In 1987 there were exactly two places where a guy could get his ear pierced; someone's kitchen or the mall. At least that is the way it was in Anchorage, Alaska. Most people I knew went the kitchen route. This was reputed to involve a chair, a needle of some sort, and a potato. Ice was also mentioned on occasion. I was never exactly sure how the tuber came into play but I always nodded knowingly whenever it was mentioned. It was also a time of very specific rules regarding earing placement. One ear meant that you were a rebel who was not to be messed with. You spit in The Man's face and probably rode a motorcycle. The other fleshy lobe told the world that you engaged in the love that dare not speak its name. You had announced with your jewelry that you were a homosexual, you were in the room, and people should become accustomed to it.
At A Glance Author Camdon Wright Contact Camdon [email protected] IAM Camdon When Ten years ago or more Artist The girl at the mall Studio The mall Location Anchorage, Alaska Simple huh? One earing, one message. You weren't suppose to try and fool people either. If it turned out that you were gay and were carrying the piercing of a trouble maker then people would get very upset. Accepting your pigeon hole was the price you paid for daring to be different.
I always thought that getting my ear pierced would be "rad". It combined equal parts pissing off my folks and doing something that externalized my inner malcontent. The only thing stopping me was a fear of needles I carried from childhood. It was the sort of base fear that makes you reach for your blankie. A core phobia that defines what you are willing to be when you grow up. The thought of sitting still while someone jabbed me with a chunk of steel was unimaginable.
Like many of my favorite stories, this one involves a girl. Celia was in many ways my female counterpart. Much like myself she had a tough exterior which surrounded a tough interior wrapped around a marshmallow core. Kind, self-righteous, intelligent to a fault, and beautiful. All this wrapped in a Brazilian hippyesque package. She was a great friend to me and helped me realize what kind of person I wanted to be.
For reasons lost in the sands that continue to fill my aging brain we decided to skip classes for the day. In classic high school tradition we sat in her car playing the "I don't know. What do you want to do," game. I made some smart alec remark about how we should go get my ear pierced. "That sounds AWESOME!" she screamed a full volume.
What have I done? How do I get out of this? Celia and I weren't an item but I still needed to think that every teenage girl might want me. They were all supposed to see James Dean, or David Lee Roth, or at least Adam Ant when they looked at me. How the hell do I get out of this? Think Camdon. Tell her no. Tell her hell no. Say something... "Whatever. I don't have any money though."
"Awesome! I'll pay for it!" she said decidedly more excited than myself, "Off to the mall!"
I would estimate that it was at this moment that the terror sweats began. A gentle tremor started to play through my hand. I covered by tapping along with radio. It was an unfortunately short drive to the closest mega-shopping shrine. Invoking the deities whom I had previously denied didn't seem to change my situation. My mind began to imagine what the procedure would involve. It seemed unlikely that we would find a large hairy East German man with an ice pick at the Trend Setters next to Sears. I figured that they would probably stick me with a needle but wondered about the potatoes. Does the spud somehow numb your ear? That would be a good thing. A sewing needle isn't really that big. How much could it hurt? Do they use sewing needles? Safety pins? What if I scream like an eight year old girl?
This is when the tremors snaked down and grabbed hold of my leg. I couldn't dance it off due to my standing "dudes don't dance" policy. I think it was around this time Celia recognized my tissue thin bravado for what it was. She reached out and stroked my shoulder. "Are you sure about this Camdon?" she asked gently.
"Whatever. I don't care," I continued to lie.
As we approached the jewelry store I saw a barber chair in front of a large mirror surrounded by a wealth of the gaudy bangles that made the 80s memorable. This seemed to be the place of my doom. I was unable to locate any needles or vegetation necessary to the processes. What was going on? Celia went in and started chatting with the girl behind the counter. She waved me over and they began to quiz me. "Which studs do you want?" my friend asked. I chose my birthstone.
The girl behind the counter asked what I wanted to do with the other stud. Confused I asked her to explain. It turned out that earrings only came in pairs so we had to pay for two even though I only wanted one. At this point I discovered that there was something that eclipsed my fear of needles. It was the frugal third world nature that I inherited from my mom. Try and cheat me out of my extra earring will you? "I'll just get both." I was unsure if it had been my voice that I heard say it. Was I drunk? Maybe the stress of the situation had brought on a stroke.
"Rad," says the Wannabe in a disinterested tone. "Go sit over there."
Now was my chance to inspect the torture station. I still couldn't find any needles. No fridge either. Just some cotton, rubbing alcohol, and a strange looking contraption with no apparent purpose. Maybe she was going to bring the stuff up from the back.
She jingled up to me and said, "Oh yah. What side do you want these on?"
I must now confess a childhood secret. I never really learned my right from my left. I think that everyone always assumed I knew because I was such a precocious child. I was always too embarrassed to ask. I began to panic internally. Right or left? Which side is which? Calm down. Think... Wait! I'm right handed. What hand do I write with? I began to make little writing circles with my hand which caused the women to glance, perplexed, at each other. OK, that's my right hand.
