From shoulder to shoulder, clavicle to cleavage, my chest is marred with a blue tribal tattoo adorned with black, blue, purple, and pink stars. Ink striates under the skin forming hazy clouds from needles that punctured too deep. Scars of crooked lines feel like braille upon my breasts, and what it reads is “look at me.” The color is splotchy and undersaturated on my sternum, where the purple ink had wept from raw wounds; it didn’t want to be there any more than I wanted it there.
I got the tattoo when I was twenty-three. Phil, my boyfriend of five months, carried the nickname Tattoo-Phil. He did tattoos out of our house when he needed extra money. Phil was (and probably still is) many things: a pool player, a tattoo artist, an independent contractor, a hustler, a bowler, and an alcoholic. He was also generous and loving, intelligent and charismatic. The relationship was unhealthy most of the time; he was ten years older than me, and that gave him power and control. He used his admirable qualities as weapons. He was generous until you forgot to do the laundry. Charismatic until his tenth beer. Loving until he thought you were being a fucking bitch for not letting him drive to the liquor store for another case. I was defenseless, a puppet under his control.
The day I got my tattoo, I shivered in a spaghetti strap tank top while the stencil was placed. My back remained ramrod straight because you only get one shot to get the right placement. Once I checked the placement in the mirror, I was instructed to get on the pool table and brace my head upon the railing. The cold, unforgiving slate of the table made my body tremble.
The design was a piece of flash art that Phil pirated to expand his portfolio. He had the whole set-up: machines, ink, and even a small ultrasonic cleaner. We had agreed on him placing the whole stencil of the chest piece, so we could see how it looked. He was only supposed to tattoo two nautical stars close to my shoulders. When he started, though, the pain was more excruciating than anything that I’d ever felt, like a hot scalpel filleting my chest open. Like a needle was exploring the very depths of my breast. When you get a chest tattoo, the pain radiates out. So it’s not just pain at the point of contact, but also pain that expands like a wildfire encompassing hemispheres of mammary tissue.
What I didn’t know at the time was that Phil was a “scratcher.” “These are the people,” according to Karen Hudson, author of Living Canvas, “who know just enough about tattooing to be dangerous. They ‘scratch’ their friends, causing irreversible damage through scarring.”
I felt him continue lines that weren’t supposed to be there. I asked him to stop. Told him I didn’t want anymore. But he pushed my shoulders to the table and kept going. I cried, muffled sobs, chest heaving. He told me to stop being a pussy. It was my fault. If I would just calm down, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Hudson explains, “It’s very, very rare that a person is so sensitive that it makes them cry. When this happens, there’s a good chance their body was overly stressed to begin with.”
During the third hour, I vomited. After brushing my teeth, I swallowed a hand full of Advil and went back to get it finished. I couldn't, after all, leave the tattoo half-colored in. It would eventually look badass when it was finished. Right?
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The tattoo machine was created by a New York City tattooist named Samuel O’Reilly. His design centered on Thomas Edison’s 1876 patented “Electric Pen,” which perforated holes into a material, creating a stencil in which to pour ink. O’Reilly modified the pen by adding needles and a reservoir for ink. He was granted patent (# 464,801) on December 8, 1891. Prior to that, tattoo equipment consisted of mallets and piercing implements that were made from thorns, fish bones, oyster shells, thread and needle, razor blades, bamboo slivers, nails, or glass. According to the Smithsonian, some of the first instruments were found by renowned archeologist W.M.F. Petrie at the site of Gurob, which dated back to 1450 B.C. Machines now are made for precision. They can be adjusted for depth and line width and are powered via electromagnetic motors which pierce the skin at a rate of 3,000 punctures per minute. Whatever you do, don’t call it a gun. Most artists think of the machine as “a tool for creating art—not a weapon.”
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I went to the Laser and Light Surgery Center on a Monday afternoon for a tattoo removal consultation. The office was little more than a few treatment rooms in an office suite. I read through the paperwork, one of which was a list of alternatives to laser removal, such as makeup and covering the tattoo with another tattoo. As if this wasn't my last resort.
Makeup rubs off on your interview clothes when you try to conceal your shame. And a tattooist at Skin Deep took one look at your tattoo and shook his head. "The lines are so thick there's scar tissue. I can't cover that up." So laser surgery was my only option. Sitting in the chairs that lined the hallway was a man with salt and pepper hair in a black leather jacket. I tried to guess what regret he was getting blasted away. I didn’t make eye contact, though, because I didn’t want him to try and guess mine.
