tattoo

I have, over the last couple of years, developed a disturbing interest in tattoos.

I’m not sure where it began, with my surprising affection for Biker Mike’s single original tattoo, the meaning of which I’ve forgotten, on his left bicep; with the realization of my hapless addiction to ACDC, though their lyric material seems limited entirely to sex; or with the evolution of my alter ego as a rocker bike chick. Heretofore, I cringed whenever I heard the word ‘chick’ used in reference to female persons; and I still refuse to use that title unless it is connected to biker.

Meanwhile, I’ve become a tattoo groupie. I'm that girl who asks about and studies a tattoo when I see it; I want to know what it is, what it means, and why it’s there. I’m intrigued by my friend Beto’s forearm pinups. The ladies smile at me from a history of gang membership and rockabilly style. Beto quit the gang a while back, but not the rockabilly; now he works at a local restaurant, always ready for me with a bear hug.

“I found out people like you better when you’re nice to them,” he says smiling and bussing tables with the same fifties pompadour he’s had for over twenty years.

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I watch the entire first season of LA Ink. The show features both newbies who've never seen a needle and old timers trying to find a patch of un-marked skin to cover. I’m intrigued by the stories, a strange sampling of superficiality and life-altering benchmarks. And then there was the guy who wanted R.I.P over a slice of cheese tattooed on his arm, marking his diagnosis of lactose intolerance and the beginning of a cheese-less future.

But my interest started moving into obsession when I read Skin Deep: Tattoos, The Disappearing West, Very Bad Men, And My Deep Love For Them All by Karol Griffin. Griffin writes about her own life in Wyoming, learning to tattoo, and dating the clientele. An eager student, I devour the book like a manual of tattoo culture, unencumbered by the obvious side effects of dating ex-cons and drug addicts. And I'm won over by the specific skill of tattooing: an artist's trade. Griffin argues that the true canvass for tattoos wants more than a memory made permanent, but for the tattoos to exist for their own sake. Art for art’s sake.

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“When did you get your first tattoo,” I ask Ryan while I wait for him to scan my groceries. He appears to be working on sleeves on both arms. He says he's getting another tattoo after work.

“Do you have any art,” he asks.

“Uh, no.”

“Do you want to get a tattoo?”

“Probably not...I think, I just like skin too much.”

“That's different. I’ve never heard that before. So you probably hate these,” he indicates his own ink.

“No, I mean, I like them on you,” I stammer pathetically before he turns to the next customer.

But I do. I’m attracted to the bad ass image of a well-placed tattoo, particularly on a shapely bicep. And I think Kat Von D is gorgeous in all her ink. But me?

My new obsession is disturbing considering my revulsion to the mere idea of my cousin Derek getting a tattoo when we were teenagers. To my adolescent mind, this was nothing less than an insult to his character and an affront to our family values.

As I got older, there were other reasons. I knew my friend Rebecca and I were soul sisters when we confessed to one another over coffee one morning, that we didn’t want tattoos because they were too mainstream. In fact, we were prone to specifically avoiding anything if everyone was doing it. Apparently the cliff-jumping hypothetical was never necessary in our rearing. But I’m sure when the uprising of skin purists begins, we’ll be at the forefront.

And so I am red-faced to admit that I actually considered getting a tattoo on my own body this year...embarrassingly past the age of running off to the tattoo parlor on spring break to get the initials of your best friends in some medieval font on your lower back. But then, I never partook in that sort of revelry, so I never really had the opportunity.

But I’ve had some time to mull it over, and one afternoon, I have a vision. I tell Ryan the next time I see him. “So, I decided what I would get if I got a tattoo....a big gnarly tree, on my back, with the twisted trunk curved with my spine.” It would symbolize peace-making with deformity, and a newfound pride, drawing attention to that part of my body that I’d always wanted to hide. Plus I have a thing for trees. If anything could be, it was perfect. Or maybe a warrior princess atop a unicorn fighting a dragon. I know one five-year-old who would be impressed.

Rebecca was confused, but supportive, offering to take me on a field trip to a local parlor. And the inspiration stayed strong for nearly a week. Then I started thinking about what a big step that is, how I have plenty of time to think it over...asking myself if I’m really that into it. I fully endorse rebellion against social norms for the sake of promoting free-thinking; but I’ve never really liked rebellion worn on the sleeve myself. Maybe I’m more of a tattoo voyeur; appreciating but not partaking, a wannabe who doesn’t really.

The last time I went through Ryan’s line, I asked if he’s gotten that tattoo. He hasn’t. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’m not sure I’m really that guy any more." I wonder when you're that far in, if you really have a choice; but that’s kind of how I feel, like I might not be that girl. A tattoo girl.

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This morning I received an email from friend and film color artist (not his official title), Mikey Man. It contained this:

And this...

I’d call that disability gets revenge. I’m thrilled by the idea...in theory. I'm all for comedic coping, but do I really want a shark arm?

