It was hard coming to the decision to get a visible tattoo. It was a process of making visible the self that lives in my mind. It was taking back control of my body after a long illness. Now that it's done I've struggled with what my responsibility to the world should be.
At A Glance Author Camdon Contact [email protected] IAM Camdon When N/A A lot of people on this spinning ball of dirt have tattoos. Some believe in a god, others celebrate science or nature, some are aberrations of humanity, others shimmering points of joy and kindness. There is no unifying reason that one gets a tattoo. No single skin tone, personality type, body type, or nationality that singly engage in this this activity. Why then do some of us feel compelled to be a positive representative of this disparate group? The soccer mom who cut me off in traffic and then flipped me the bird when I honked didn't seemed overly concerned with improving the reputation of minivan drivers or that of brunettes.
I was serving jury duty and true to my nature I was one of the first to arrive. I sat down to fill out my forms by a column with a socket so I could plug in my electronic goodies if need be. Since I was between the rest of the chairs and one of the tables filled with clipboards I made sure to hand them to people has they sat down near me. A woman walked up and smiled at me so I smiled back and handed her a clipboard. She sat in the seat adjacent to mine and started to make small talk which I politely returned as I filled out my forms. I caught her staring at my neck out of the corner of my eye. She proceeded to stand up and find a seat across the room without another word. Lest you think I have the words "I kill whores" printed on my neck I will volunteer that it is just a simple pattern that, aside from its existence, would be inoffensive to the world. I was amused and a little surprised.
Once while standing in line waiting to get my ballot at my local polling station I heard a woman's voice from behind me and felt a tap on my shoulder. A short thin girl of maybe 22 was standing behind me wearing the hippy uniform appropriate to our area; pale skin, blond dreads, bulky wool sweater, skirt made from fabric with an Indonesian influence, and the faint smell of Patchouli. "May I ask the significance of your ink?" the stranger asked pointing at my neck.
My initial reaction was to say no. It is a deeply personal image that marks a sort of rebirth in my life. It seemed almost disrespectful to casually discuss it while queued up. The story ran through my mind as I considered her.
For almost a year I was very sick. My body had turned on itself and was busy trying to kill me in the process. I still do not know exactly what started the avalanche of misery but on Friday February 11th, 2005 I spontaneously broke out in hives. These hives would last everyday for the next 11 months. Each individual hive looked and felt like a bee sting. They would move around my body often disfiguring my face. I also began to have anaphylactic reactions to things I wasn't allergic to previously. The worst instance of this being the evening after my son's third birthday party. I took two Advil before going to bed. Luckily I woke up just before before my throat swelled closed. I quickly drove myself to the hospital and they later told me if I had been a little bit later I probably would have been one of the tragic tales that people tell. The one happy event to come out of this was I got my "I drove myself to the hospital" story to tell whenever the opportunity presents itself. I had one friend dive himself with a broken leg and another who had been stabbed in the calf. I was now part of an elite group of humans that show poor judgment in medical emergencies.
During this 11 month trial of Job I often dreamed of getting a tattoo. I read up on the possible reactions to the ink as well as the process itself. With a family that counted on me I decided that I couldn't jeopardize my safety for simple ornamentation. My loving wife set aside money and gave it to me for Christmas with the instructions to go and get a tattoo. But what about my hives? What if I wind up back in the hospital? Can I take a risk on something so selfishly mine? She seemed to think I could. In hindsight I think she just needed me to believe that I was going to live. I wasn't sure at that point if I would be around to see my children grow into adults. I listened to her because I married someone smarter than myself, something I recommend to the world. That tattoo changed my life.
I found the puzzle pieces that I needed to show the tattoo artist. My mind was made up and I could already feel it on my skin like tiny work crews had cleared the land on my neck in preparation of what was to be built. I shared with my spouse the image see would have to look at on me for the rest of our lives. She approved and was willing to share any repercussions that a visible tattoo might bring.
The artist I always used had moved out of town which necessitated a search for someone new. I went to the studio that had the most consistent reputation and poured over their books. I decided on the artist whose work I would be willing to carry to the crematorium. I booked an appointment after showing her my collection of images and discussing, in overly elaborate detail, what I wanted. I gave her a clinical overview of my health issues so that she could turn me away if the shop was unwilling to accept the liability. After it was done the burning skin under the cellophane wrap seemed to scream its altered joy to the world. I was still alive and I had power again.
The morning of that tattoo was the last time I would have hives. My malady ended with the buzz of the gun. Was there some divine providence that had interceded? Had she inadvertently hit some ancient Chinese acupuncture point that turned off my body's attack on itself? Was I just lucky? Did the simple act of a procedure that I can trace back through my maternal roots heal me? Whether or not the connection is real I will always feel that the tattoo gave me back my life.
I continue to study the girl looking up at me and reply, "It's only a pattern."
She apparently took this as an invitation to give her opinion of my dermal artwork. "I would have gotten it with a more practical purpose," she volunteers, "like sizing knitting needles or you can use the circles to tell the gauge of your earrings. You can go back and they can redo it if you want!"
The little voice in my head screams, "I hate you bitch." My eyes narrow and I vocalize, "I realize that I could do that IF I wanted to." I give her a tight lipped smile and turn my back to her. She continues talking for a few more moments and then gives up.
If I had taken the the time to explain to her about my long illness, the ties to my heritage and how her words had offended me then perhaps she would have apologized. Maybe she might have understood that her casually chosen words had affected me. In hindsight I guess I should have just answered, "No, you may not ask about my tattoo." That just seemed too uncivil a response.
I was raised to believe that tattoos were the providence of sailors, bikers, drug addicts, and the generally deviant. A mistake of youth. There is truth to those clich�s but the truth has a way of being more than you expect and simpler than we might like. Tattoos are affirmations of faith. They are celebrations of life and memorials of the dead. They are drug fueled mistakes and reminders of misplaced love.
I can only be true to the person I want to be. I am a tattooed, liberal, atheist, husband, father of two, amazing cook, traveling, artistic, half-breed. I choose to do good with my life. I will continue to be polite to people even if they don't show the same consideration for me.
Why should it be my responsibility to promote a better image for the tattooed? Because I never want my kids to be ashamed of their father. I hold myself to a higher standard than the other meat bags that share my terrestrial home. I don't judge people arbitrarily. I try to enlighten those who request it. If that isn't enough to get your respect then I don't want it.