I have gone through great efforts to conceal my chest tattoo because people stare. Some women look at me like I'm a slut trying to take their man. Pastors, co-workers, professors, doctors, men, their eyes trace along the lines of my collarbones and follow the stars down the slope to my cleavage. Wondering how far it goes. If I'm as freaky in the sheets as my tattoo implies. Ninety percent of the time, I hide my ink under hoodies and t-shirts. I don't want people to think I'm unintelligent or aggressive. I don't want people to think I'm seeking their gaze. I don't want to offend people with my appropriated tattoos. I don't want to feign the confidence that belongs to this tattoo. I just don't want to deal.
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My only visible tattoo is a ladybug the size of a quarter on the back of my neck. At the time, the ladybug not only signified my independence, but I hoped it would bring me luck. I went the night of my eighteenth birthday, January 19, 2002. It was unseasonably warm that winter, and I remember wearing a canary yellow Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt. Before walking into the shop, we smoked a fat joint with the tattoo artist in the parking lot to calm my nerves. It was me, my best-friend Roxanne, and friend Tracy (she was our Stoner Mom because as an adult, she watched over us when we were high) and her boyfriend Kevin, who joined me to celebrate the moment. Tracy and Kevin were authentic hippies from the hills of California and hated it when we called sodas “pop” because they thought we were saying pot. They let us chill at their house as long as we shared our weed.
I paid the mandatory $40 shop fee to sit in a chair for five minutes while the tattooist worked. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected, quite the opposite. The tattoo is located on an erogenous zone, so my body was warm with gooseflesh during the whole process. The tattoo was so tiny that the tattooist pierced my tongue for free.
That night, I went home, tongue swollen, speaking with a lisp, and sat on my mother’s couch smoking a cigarette. She arched an eyebrow at me and scolded me by my childhood nickname, “Nikki,” but that was it. I guess she thought what’s done is done. Either way, my little act of rebellion had little consequence.
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In The Seattle Times, writer Taya Flores explains, “For some, getting a tattoo not only honors the dead, but also provides an opportunity to bond with living family members.”
My step-sister Tracy Jo died the morning of January 25, 2008. She had an artificial heart valve and couldn’t afford her blood thinners. A massive clot formed around the valve. During her open-heart surgery, the clot broke off and found its way to her brain. She died at 7:32 am from a stroke. I went with my stepfather and mother when they received the news. At her funeral, my son was crying, and Teddy, Tracy’s six-year-old son, rubbed his back and told him, “Don’t be afraid, it’s not a monster in there. It’s just my mom.”
That night, I found myself in a tattoo parlor. I needed to focus on a different kind of pain, even if just for an hour. I selected a butterfly with a hidden ladybug in the middle. It wasn't original, but it meant something to me: she had her wings and took a part of me with her.
A week later, still grieving and barely able to make it through the day, I went back to the tattoo shop. I was still seeking the pain, but I also needed a reminder to focus on the living. I had my son and Tracy’s son to raise, and I couldn’t lose myself to grief. Plus, Tracy in her raspy, cigarette worn voice would have told me to get up and do something before she kicked me in the ass. But she’d say it with a chuckle because, as tough as she wanted to be, she was always a silly, soft-hearted woman.
The new tattoo was a tribute to my son, a promise that I would love him eternally and a permanent reminder to him that he was a piece of me. The pain from the tattoo that night felt euphoric. A six by six-inch heart and a gray banner with Paul’s name graces the middle of my upper back. The needles sent vibrations up my spinal cord. And the numbness in my head slowly receded.
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In her Tin House essay, “Her Tattoo is My Name & My Name is a Poem,” Amy Lam writes about Holland Christensen, a white woman who unknowingly got the Charlotte Hornet’s second-string point guard’s Chinese name, Jeremy Lin, tattooed on her. Coincidentally, Lin and Lam share the same kanji symbol. Lam explains that the traditional Asian naming convention is based upon family poems. It’s a way for Asian-Americans to remain part of their tribe. Thus, Christensen’s negligence to research kanji characters angered her. “I wanted this white woman to be the proxy, a wall to spit on” (55).
During World Wars I and II and the Korean and Vietnam wars, skin art increased in popularity. During that time, American men, especially sailors, brought tattoos back from their foreign destinations, so a lot of the early tattoo history in America was appropriated from foreign artists and designs. Lam states that she’s “familiar with the impulsive desire to offer a part of yourself to a stranger with electric needles […] But to condemn her for her catharsis would give me absolutely nothing.”
