Courage on a Blade

This was an A- paper:

Thirteen days ago today I made an appointment to have a tattoo artist mark me for life. Twelve short days ago I spent two and a half shorter hours in the company of my tattoo artist, my fiancé and a very good friend. I am now the proud wearer of a unique tribal tiger on my right shoulder blade. She has an attitude that represents my vain, “fuck you” side, shown in a pose with her head thrown back and her tail held high in pride and independence.

Tattooing is part of a culture that is full of symbolism and emotion. Before my college career started I remember having a conversation with my father asking him what he thought about tattoos. I distinctly recall him saying that he would have gotten lots of ink, but that he would have to live with them every day, even when he gets to be old and the tattoos are stretched out and wrinkly. Nine months later I met my fiancé and saw his tattoo. He still hasn’t told me why he has it but I know it has something to do with his brother and his past.

Two and a half hours of sitting in a tattoo chair is not the most comfortable thing in the world. I kept thinking that I should have brought a book with me, anything to keep my mind off the pain in a consecutive manner. Eventually my butt began to fall asleep, and my neck and jaw were sore from resting against the awkward angle of the head rest. The first five minutes weren’t too bad; I was just getting used to the feel of three needles being dragged through my skin by a tattoo gun for the outline. When I asked the artist what getting the tattoo would feel like he said that people describe it two different ways: one is that it feels like millions of bee stings, and the other is that it feels like a lot of irritated cat scratches. Personally I thought it felt like billions of bee stings, almost as if the bees’ stingers were injected by the gun and being dragged through my skin in intricate patterns. The grossest thing was that my right arm pit was sweating so badly, moisture was literally rolling down the inside of my arm and I had to keep wiping it away with my sweatshirt. At one point the artist hit a particularly tender spot and I yelled “Ow! Fuck!” My friend immediately remarked that she had never heard me say that certain obscenity and actually mean it. The artist switched to seven needles to do the shading, and it felt like heaven for a good amount of time. By the time he was halfway done with the shading, those seven needles felt like hell. I had lived through one and a half steps of the process, I was pretty positive I could live through the last half, but I was so done with sitting in one position and having my scapula and trapezius harassed.

My last semester of sophomore year, about ten months ago, I began to look for a tattoo idea. I had always wanted a lizard for some reason. I don’t know why, but it was this gut feeling to have a lizard painted on me for life; a sweet and sexy reptile along my panty line. But my major concern was what if I get pregnant? The tattoo will stretch and be hideous. Plus, for all my time of searching I could not find a lizard I liked. Neither me, my fiancé, or a close friend could draw anything. I also had no reason to get it. I definitely wanted a reason to have an identifying mark on me forever, not to just say I got ink. Personally I felt that it would be lame to respond to someone’s question as to why I got it, and tell them just because. It’s like that would be sacrilegious to the tattooing culture.

I accidently found the picture of my tiger on a website; I searched the topic “tiger tattoos” just for kicks because tigers have been my favorite animal since I was a little girl. Next thing I know I am staring at this picture of a tribal tiger standing on my computer screen, her body language screaming I am this, accept it or leave it. I don’t know who drew it or how it originally came to be, but if you want to call it plagiarism, all I have to say is thank you to the creator. I printed and cut her out of the paper to show my fiancé. He made me keep her in a place I would see her every day as if she were already on my body. She lived on my dresser for at least seven months, during which I longed for her. My two biggest dilemmas were where do I place her on my body, and why do I want her?

This summer I had to make a huge decision. All I will say is that professionally I regret the choice, but personally I know it was the right one. It proved my commitment to my fiancé and myself, and also proved my breaking free of a part of my past that needed to be let go much sooner. The tiger on my back serves as a source of strength because I can’t always provide strength from within me when my fiancé isn’t around. I placed it on my right shoulder because it’s also a reminder that I made the right choice, and because I discovered a friend I hadn’t truly opened myself to even though it feels like I have known her forever. That same friend went back a week later and got a tattoo in the same place and I like to think that knowing we both have another thing in common for the rest of our lives brings us that much closer together.

The big question now is how do I tell my parents? We are all adults, but I don’t feel like being disowned by my mother for a week until she remembers I am not twelve anymore, so only select family members know about my ink. “When will you tell them?” They ask. My response is that they can know after I am dead. I want to believe that I can be confident enough to show it to my father and have his reaction be something along the lines of “nice ink”, but doubts linger about that future encounter.

In the aftermath of getting ink, I survived the healing process which seemed to be worse than finding the courage to sit in the executioner’s chair. That area of skin was sore for about five days, and then it flaked and peeled as if my body was leaking black blood. Then it got itchy. The temptation to itch the scab off was worse than the temptation to eat chocolate all day. But she is finally all healed and ready to admired and utilized for her strength. Whenever I am a distressed damsel or a stressed college student I look for something to give me strength, and then remember that I have it on my back in a bold statement screaming I have a secret I will never tell, don’t you wish you knew?