What My Tattoo Artist Taught Me

While I was at my friend's apartment, celebrating a much-needed mom getaway last weekend, I had a whole agenda planned for the two days I would be there. I wanted to make the most of my time when I didn't have to worry about potty breaks, snack times, or epic tantrums. I could just be myself and live it up.

Getting a tattoo was NOT on my agenda.

When I arrived on Friday, however, some friends of ours told me about Saturday walk-ins at a great metro tattoo parlor, and my interest was piqued. I already had two tattoos, and I knew I wanted more, but I wasn't sure what to get.

If you have met me in person, you have probably gathered that I do many things on a whim. I'm an ENFP personality, based on the Myers-Briggs test, which means that everything in my life is about the experience. Rather than thinking about the tattoo itself, I simply wanted the memory of getting it. I wanted to tell people about how I decided on a Friday night to get a tattoo, then did it on Saturday afternoon. In my mind, this behavior is completely justifiable and sane. To others... (well who cares what they think anyway).

While I was standing in line to get the tattoo, I decided to get ink on my arm to show remembrance of Tom Petty. I have a strong connection to Tom Petty because I have so many memories surrounding him. I remember telling my mom that he had no talent when she blasted his music through my house one Saturday morning (illustrating my preteen angst). I remember watching my classmates sing "Free Fallin'" on the school bus and feeling like I was an outcast unless I learned the words too. I remember jamming in my car countless times to "American Girl". I remember being pregnant at an October bachelorette party (where we also gave one another zombie makeovers at a bar), but pretending to be a drunk girl yelling, "Play Tom Petty!" relentlessly until they finally appeased me. I remember attending one of his last concerts with one of my best friends just a few short months before his death. I remember learning about his death, then learning about the Las Vegas shooter in the same week, and trying to explain to my students how important it is to cherish the present because the things you love can be taken from you in an instant.

So, yeah, TP is pretty important to me.

The tattoo artist's name was Craig. He was only about 5'5", covered in his own tattoos, with swooped over hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. He kind of looked like a miniature 1940s sailor Clark Kent. He had an interesting face.

I could tell he misjudged me immediately (which happens often). I think I must present myself as some sort of immature party girl (I don't know whether it's the intense snapchatting, dancing in front of any mirror I can find, or calling my friends "Girrrl" that gives this impression, but I guess I can slightly understand where they're coming from.

Before I even sat down on the chair, he barely looked at me. He told me I needed to let him know *when* I needed a break (Dude, I've birthed three babies, treated several ingrown toenails, and received two tattoos. I think I've got this). He then asked me to look at a sculpture on the wall while he stuck the stencil on my arm. His probable thought: If she looks away from me, I won't have to engage in conversation with this stupid girl.

Wrong! I made him talk to me. I looked into his eyes. I asked him so many questions about his life. I found common ground with him (which I am sure surprised him).

Craig actually was going to be a language arts teacher before he became a tattoo artist,but his other teacher friends didn't think he could make it in the classroom.

To begin our conversation, I asked him a legitimate question I have that I knew he wouldn't be able to accurately answer. Nevertheless,

"Of all the tattoos done in this shop, what percentage of them is naked ladies?"

He stared at me. "What?" The vibrating needle stopped, and he looked me in the eyes. Finally.

I repeated myself, a little slower this time. "I see there are naked ladies all over this shop. What percentage, do you think, of the tattoos performed in this shop, are naked ladies?"

He continued poking my forearm. "Umm. I don't know. Not very many. Honestly, I think the naked ladies are more nostalgia from decades past. I hardly ever do them..."

"So do you have naked ladies on you?"

He stopped again. "Yes. I also have a fish with titties." I learned that Craig loved to say "titties". Not "breasts" or "boobs" or even "tits", but always "titties". Interesting.

"So.... a fish with breasts," I started. "What does that symbolize?"

"Nothing. I think a friend of mine thought it up and I thought it was funny, so I let him tattoo it on me. That's it."

Hm. Knowing his background, I decided to take the literary route.

"So I teach In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. In the book, he profiles Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, and he thoroughly describes the tattoos on their bodies. One of the murderers, Dick, is portrayed as a womanizer throughout the book. Capote writes about how he has tattoos of naked ladies all over him, but the other murderer, Perry, a more sympathetic character, doesn't. I always have my students characterize them by considering what kind of man would get a tattoo of a naked lady on him. What do you think about that?"

Craig paused again and looked at me.

"I think Capote was obviously trying to communicate with his audience that Dick was bad, and the tattoos support that idea. I don't think that is realistic, though."

"How do you mean?" I was excited to hear this perspective, one obviously very different from mine (a person who would *most likely* never get a tattoo of a naked person on my body.

"It's all contextual," he began. "Someone could have an AK-47 tattooed on his forearm. If he gets caught shooting up the school, everyone would say, 'We should have known! He has an AK-47 tattooed on his arm! He was basically labeled to be a bad person with that tattoo!' But what if this same guy was caught embezzling money from a business? Would people still say that the AK-47 symbolized his evil?"

Interesting point, Craig.

"Moreover," he continued, "isn't life just about experiences? I look at my fish-with-titties tattoo and I remember a fun time when my friend and I laughed really hard about it. That's what all my tattoos are: reminders. I read somewhere that Hemingway never wrote anything while he was doing it; he waited until the experience was over. Looking back on your memories causes you to see things through rose-colored glasses. Maybe Dick Hickock's tattoo reminded him of something or someone, or the experience of getting it. Bottom line is we will never know."

The wisdom! The reflection! The idea that we're all making snap judgments about others based on their appearances and their actions, but we never really consider the fact that we will never be able to get into someone else's mind. We all have memories tied to that quote by Shel Silverstein, or that picture of a fish with titties, or that name of a long, lost love.

We assume we're all on display, but we just don't know. Ever. And we never will know.

In the words of the late great Tom Petty, "You don't know how it feels to be me."