Part of my chest tattoo consists of a tribal tattoo that is heavily influenced by traditional Hawaiian tattooing. In order to get the traditional kakau tattoo, Hawaii-based tattooist Keone Nunes stated that his clients have to bring their genealogy report because that will help him decide which design he will ink into their skin. Nunes prays before, during, and after the tattoo placement. The process is heavily rooted in spirituality and tradition. But my tattoo wasn’t part of a tradition. It just looked “sexy and badass.” I wonder if Kunes, like Lam, would want to take his anger out of me.
Another tattoo that I collected just months after my chest piece was finished was a koi fish half-sleeve. A substantial black outlined fish, with faded yellow, orange, and red scales breaches the surface of a lake decorated with by cherry blossoms. The background is a haze of purple mist to add richness and contrast to the koi. The style of the koi originates from outlawed Japanese tattooing called Irezumi. Traditionally, anyone with that style was considered low-class or unsavory. “Japanese tattoos often showcase the culture’s reverence for nature—namely, animals and flowers.” Cherry blossoms are a symbolic flower of the spring, a time of renewal, and the fleeting nature of life. Koi fish, a native of Japan, are "symbolic of numerous things, but given their extraordinary lifespans, they are most commonly associated with longevity, persistence, and overcoming the trials of life."
Cultural appropriation—co-opting specific elements of a culture that is not your own—is often applied to American people who get tattoos in styles that are distinctly traditional in another culture. When I got the traditional tattoos, I just enjoyed the style and didn't have a clue about the meaning behind them. However, despite needing a touch-up, I'm glad I have the koi tattoo. I may not have honored the tradition when I got the tattoo, and that ignorance, I regret, but the symbolic meaning behind the koi and cherry blossom has become deeply personal to me. Someday soon, an artist will fix it because I want to pay homage to the original artistic influences and a tradition that I admire.
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“Don't worry about me / The heart is supposed to bleed” –10 Years, Fault Line
It took me a long time to put myself back together after my relationship with Phil. I was seeking something, a reason, an answer, absolution. Over the next two years, I felt so many needles penetrate my skin that I currently don’t know how many tattoos I have. The 10 Years quote is tatted across my back, hidden snugly under my bra strap. The song and quote helped me cope. I don’t want anyone to see it, but knowing it’s there helps me remember my strength.
Surrounding the heart, in four corners are an anchor, a lock, a key, and a four-leaf clover, and to me, the images symbolize staying grounded, love, freedom, and hope. My shoulder blades have matching old-school swallows, one red and one blue; yin and yang; the person I was before and the one I am now. These tattoos tell the story of my recovery.
I have a two-inch tattoo of wet, dripping cherries on my left butt cheek. It's absolutely horrid, with the lines blown and color faded. It looks like a four-year-old child used chalk pastels to tattoo me. There is absolutely no meaning behind the tattoo. I forget it's there most days. But when I catch a brief hint of it, I smile. I got the tattoo during a Halloween Tattoo party hosted by Tracy and Kevin. I don’t remember the artist or what he looked like. We were in the throes of the party when I asked Tracy asked to pour me a Cherry-bomb. She scrunched nose and squinted her eyes, trying so hard to focus on my request. "Did you say Cherry bottom?" We rolled with laughter, the way that stoners laugh about something that's not that funny. Somehow, I ended up with a cherry on my bottom that night. That tattoo documents a friendship, a night, a single moment that brought me happiness.
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Tattooing is a process of injecting pigments, lakes, or dyes into the intradermal layer of the skin, which is the area between the dermis and epidermis. Tattoo inks are considered cosmetics in the US; thus they are not regulated or recommended for subcutaneous use. Many of the inks injected into the skin contain heavy metals, toxins, and nanoparticles. Reds and blacks contain various mixtures of iron oxide (FeO); blues can contain copper carbonate, cobalt aluminum oxides, and chromium oxides; purples can have manganese ammonium pyrophosphate; whites can contain small amounts of lead.
From the moment tattoo ink is injected into your skin, your immune system, aka white blood cells, begins attacking the ink particles, assuming the metals are foreign matter. The problem is that the metal particles can be immensely bigger than a white blood cell. A tattoo fades over time because your white blood cells continually eat away at the ink. However, they never having enough time to completely remove the metals from your skin. A Pico Laser penetrates the epidermis and uses thermal heat to shatter the pigments into smaller pieces, making it easier for your immune system to remove the color.
