No, I don't want to see your tattoo. I don't want to feign interest, nor do I want to lie and tell you it looks nice. Is that rude? No, just honest. I cannot count the number of times I've been in this situation in the last 3 1/4 years.
I've always had an appreciation for tattoos and related artwork. Long before I ever desired one of my own, in fact. There's something about traditional American tattoos that gives me a bit of butterflies in my stomach. Perhaps it's the nautical influence? I grew up hearing my dad's stories from his days as a submariner in the U.S. Navy and his tales from working as a commercial fisherman. I reveled in my mom's accounts of her childhood on the water. Landlocked as I was, I developed a love and fascination for everything having to do with the sea. The ships that glided over the tops of the waves, the creatures that lurked below its surface, the lore and mystical creatures that only existed in the tall tales of sailors.
The work of Sailor Jerry and other artists brought those things to life in a whole new way. The vessels, the anchors, the sharks...everything was so familiar but brand new at the same time. While my taste in music, fashion, hobbies and pretty much everything else changed over time, my love for this brand of artwork remained constant.
In college, I toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo. Of what? A pair of chunky headphones with the cord curling into a cursive "wnhu," the call letters of my university radio station, where I was actively involved. It would trail off and end with the large adapter that connected our headphones to the soundboard. I loved the idea. I loved the sketch I made; to this day it still hangs in my bedroom. But, like most things, my feelings for the station changed over time. The station evolved into something very different from what it was during my time there. I'm glad I didn't follow through.
One day the thought of getting an anchor and a helm crossed my mind. But, given my history of indecisiveness, I didn't want to jump into anything. Three years later, I still wanted that anchor and helm with every ounce of my being. I wanted them and I wanted them near my heart. Why? To me, those things were not only something I loved but, more importantly, represented something I loved: my parents. They inspired my love of all things nautical. They always pointed me in the right direction, guiding me to make the right choices (the helm) and always kept me grounded (the anchor). For over three years, for more than 1095 days, my desire for those tattoos never wavered. That's when I knew it was time to move forward.
I knew what I wanted but had no idea who I wanted to do it. As fate might have it, I received a random friend request on myspace one day (you know, back when people still actually used myspace). His artwork was phenomenal and totally in line with my taste. The best part? He was a new artist at the shop I had been pierced at a few times and absolutely loved. We met and talked about what I wanted and then proceeded to bounce ideas back and forth online until we had just the anchor I wanted.
My first experience getting tattooed was great and I was hooked. A few months later I was ready to get the helm done but wanted to tie the two pieces together somehow, instead of having two separate pieces floating around on my chest. Unfortunately, Eric wasn't able to take on a full chest piece at the time but there had been a guest artist at the shop whose work I really liked. As fate would have it, yet again, he was just starting full time at the shop and was exactly who Eric was going to suggest.
I mulled over ideas to connect the two pieces. Did I want a scene based off the saying "red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, sailor's warning," which my dad constantly used? Did I want a treasure map? After much internal debate, the treasure map won out. And I'm so glad it did. What it turned into is something so original and beautiful that I can't get enough of staring at it in the mirror, even after all this time.
Much like my chest piece, most of my tattoos are readily visible, especially during warmer months. My lower left leg is home to an octopus attacking a clipper ship. My left thigh holds a gypsy, the right an owl. My left arm is nearing full sleeve status, with a lot of reminders to keep my chin up and stay positive no matter what life tosses at me. The cat on my shoulder peeks out in pretty much anything that doesn't have a full back. Really, the only one that's not easy to spot is the tattoo on the inside of my lip seeing as I don't go around showing it off.
While my tattoos are visible, and colorful, and well executed and attention-grabbing, they're for me. I got them because I wanted them. Because I
I honestly cannot understand the behavior of so many other people in terms of tattoos. The people who have to (and do!) show their tattoos to anyone who glances at them or *gasp* also has a tattoo. Those people who invade your personal space, grab your limbs, move your clothing, and touch your skin. The people who criticize or question your value as a person. Tattoos and, similarly, the lack thereof do not make a person who he or she is. Sure, as I decided on tattoos, I was realizing more and more who I was as a person but that was all there before. Getting tattooed gave me the confidence to break the girl I was out of her shell.
I'm heavily tattooed and, guess what, I'm not a delinquent. I work between 40 and 70 hours a week; I pay my bills on time. I have a Masters Degree in Forensic Science. I love my family and my cat. I help old ladies cross the street. I give change to my homeless friend in exchange for the flowers she sells. I recycle. I donate clothing and household goods on a regular basis. I don't, and never have, used drugs.
So why is it that people have basically told me that I'm going to hell, that I'm poisoning myself, and my parents must be sooo disappointed in me?
Once, while trying samples at Sam's Club with some friends, I had a vendor stop me and ask if I thought God didn't make me pretty enough. I was caught so off guard that I couldn't respond. I couldn't tell her I didn't believe in God and, even if I did, what I chose to do with my body was my business, not hers. My tattoos were not affecting her in any way. She wouldn't let up, asking me if I thought I was poisoning myself and what my parents thought. Still in shock, I couldn't form words to tell her that the ink is perfectly safe and that my parents had grown to love my tattoos. In fact, my dad had ended up getting two of his own: an anchor and his submarine insignia. Clearly, my parents had not disowned me. I was not dead. And I was most certainly not dancing with the devil.
Since that time, I've learned to deal with the reactions of strangers and family (my uncle, tattooed as he is, doesn't approve of them on girls) but it doesn't make me any less aware of how outrageous and, often, inappropriate their behavior is, even the positive kind.
My parents taught me manners and I value and respect the concept of personal space. I would never dream of going up to a total stranger, or even a friend for that matter, and grabbing their wrist to get a better look at their arm without asking. Or lifting the hem of a dress to uncomfortable heights to see what was previously only partially exposed. I wouldn't dream of pulling at someone's neckline or stroking my hands over their tattooed skin. But that doesn't stop other people. And it doesn't stop them from taking off their shirt, exposing a breast or their stomach, or pulling the waist of their pants down to show me theirs, either.
A shameless, underwear-less girl once pulled her skirt up in the air to show me hers on her hip. Classy. I have tattoos, love tattoos, but that doesn't mean I want to see your tattoos. The funny part is, most of the people who are so showy when it comes to their work are usually the ones that have the worst ones.
Tattoos aren't for everyone. But regardless of whether you love them or hate them, if they aren't yours, quite frankly, your opinion doesn't matter. Mind your manners.
