I was told tattoos are abrasive, they are a definer of someone who is not valued in polite society, they are something that makes you stand out but not for the better.
I told them that tattoos are a beautiful commitment, they are forever art applied to a forever changing canvas, they are the expression of creative tendencies dashed across my skin like a billboard for others to see.
I was told that tattoos would prevent me from getting employed, that I would have to hide my skin from those it would potentially offend, that they are something that should be kept secret under clothing.
I told them the I see no point in a tattoo unless I can see it regularly, that I spent good money on this art and I want to enjoy it, that where my clothing hits should not determine where my art begins.
I was told that there is no reversing this, this ink is permanent, this decision will stick with you forever.
And I am thankful for it, that was my intention and I am happy to hear I am getting what I paid for.
I was told that tattoos are the branding of an outcast, they are a form of genocide when numbers are marked on a forearm, they have a dirty history that involves prostitutes and criminals.
I recognize this but also see their development, I see them as evidence of a past life that was lived, they are a bold proclamation of what one identifies with, they are a simple judge of character applied to the outer layers of a skin casing, they are not what makes a person, but they can add to the illumination of their essence.
I was told that tattoos will make me different in a way that is not commonly desired, they will brand me forever with the decisions I made when I was young and impulsive, they will forever remind me of my mistakes.
I told them that I will listen to their opinions and ask them to politely shove their projections up their ass, and that they should be open to enjoying it, because they are wound too tight with their ideas of who society includes, that there is more ink hidden under clothing than most will admit, I am just bold enough to place it where I can see it, so that I don’t forget that it is a piece of me and something I am proud of.
I was told that my artist could fuck it up, I could have a mistake on my skin forever, I could have to pay to have it removed one day, I will at one point regret what I have done.
I told them that when I commit to something I do it fully, I don’t allow space for me to second guess my decisions because I know I am better than that, I know this is what I wanted, I thought about it, sketched it out, collaborated with another artist, and allowed a vision to be produced. Now I am committed, to forever love the skin that I am displaying, to forever embrace the decisions I am making, to forever realize that more change will always come, but this decision I made in my thirties will remind me of these moments forever. I will remember the times I felt so lost when staring into the night sky, searching the stars for answers that I couldn’t know existed yet, desperately looking for the person I am meant to become, straining my neck to see where I might be going from this place of rock bottom. The stars on my skin are prettier than the memories and the emotional struggle attached to them. I was so lost when I used to sit on the roof with headphones on, chain-smoking. I have come a long way from where I once was when I was gasping for a moment of solitude with the universe. They will also remind me of the times when I found comfort in the vast galaxies above my head, when I had a best friend laying beside me in the middle of the street or railroad tracks, risking our lives for a clear glimpse of what it feels like to be alive. Or the times when I was traveling and the stars connected me to the home and family I was missing, when I lived in other locations and found comfort in seeing the same canvas cast above my head. My skin will now remind me of that time in the Grampians, when we hiked in the dark for the most epic sky gazing I have ever experienced, and all of those intoxicated nights in Flagstaff that always ended on the field where the stars showed brightest, and the time when my sister and i first bonded and laid on the roof of Big Martha on the top of a hill taking in the stars of our small town and the emotions that we were afraid to express still. I don’t know the names of the constellations, and those details don’t seem as important as the experiences that I had when observing them, the names of things that don’t exist in my world don’t seem to matter so much when you finally feel grounded to the earth with an awe of a perspective. This skin will remind me of the strength it took to get to where I am now, of the power it took to remain grounded in what I need, the past versions of me that were brave enough to continue developing. They remind me when I was too timid to admit that I want to be covered in tattoos, I want my skin to be naked and painted, I want to celebrate this body that I am in with accents and artistic development. I now have the weight of the galaxy upon my shoulders, but I have never felt lighter than with this presence. I feel more connected with my skin than I ever did, now it is an expression of who I truly am, of a piece of me I will never forget, a true expression of where I was once at and currently am, a blending of history and the present. Welcome home to the body I am in.