I then realized that I had no idea which earlobe meant that I enjoyed the physical intimacy of other men. What the hell was I going to do? Which ear does Crockett have pierced? I was pretty sure that Boy George had both ears done so that wasn't much help. It would have been a great time for a homo-mnemonic device to help me remember. Fuck it. I point at my right ear.
The girl shrugged and picked up the device sitting on the counter. "What's that," I ask.
"It's the piercing gun. Give me a second to clean clean it up." She began to lazily rub a cotton ball damp with alcohol over its surface. To my eye each crevice seemed ripe with bacteria ready to turn the right side of my face gangrenous.
"Don't you use a needle?"
She snorted at my ignorance. "As if. Does this look like my kitchen?"
I caught sight of the stud as she readied it for the gun. It looked about as sharp as the metal studs on my jacket. It dawned on me that this dull piece of metal was going to be shoved through my earlobe with an oversized stapler. When faced with this reality a needle didn't seem so bad. I must have blanched because Celia chose this moment to reach out and hold my hand.
The girl marked two points on my ear and put the gun in place. Ca chunk! A burning roar filled my ears. Holy crap. That hurt. Ca chunk! Son of a bitch. That hurt too. Everything was black and it took a minute to realize that I had my eyes closed. Celia wore discomfort on her face which became clear was due to my crushing her hand in mine. I let go and wiped my sweaty palms on my kneeless jeans. I sat there and steadied myself while the shop girl rattled off aftercare instructions that were in complete opposition to the guidelines a professional piercer would give you today.
Celia packed me up and took me back to her house for a Suessian breakfast of green eggs and ham. While I watch her add food coloring to the chicken ovum and slices of pork it dawned on me that I never did resolve the sexuality/lobe debate. Being the only guy around with two earrings would make people wonder regardless. There was no Google to consult back in those dark times. My head continued to throb as I ate my tinted scrambled eggs. I had survived and now all I had to do was find out if I loved boys or not. I wondered if my father would know which side was which. He generally seemed very concerned with such things.
The kids at school never said much other than a general teasing that I had my ear pierced twice. It didn't really have any effect on my dating life. At least not one that could overcome my general shyness. My life returned to the mundane.
It was at the Alaska State Fair a couple of months later that I would get the truth of my dilemma. I was standing at the urinal doing the dead man's stare into the wall. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a guy in a baseball cap staring at me while I peed. I did a quick side glance and he narrowed his eyes as he continued to stare. I finished urinating unsure of what else to do. "What the fuck is that in your head?" he shouted drunkenly. I ignored him and zipped up. "I said what the fuck are those earrings in your head?"
"You just answered your own question."
"Are you some fucking fagot?" he snorted. "Hey Dale, I think we've got a fagot here. Which side of the head means they're a homo?"
I looked him in his bleary eyes and laughed. I followed this up with some snide remark calling into question the sexuality of a man who is checking out other men in the john. I hip checked past him and exited the restroom smiling.
I would have guessed that it would be the large blue/green mohawk I was sporting that would have set them off but it was instead the jewelry. I had gotten my hair done at a booth on the fairgrounds in order to feel more festive. Perhaps in their alcohol soaked brains they processed my hair as an optical illusion.
The thing that made me laugh about the whole exchange was that for all of the worrying I had put into the social stigma of the left/right dilemma in the end it didn't matter. If someone is going to attack you for arbitrary reasons then the minutia doesn't matter. They want to hate you and sometimes that includes a desire to inflict physical harm. Making sure you've followed the rules set down by MTV won't save you from their bigotry.
Those people couldn't hurt me in any way that mattered. My father was a different story. I remember that I was wearing a silver and turquoise Thunderbird which dangled appropriately from my ear. I had my new wave mullet in full effect and was dressed in something I would surely deny now. The two of us got in the car and headed out to the store. Halfway into our journey my paternal role model pulled over. We sat quietly for a little while and then he said, "I can't be seen in public with you looking like that. I'm ashamed of you. Take out that dangling crap if you want to go out with me." He proceeded to back up and turn the vehicle towards home. It was a tense ride.
Being true to my teenage nature I didn't take it out. Part of our relationship died with a "fuck you" glare from me and an "I can't believe you're my son" look from him. That night was one of the few times I cried as a teenager. Neither of us would compromise who we were, and in the end it was probably for the best.
I got my other lobe done twice a year later thereby ending the sexual preference dilemma forever. I liked the way it looked and it stopped my mother from harassing me because my ears were "unbalanced." Having both done actually ended some confrontations. Either they hated me because I was a freak or they didn't. No one had to work through the "Crockett" dilemma.
It's nice that these days most of the remarks I hear about piercing are of the "she looks like a porcupine" or "I'm surprised his face doesn't leak" variety. It's nice in the same way that watching a woman grab her purse when someone of color walks to close is nice. It's ugly but it's better than what came before.
Here in Alaska in the 80s having your ear pierced and not looking like you were an upstanding human meant you were ready to fight. 10 years before that I'm sure it meant you were ready to fight for your life. I was never a big one for violence but found myself embroiled in uninitiated conflict nonetheless. It was the price of being the person who I wanted to see in the mirror.
I wasn't afraid of bullies. I'm still not. I am a little scared that my kids will never come home with purple hair.