Eng. 412 (Creative Nonfiction) Personal Essay
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Dad’s biggest argument against tattoos has always been, “You’ll regret it when you get older.” I think this is the standard argument straight from the parent handbook, and it may be true. I’m still waiting for the day I wake up and realize that I’ve made a mistake in loving tattoos.

I’ve gotten one tattoo or piercing a year from the time I turned eighteen. That makes six tattoos and two extra holes in my head, but I’ve since taken the nose ring out. You try blowing your nose with that thing on. The one per year timing is not deliberate, but just sort of happened. I fall in love with each new bit of ink, and over time crave another one. Apparently this occurs over one year cycles, and like a bird’s urge to go south for the winter, I yearn for a new bit of color on my skin.

I got my very first tattoo courtesy of my best friend. I lay on the couch at her parent’s house, my leg stretched out so she could reach it without too much trouble. As she leaned over my ankle with a sewing needle and a bottle of India Ink, I watched badly dubbed anime and talked with her brother; my comments punctuated with an occasional yelp when she jabbed too deeply. I remember being so proud of that little kanji character, that for weeks afterward I rolled up my jeans to show it off. Since then, all of my work has been done by professional tattoo artists, but I can never bring myself to regret that first homemade tattoo.

When folks ask me if getting inked hurt, I say yes. I usually tell them that it feels like a bad sunburn, but that could be just me and not to take my word for it. But the part I have a hard time explaining is that I don’t mind the pain. Strangely enough, I welcome it. There is a satisfaction in hearing the buzz of the gun and feeling the sudden sting of the needle. The intimacy of pain makes the image etched in my skin become a real part of me. Each prick of the needle carries with it the promise of permanency–the rock-solid knowledge that the ink will not go away. If I got a tattoo and it didn’t hurt, I would feel cheated out of the ritual and that special reassurance. Plus, I tell people half jokingly, get a tattoo, and you will never fear the doctor’s needle again.

I love to look at tattoos even more than I love getting them. I might notice that the person sitting in front of me in class has some kind of tattoo on his or her neck, back, or arm, and the teacher’s lecture suddenly has about as much meaning as a droning fly. All attention is focused on that piece of body art, and if it is detailed enough I may very well stare at it until the person moves, breaking my concentration. Sometimes the extreme simplicity of a piece is the key to the elegance of the design. In another, intricate patterns can create a map detailing the skill of the artist in every line.

Tattoos have slowly breached other aspects of my free time. I paint the odd miniature, usually the cheap fantasy stuff out of the clearance bins in Jellys. These days I find myself digging around for figures with a lot of skin showing, because more skin equals more space on which to illustrate. I’ve spent way too much time hunched over a magnifying glass, painting tribal designs on models and inch and a half tall with a brush made of one or two hairs. Even my sketchbooks are filled with a motley assortment of tattooed characters, each described with casual poise and modeling body art that I, the artist, envy.

My dad feels differently about tattoos, these days. At first he argued fiercely, claiming that when I’m older the tattoos will look terrible on my wrinkled skin. I countered by telling him that he just created the perfect reason to get them now, while I’m still young enough to enjoy them. After awhile, he finally came around. The funny thing is, dad wants to get a tattoo now. He’s been spending some time sketching out an original design to act as an emblem of our family, and when it’s ready, my dad and my brother are both going to have it tattooed someplace on their bodies. And so will I. It’s a new year, and I’m ready for some new ink.