OneArmGirl

handicap #2...or happy halloween

I often tell people that my little arm is the least of my disabilities. Though, in an odd move of irony on God’s part, it is usually the most obvious. It is also the original. But I feel we’ve now come to a level of intimacy in this relationship, that I can introduce you to handicap #2.

My spine was fine until I embarked on that wonderful and joy-filled journey called puberty, and then it decided to leave the straight path and get a little crazy. I was twelve when the school nurse told me I had scoliosis, and over the next year or so, the curves in my spine progressed to 20˚, 43˚, and 18˚ from top to bottom. While all the girls were getting a little more curvy, I became a reverse hourglass, structurally speaking.
“You have to have surgery, and it’s gonna hurt like hell,” a surgeon told me. They wanted to break my spine, fuse it back together with bone taken from my hips, then hold it in place with metal rods and screws. “Will I be able to do somersaults?,” I asked. “No, you’ll be able to bend at the waist, but that’s about it,” they said. I was devastated. I still remember walking outside after that first consultation, noting the jarring contrast between a bright sunny day and the darkness settling into my soul.
Though we scheduled the surgery, the day never came because I began instead a series of alternative treatments and gyrations ranging from experimental to truly bizarre. I spent three years wearing a brace for 18 hours a day that was supposed to squeeze my spine back into place, like dental braces; and spent the remaining six hours in various therapies including electrical muscle stimulation. I saw doctors and chiropractors and therapists all across the country. When I went in for X-ray evaluations, I’d sit in the always slightly chilly examination room waiting for the doctor, looking at my incandescent spine hanging on the wall with embarrassment. Like a kid called into the principal’s office, I dreaded the words that I knew would come: “Wow. Yeah, you have quite the curve here. Why haven’t you had surgery?”
And so it went. Some of the constant pain eased in my early 20s, but the fatigue and general lack of structural support dogged me. Good posture was a distant fantasy. I lusted after the sleek, balanced flow of torsos in nude paintings. My spine didn’t get better, but it didn’t seem to be getting worse. Eventually I stopped wearing the brace and went to college.

A few years ago, I found the brace at the back of my closet; I’d held onto it just in case. For what? I thought. And so I threw it out. Unexpectedly, something cleared in my soul, and I suddenly felt the weight of my years of imprisonment in full force: long hot days sticking to the brace with my sweaty undershirt, the helpless claustrophobia of knowing I had five hours to go before a brief freedom, then evening lockdown when one of my parents cinched me in and I went to bed with aching muscles, wrapped in a hard plastic cylinder. It all came back, blindsiding my consciousness. I started crying in heaving, unseemly outbursts.

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This week, I went in for a spinal evaluation with a doctor I’d never seen. Having been a scoliosis delinquent bucking the system for nearly 20 years, I was suddenly twelve again, expecting a lecture about the bright prospects of a future without fusion: increasing curvature, compromised lungs, side effects of pregnancy, and heart failure. In my mind, I was slowly becoming Quasimodo with one arm.
I sat on the exam table, wrapped in a balloon of hospital gown. New development: they now give you shorts to wear as well. The bad news: the shorts are also made to fit a 400 lb. man. I felt defeated; now entering my thirties, I prepared myself to agree with the recommendation I knew would come. Little Gen waited in the chair next to me, an inflated purple latex glove pinned to the top of her head like a rooster comb; anything to lighten the mood.

First came fifth-year-resident, Dr. Cute-as-a-Boy-Scout, and appearing about that age. He looked at the X-rays, he looked at my back, he looked at Little Gen’s purple plume, and then he said,

"Where is your arm?"

It took me a few seconds to locate Finneas beneath layers of gown. Then he continued...
“There are two basic reasons for this surgery, to stop progression and to intervene in cases of very limited functionality, neither of which do you qualify for. I wouldn’t recommend surgery for you.”

“Come again?” I said.
“Your curve is not likely to progress and you are extremely functional.” Seeing my disbelief, he looked back at my chart, raising his brows and shaking his head, “You are...amazing.”

The second doctor’s prognosis was the same: no surgery, though I continued to ask the same questions two and three times, certain that I was missing something. “You’ve got a sassy curve,” the surgeon said, “now get out there and enjoy life!”

Gathering up my bundle of skeleton pictures, we left the office. A weight was lifted I'd borne for 18 years. I was almost giddy.

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Bringing my own skeleton out of the closet this week, I’m reminded of all the people around here talking about dressing up for Halloween. The scary thing is, most of these people are adults. When I was a kid, we went trick-or-treating with our neighbors Rose, Ben, and Rachel [who’s lovely blog you can find here: Mañana Mama], though it was more like trick-or-surprising, since our country neighbors, rarely expecting to be found by candy-seeking children, filled our open bags with unique treats like pop-tarts.

One year, a woman was so delighted to see us, she bubbled on and on about the authenticity of our costumes; looking at me she squealed: “And this one’s even missing an arm!” I decided to just roll with it.
But I’m not inclined to dress up this year. Oddity is daily life for me, and now that I have permission, I’m just starting to enjoy being myself.

OneArmGirl