Yesterday, one month out from my twenty-third birthday, I decided to pop into the beloved tattoo parlor next door to work and squeeze myself into their schedule. A few hours later, I went back with a friend for support, and walked out with my first tattoo.
I am the kind of person who has been keeping a running list of potential tattoos since the days of Sharpie-d on Deathly Hallows symbols on my forearm, only to be seen by myself, my concerned family, and the camera on the back of my flip phone. Every time I find myself attached to a new television show or book, I always think about the ways I could manifest my connection on my skin. Tattoos have been part of THE PLAN for as long as I can remember.
When I turned eighteen, I was certain that I would be inked up in no time. I thought long and hard about what my first tattoo would be. I scoured Pinterest and Tumblr for inspiration. I sketched things out (on paper, this time). I tagged along when my friend got a tattoo to see what it was like. I asked many people about their tattoos, where the most painful places were, and if they had any advice for first timers. They always did, and it was usually something along the lines of, “know what you want and where.”
There have always been barriers. Parents, theatre, jobs, MONEY. Also, having to specifically nurse a delicate and frankly expensive open wound is never convenient, and seems especially daunting when you don’t know what to expect. (What if I get an ankle tattoo? How will I wear shoes? OMG if I get a rib tattoo, I probably can’t wear a bra! My puppy will probably demolish it in any place. I’ll wait until he’s older).
The more I waited, the more I Pinned. The more I Pinned, the more I wanted. The more I wanted, the smaller my bank account looked.
I spent most of my college career scraping by from a combination of unstable home income and limited time for work hours amidst all the studying, memorizing, and performing required for my major. All of the money I had left after rent and utilities went to drive-thru scarfings of french fries between class and rehearsal. Most tattoo parlors have a minimum of $50-$60, and anyone who isn’t an asshole tips their artist. When I was making $2.13/hr at a sad pizza place, my $25 bi-weekly paychecks weren’t ever going to add up to a tattoo. Tattoo: back burner.
My theatre program was very tight knit, even more so in my BFA performance ensemble. The professors were more than teachers; they were mentors. It is a generally understood idea that actors need to keep their bodies as clean as possible in order to be able to transform into the character. Also, you need to be cast-able. Never willing to knowingly disappoint my mentors (except that one time with the purple, then green hair. Don’t ask.), I chose to hold off on a tattoo. I think I hoped to get sudden inspiration for an inconspicuous placement, but I was really sold on the idea of the forearm.
After graduating college, I began working full time, but even with the steadier income, I found that I still couldn’t justify the money for something as unimportant and cosmetic as a tattoo. I did finally get my nose pierced (another long awaited feat) in October with two of my close girl friends. I got a new (perfect) job. Things started to settle into place. The tattoo was the obvious next step in achieving my long list of aesthetic goals.
I found out somewhere along this road that a member of my family had threatened to withdraw any financial support from me if I got a tattoo while still in college. I didn’t know about this until after I graduated, and I was furious. Despite my anger, the threat lodged itself deep inside me somewhere, tickling my mind whenever I thought of tattoos and wondered when it would be my time. I was mad that this person had tainted this long awaited gift for myself. Still, I waited.
Yesterday, my time finally came. I walked into the tattoo parlor after an eight hour shift. My artist, Mitch, asked me what I was interested in getting.
I had prepared for this. I had so many ideas to choose from. Ignoring everything I had planned out for so many years, I took a breath, and instantly knew the answer.
“Just a small female gender symbol on my wrist.”
He nodded. “We can do that today. Do you have some time?”
Beat. Then, “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
And here we are.
When I finally got home, I felt fifteen pounds lighter. I couldn’t believe it had finally happened. I looked down at my wrist and found myself analyzing the skin of and around my tattoo. It wasn’t until then that I realized the spot I had chosen was no stranger to scars. It had seen some of my hardest days, worked through some of my greatest challenges, and carried some of my heaviest burdens. I looked at the most recent addition and tears welled in my eyes.
Sometimes I can’t believe how far I have come.
It took almost twenty years and thousands of dollars in college courses for me to find myself. I found myself when I found my womanhood through gender studies, theatre criticism, literature classes. The moment I embraced that identity, the world opened, my heart softened, and my mind sharpened.
The moment I decided to permanently claim my identity in black ink, I reclaimed my body.
In a time where a woman’s rights to both her livelihood and physical being are being threatened, this act feels rebellious. It feels revolutionary.
Never again will another person, company, or ideology tell me that I cannot wear my pride on my sleeve. Like momma always told me, this shit is forever…
…and I can’t wait.
Kat's Kradle 