Beginner Tattoo

At fifty-three I was a beginner at the tattoo game. I was taken into the arena by my son, Vic who has several tattoos and had been teasing me into getting one for a couple of years. While visiting him and his brother Zach (also heavily tattooed) in San Francisco, he offered to buy me into the game. “Why not?” I said, “Ante up.”

The sidewalks were mostly deserted on Saturday evening in Oakland. It was June, 2001.
Vic and his friend Meredith (who also has tattoos) drove me over the Bay Bridge to Oakland for the act that would make me forever identifiable. He had made the appointment with an artist that had inked him a time or two. We had an appointment, but when we arrived, he was not ready for us so we took a walk around the block. We passed a Chinese take-out restaurant, and Meredith decided to have some egg rolls. She offered me one, but my stomach was rolling in apprehension and could not be trusted with an egg roll.

We got back to the parlor and went in to wait my turn. It was well appointed in religious furniture: an altar out of a cathedral, a stained glass window, church pews. I felt as if I were in a dream watching myself move from one world (unadorned) into another (decorated). There were numerous tattoo designs displayed on the walls. The music was loud and hard, not oldies from the sixties which is my music of choice. The owner of the tattoo parlor (not my appointed artiste) came over to me while I was sitting on a church pew. He leaned down in front of me with his hands on his knees. “Is it your first tattoo?” he asked.

“Look at me,” I thought, “Of course, it’s my first tattoo.” But I said, “Yes.”

He asked if I wanted some water or a soda. I didn’t. He asked if the music was too loud.
I said, “No.” He asked if I was nervous. I said, “Yes.” He told me that in his experience women held up better than men during the procedure, were braver and less likely to complain. He said that if I wanted anything to just let him know. I said, “Thanks.”

Eventually, my tattoo artist was ready for me. I went behind the screen and got onto the gurney. Vic and Meredith went with me. Vic, a photographer, was loaded with his cameras to record this historic event. I gave the man (who had more than his share of tattoos) my design choice. I had decided to be permanently marked with my favorite literary character, The Little Prince. I had chosen a tiny picture of him standing with his sword, but Vic said it too small for the outside of my leg just above the knee. I then opted for the picture of The Little Prince flying up on strings attached to birds. Since I am scared of birds, we changed the birds into stars. The artist drew it then traced it onto my leg.

It took about an hour and a half for the tattooing. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected. I had chosen a fleshy part of my body because I had heard it doesn’t hurt as much as on a bone. I also wanted it in a place that I could see it. What is the point of putting a tattoo on my back where I can never look at it? The picture is five inches high; The Little Prince with his yellow hair, in a light blue suit with a yellow scarf flying like the Red Baron’s is rising on four yellow stars. There is a pink planet with a Saturnlike ring floating nearby.

The whole procedure is well documented in photographs. I got the instructions about how to care for it, and we were done. When we got to the car, Vic said, “Mom, you were a trooper; you didn’t even cringe.” I felt proud of myself. We drove to where Zach was working to show it off, and then on to several of their friends. I was a novice heroine.

The next day was Father’s Day. We called my father to wish him a good day. When I told him what I had done, he said, “Go home! Those boys are corrupting you!” A few days later I did go home. When I got to North Carolina, I was more of an oddity than a heroine. My husband didn’t approve. When school started, my high school students were unbelieving (until I showed them) that their fifty-something English teacher had gotten a tattoo over the summer. I was “rad” for a while. After six years, I hardly notice it anymore. When I do, I still feel proud of myself, heroic, and identifiable.

The tattoo artist said that it would not be long until I would want another tattoo. So far, I have resisted, but just in case, I have found a picture of the little girl in the Golden Book I Can Fly. It was my favorite children’s book. In it the little girl is always game to become a heroine.