Is there such a thing as a tattoo bigot?

As a young child I remember being fascinated by my father's tattoo.  It was on his left forearm, just below the elbow.  Encompassing about four square inches, it was both red and black with a significant anchor as the main feature. 

He died rather prematurely in 1984 and today I wish someone had had the foresight to snap a picture of his arm.  He had been in the Coast Guard and had survived three torpedo attacks, so I considered it a sort of medal for his service.  Every sailor seemed to have one after World War II, although my mother had never approved. 

Perhaps this set the tone for prejudice the day I asked him about it.  I remember his words well.

"Dad, why did you get a tattoo?"

"Because I was stupid."

"Did it hurt so much you cried?"

"I wouldn't know.  I was much too drunk to know what I was doing."

This was surprising information, as I had never seen my father drink.  (The first time I saw him even have a glass of wine at dinner, I was in my late twenties.)

"You were drunk, Dad?" 

I was shocked.  I had seen my mother drunk at family parties, of course, but I couldn't imagine someone wanting to get poked with needles rather than laugh ecstatically and dance wildly all night.

"Yes, I was an idiot at the time." 

He pulled his shirt sleeve down, and that was the last time we mentioned the art he wore on his body.

Years later, of course, my older sister's friends were shaving their heads and the girls were getting little butterflies or roses on their shoulders and butt cheeks, but never where they would be visible to the public.  An occasional, ultra-rebellious girl might get a tiny, weeny tattoo on her ankle, but she would forever after wear socks around her mom and dad.

Perhaps that was why I was so surprised when my CPA friend told me she and her daughter had symbolically gotten matching tattoos.  They were on their way to drop the daughter off at Evergreen College, in Olympia, Washington.  Of course, I thought, well, she is a democrat.  Okay, so I am as well, but I guided my daughter away from Reed College in Portland and we sent her up to U of Washington as a preventive measure.  You know, just to keep the 'headies' from influencing her away from the grape and into something illegal even after you turn 21. 

My own daughter, of course, was around the same age as my friend's.  Conversely, on her eighteenth birthday she had registered to vote, purchased a lotto ticket and gone to the mall for a second piercing on each ear.  She would eventually let them close, but I got her point.  She was telling her dad and me that she was free and no longer a minor.  Until, of course, it came to paying for college, and then she considered herself a helpless dependent.

She was a great kid and graduated from college with a Bachelor's five weeks after she turned 20.  Two years later when she brought home the big man of 6'6" with his shaggy hair and ultra cool hipster ways - yes, he was a musician and an artist - my husband reminded me it was all out of my control.  She was going to experiment with all the things we had managed to guide her past and this Wild Man was going to be her shepherd. 

After a few months of dating I decided to talk to my daughter to determine how serious things had gotten between them.

"Oh, Mom.  I'm only 23.  You worry so much about things that are totally out of your control." 

"Point taken," I murmured as I thought, she's so much like her father, but my heart beat wildly once she continued.

"He's so great, Mom.  He's like this great big teddy bear with a hilarous sense of humor.  I feel so safe and comfortable with him.  I actually feel really beautiful and witty whenever I'm around him.  He thinks I am amazing.  He hates those really skinny girls, too.  I'm so glad I have an hourglass figure." 

Oh God, I thought.  She's in love and she's gonna marry this guy.

"He's funny, all right." I said this rather calmly considering I was imagining a future 6'4" granddaughter.  The heartbreak tall girls suffer isn't about being tall, by the way.  Heck, my three six-foot sisters love it.  It is just that they never get to wear those spike heels.  What kind of life is that?

"Did I tell you he writes songs too, Mom?  He's just like your family, and reminds me so much of your dad and you." 

She was obviously thrilled with this connection, although, candidly, I thought my husband's family had some more marketable qualities. 

Yes, I was a singer/songwritten for about five years in my early youth.  Although my mother was the professional, classicly trained musician, my Dad could play at least 30 instruments in a half-assed way.  Against my will I imagined my daughter in abject poverty, two children hanging off her nipples while attempting to glean some kind of sustenance for their emaciated little bodies. 

"How wonderful, dear.  So is it punk, rock, grunge or what?"

"Oh, no, Mom."

"Country?" I said this with great trepidation as that was truly the only music I despised.  She just laughed.

"He's hard to categorize, Mom, but he writes the most beautiful songs.  They are kind of like up-tempo ballads and the lyrics are beautiful. His voice is clear and clean and melodic, like nobody else.  He's never taken a music lesson either.  He taught himself guitar and how to sing.  His family doesn't know where he came from, as none of them are creative.  Oh, he's even got a CD.  Wait till you hear it."

That created some relief, but I couldn't tell with his long hair if he wore an earring.  I withheld judgment.  He was usually dressed with short sleeves and long pants, with nothing particularly obvious showing, so I relaxed a bit and tried to mind my own business. 

Then they broke up for a while.  They stayed friends and both dated other people - they were young - and then one day she invited him to a party and it all started again.  I was a bit devastated, truthfully, as I was hoping she would meet a banker (she did and hated him), a businessman (there were a few who bored her to tears) or a rich trust fund kid (he didn't move her motor even a tiny bit although he really, really wanted to try). 

So after I waved good bye to that Timber money, I decided the artist/musician/funny man was worth another look.  I just worried that if she married him and had kids, they would all be sporting tattoos.  Would I be the ole gramma who looked down her nose at that next generation and because of whom  holiday dinners were dreaded each year?

I finally had the nerve to ask.  "Does he have an earring?"

"Of course not.  He was brought up Catholic too, Mom."

Suddenly things looked brighter.  After all, putting aside that a few priests (okay so more than a few) are/were a bit perverted, in my experience, regular Roman Catholic school boys seem to grow up to be really good men.  Okay, so maybe they don't like going to church or might even become an atheist, but that early guilt training serves their wives well for their entire married lives.

"Catholic school?" I echoed, and, kind person that she is, she said, "And he doesn't have any tattoos, Mom.  He's really creative, but he's not that wild, believe me."

As a postscript they are married and have the most petite little five-year-old girl who is so darling one has to resist trying to eat her up!  Of course, she may grow a foot in high school (he did), but I'm not going to worry about that.  We all love basketball.

So I guess my only problem with tattoos these days is that I read they are bad for MRIs.  The dye has some metal in it... so I will say no more.  Anyway, add this problem to the fact that my own taste is constantly changing.  One year I like Modigliani and the next I'm back to Monet and then I go to Spain and rediscover Picasso, so I'm a chicken.  I had the same hair style for years, but even that I changed last week.  Heck, I've been feeling reckless ever since.  I might even go kayaking while my husband's out of town.

So I have to ask.  If you've gotten a tattoo are you (a) thrilled (b) usually forget you have it (c) used to it or (d) sorry as heck.  Just asking.  Not for me, but for my granddaughter.  After a community event a month ago she and her dad came over with matching tattoos on their forearms.  I must admit I freaked out a bit until he told me the police were handing out the temporary henna tattoos to all the kids.  It was a sort of "let's all be friends event" the Portland mayor had set up to further the bond between the community and the police department. 

It is a changing world, my friends.  I guess it's time I considered changing with it.:) Oh, and as an after thought?  I should tell you I adore my son-in-law.  As my daughter said, he's a great big teddy bear.

© 2008 Elizabeth Madrigal