Tattoos
I got my first tattoo for my 18th birthday. It was a matching tattoo with my sister, who paid for it as her gift to me. It was both of our first tattoos, so we hid it from our parents. It wasn’t until a couple months later, my sister accidentally showed my mom hers and so I came clean about mine. Fast forward to the summer after my freshman year of college. After a family reunion my aunt, two cousins, and my sister and I got matching tattoos. My parents, still not fond of the idea, became slightly more lenient with the idea if the tattoos were “meaningful.” A couple months later, away from home at college, I got my third tattoo. Drunk and watching cartoons with my friends, one of my friends gave me a stick and poke tattoo on my butt. A secret I kept from my family, a funny anecdote to all else. This past week, I got my first “big girl” tattoo. That’s what I like to call it, as I researched, waited, and paid for it by myself. And the fact it’s the biggest, most visible tattoo I had yet to receive made me finally feel like I was finally apart of the elite tattoo culture. All my previous tattoos were small, hidden, script or line work. These tattoos were above my elbows on the back of each arm. The same image mirrored taking up almost half of my bicep. There was no where to hide with it.
My mother cried when I showed her. She asked me why I did it, why I went through with it. My father shrugged and said it was my body. He didn’t like it or understand it, but I’m an adult is what he said. Disappointed but not sad.
I refer to the new two swallows on my arms as my guardians. Their eyes happy, their wings outstretched. I feel protected, like I have two friends always with me. My tattoos bring me joy and I don’t take my decision to put them on my body lightly. My father asked if I understood the fact people would make harsh judgements about me based on them. I said yes. He asked me if I understood people might think I’m a slut. I said yes. He asked me why I was okay with such perceptions of myself. I said it was because I don’t care what other people think. I know the truth and I love myself. My dad shrugged once again. His usual response to when he didn’t have any more thoughts on the matter.
I’m just glad that I’ve finally let go of the pressure that I have to do things to please others. The weight of that idea that no one but myself put on me. Releasing that feeling and remembering I have one life and I want to spend it doing things that make me happy.
