I know more people on the convention circuit helps. There's that sense of community again. In any event, there's no more feeling intimidated by all of the tattooed heavyweights. I almost feel as though I am one of them. Almost.
Look at how far has this girl come! I'm still wildly different than my mom and dad and sister. I'm still the only person at work with a facial piercing and tattoos below my elbows. Probably the only modified person who Father Al calls "princess." And one of the few people who hangs out at the tattoo shop who wears Tiffany jewelry, carries a Louis Vuitton handbag, and is outfitted in clothes from Talbot's and Ann Taylor. Maybe I'm not a perfect fit in any of these situations and environs. But, damnit, I belong in all of them!