No single laser can remove all tattoo colors. Different dyes respond to different light wavelengths. Black and dark green are the easiest colors to remove; yellow, purple, turquoise, and fluorescent dyes are hardest to fade.
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Tattoos are a form of non-verbal communication with various meanings. My body art is a complex narrative of conformity and alternative constructs of doing gender. It's a record of my low self-esteem and body dysmorphia. It's a loss of control and power taken back. The lines of toxic metallic pigmentation that scars my skin is a story of the last fifteen years of my life: shaky, bumpy, faded, unfinished, yet vibrant and beautiful in places.
It took me a long time to come to terms with the trauma of my chest tattoo. Even now, I battle with the shame of not putting up more of a fight. I have to remind myself that I did not let Phil tattoo me. If I would have pushed his hand away…I should have protested more…I shouldn’t have let him put the whole stencil on. But that’s all bullshit because if he cared, he would’ve stopped instead of mutilating my skin. Faced with that reality, I was ready to take back the piece of me that Phil claimed.
In the treatment room, which was set up with two boxy white machines on either side of a cushy treatment chair, I read over the aftercare instructions. Bandages and triple antibiotic ointment for seven days, which is not unlike aftercare for tattoo placement. On top of one of the machines was a laminated chart of the Kirby-Desai scale risk assessment for tattoo reduction and removal. I read over it and the questions I had prepared on a notebook.
The doctor entered the room and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “How can I help you?”
I pulled the collar of my shirt down. “I would like to remove this.”
The doctor snapped on a pair of gloves and ran his finger over the tissue on my sternum and clavicle. He didn't ask any questions—he'd probably heard it all before—besides he wasn't there to heal my wounds. The doctor sat on the circular rolling chair, with his perfect posture and coifed hair, and said, "The treatment will be $250, and the blue will be hard to get rid of. We can treat the color, but the scarring would still be there. We offer packages: buy six get four treatments free."
To him, I was just a number on the Kirby-Desai scale: 17. I’d need one treatment for my fair skin. One treatment for the multiple ink layers. Three treatments for the location on my upper trunk. Four treatments for the various colors. Three treatments for the moderate amount of pigment in my skin. And five treatments for significant scar tissue. I would need seventeen treatments at $250/piece to rid myself of this tattoo. This doctor would make $4,250 over 170 weeks removing my tattoo.
I told him I was only there for a consultation, that I was afraid of the pain and was too nervous. He graciously offered to do a spot treatment so that I could see how it felt. I asked him to remove the top two blue stars on each side of my collar bone—they were usually the most visible—and he agreed. While the doctor warmed up the machines and gathered the iodine-tinted safety goggles, I removed my t-shirt for easier access. That morning, I pulled a brand-new tank top from my drawer where it had sat for years, unused because it didn't hide anything.
The doctor didn't look at the koi fish on my arm or the collection on my back but grabbed the tubing coming from the box to my left. Chilled air drifted out, cooling my skin, preparing it for the blast of heat to come. The snap from the laser was painful, like a pop of bacon grease, except at an interval of a thousand pops per minute. I gritted my teeth, held my breath, and watched the second hand of the clock tick. The pain was negligible and didn't reverberate into my tissue. After he finished, he globbed some ointment on the wounds and bandaged them.
At home, I pulled the bandages down and looked at the twin wounds in the mirror. The skin was inflamed with angry red welts. Over the days to come, the welts transitioned into yellow bruises and peeling skin. The pain receded into a pestering itch.
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In his book, The Body and Social Theory, Chris Shilling, Professor of Sociology at the University of Kent at Canterbury, discusses the intentional modification of the body (size, shape, appearance) as “body projects” that are important in constructing and representing identity over the life course. I have used my body to communicate a wide range of personal and cultural messages: self-expression, rebellion, the visual display of my personal narrative, tributes, and even therapeutic reasons. But the message on my chest is not my own; to me, it's a brand that says "you are mine."
Five weeks after visiting the Laser and Light Surgery Center, the wounds were completely healed. The doctor said it could take up to ten weeks to see the full effects. The cobalt is still vibrant blue, but some of the particles have faded to the point where you can see wisps of lines from Phil's "scratching" technique. And on the right star, if you look closely, there is a one-millimeter gap of missing black ink. I have taken back one-millimeter of my skin, which gives me hope that one day, I will erase all of Phil's message. My body is a project and is far from complete.
Ashley Williams is a writer and graduate student in the MA English program at Indiana University. Her work has been published in the anthology, Flicker: Stories of Inner Flame. She lives in Indiana with her family.