Permanence/Impermanence
I don't want to hear your opinion on tattoos, thanks - but here's mine:
I don’t recall my body asking my permission before tracking my spine on an alternate pathway. Since preteen-hood, my vertebrae decided to stack itself in serpentine fashion, an S-shaped curve which plagues my posture.
I don’t remember giving the thumbs up for my tooth and bone to meet in a water sport accident that’s left me with scars on my left forefinger.
When I held my friend’s French bulldog pup on a camping trip, I definitely didn’t say, “ok Eduardo, jump off my leg to chase that seagull. Dig your hardened, blunt toenail into my skin, taking a chunk out on your way.”
These are just the physical scars that have accumulated over a life. The emotional ones run even deeper than broken bones or concussions. But what about the still taboo markings we choose for ourselves? Perhaps this question isn’t directed at you, dear reader, but I’ll ask it anyways: Why do we feel the need to comment on other people’s tattoos?
A moment I vividly remember: Climbing into a closet-sized “tattoo parlor,” if you can call it that, on San Diego’s Pacific Beach stretch at nineteen. I remember smelling sunscreen and disinfectant. It was my neighbor’s shop that was tucked inside a souvenir stand. I remember proudly giving him the icon I drew to mark my inner wrist for the first time. I remember feeling for, maybe the first time ever, in control of what was happening to my body. The first scar I permitted.
I remember shooting a music festival with some of the most eccentric, lovely, hilarious friends at my side. Somehow we all had found our way into the VIP areas with free food buffets, endless beer tubs, and stage-side access to our favorite bands. In one trailer, someone was giving away free flash tattoos, so a handful of us got in line. I tipped him a tall-can of bud light (which I had taken from the food tent next door). I didn’t care that the headline from this moment might read: reckless girl makes whim decision at music festival so beware before sending your children into the world! Again, I had this profound feeling of control. As a young woman I struggled to find this for years. Other people were constantly telling me what to study, where to work, and how to do all of the above. A small black marking was a tiny, but powerful reminder that I was in fact in charge of this vessel.
So what if one friend asked for a peace sign and received a Mercedes Benz logo? We had fun and life was a little ridiculous to us. That weekend, those live shows, and those friends are conjured to me anytime I look at my little symbol. Photo by Kate Masewich.
A couple more tattoos follow, including a hand-poked experience near Joshua Tree that takes the cake for style, setting, and sweetness. Another recent one marked my first year as a mother. Each time now, when I lay back on the vinyl tables, I feel a sense of zen wash over me. It’s a feeling that only some know, and others judge.
Last autumn, my husband and I were at a family friend’s house, having socially-distanced cocktails. The cool weather awarded us long sleeves and coats that permitted the conversation to veer into the topic of tattoos, without checking inner arms before trudging forward. The friend said how ridiculous they were, marking your perfect body. “They will all look bad in old age, so why bother?” You know, the usual thing. Someone might mutter, “No tattoos are the new tattoo,” or “Nothing is that important to me to be permanent.”
I won’t dwell on putting this person on the spot because this rhetoric is commonplace and isn’t new. In the same breath, I don’t (and I assume many don’t) love talking about the meaning behind our tattoos - as if we are standing trial for you to verify the validity of it being unique, pretty, or moving enough to qualify for “permanence.” I try not to get offended in these situations, because like the scars on my body I did not give permission to, you don’t have to wear these.
There’s a misunderstanding on the preciousness of our skin, our life. How dare our children mark it in the way we don’t choose? I hear a parent’s pride endangered when they frantically beg their kids to stay away from tattoos. As adults, the trajectory of our bodies is going in an unsavory direction. I think it’s a natural response to want to continue our pursuit of perfection by micro-managing our kin.
This isn’t to say I don’t believe in ‘whoops’ tattoos. I would feel terrible if my daughter came home with “no ragrats,” across her chest. There is a complicated feeling looking at your skin, and seeing something that will be on you for the rest of your life. For me I felt like each one should at least be pleasing to the eye. Let it evoke a memory, let it make me laugh. Let it, in all its imperfection (because there is no such thing as a perfect tattoo) remind me to slacken the death-grip I have on life’s reigns. Let it remind me of the impermanence of all things.
When I get older, I will accumulate more scars, and my body will wilt in a way that I can only prevent so much. I will turn grey, and lines will frame my face. More layers of time will envelop me without my permission. I choose marking my skin in the same way I choose to mark the world with my words. It shouldn’t be so different. The latter, I hope, are more permanent than the former.
If we’re not permanent, how can tattoos be? Why is the tattoo artist the rebel, and the sand-garden raker a zen master?
They both are creators, marking beautiful designs unto atoms, which reflect our time here on earth. One day, their work will be washed away by the water and the wind. Our skin just takes a little longer to disappear.
