WHY I REGRET MY TATTOOS
I was chatting with on of my students about tattoos. I work at a university, in a program that helps uder represented students, and thisconversation happens more than I’d like to admit. I don’t look like the kind of guy that would have tattoos. I’m more of a nerdy, fatherly, academic type, withthick-framed glassesand slacks. But I haven’t always been this way. I was, atone time, well… cool.
Or at least I thought of myself as such. (Actually, most peopledescribed me as white trash, because of my long grizzled hair and neck beard,but for the sake of this essay do you mind if we just say I was cool? Thanks.)
The students name was Neco. He’s a bright kid, Hispanic,from Portland, Oregon. The tattoo conversation came up after Neco saw me at the gym. I was wearing shorts, and on my right leg (get this) is a large tattoo (6 inches by 3 inches) of the grim reaper. He saw it, as students always seem to,and asked about where I got it and why. Then he wanted to know if I had more,which I do. Then he wanted to see them, so I showed him the blue sun on my leftshoulder, and the abstract face on my right arm. Later that day, he stopped bymy office to ask my opinion about the tattoo he was planning to get.
This happens at least once a term.
“I’m thinking of getting a Pokémon dragon,†he said, hiseyes lighting up with hope and aspiration. I could see a younger me, age 19 (same as Neco) pondering how boring my body was, and how much cooler it would look with the grim reaper on it.
“Hmmm…†I said, “I don’t know. I mean, really think aboutthis. How serious do you think employers are going to take you with a Pokémondragon tattooed on your forearm? You graduate in a year.â€He thought about it for a moment. Then he said something idealistic.
Something I might have said when I was young enough to assume I could change the world. “People need to stop judging because of tattoos.â€
“Yeah… I get that,†I said. “And I agree. But the fact is,they do. They always have. And I worry that they still will once you get donewith college.â€
I went on, telling him that the forearm is a tricky place tohide a tattoo, and he said he didn’t care.He wanted everyone to see it. We went back and forth for some time, and I all I couldthink about were the people who tried to talk me out of getting a tattoo.
I thought about how my mother cried when I showed her the one on my leg. And how she told me that if I got another, she’d take me off her health insurance. This was a strong threat at the time considering I was struggling with depression and anxiety, and meeting with a therapist and psychiatrist. I thought about the retired plumber I worked with at Lowe’s who, after hearing me mention that I
wanted a tattoo, pulled up his shirt and showed me his large round pale hairy gut.
On it was a stretched out misshapen something.“It used to be a pirate ship,†he said. “Now it looks like a
grease stain. You sure you want a tattoo?â€
And I thought about the overweight woman who worked inlighting and electrical. She showed me her thigh after the plumber showed mehis gut (we were all in the break room). At first it looked like a dirty drierscreen, but after she pulled her skin tight, I could tell it was a spider web.
People told me I’d regret it. They tried to show me examples of their regret, but I pressed forward. I tried these same clichés with Neco. I told him how the abstract face came from the back of some old punk album. The band broke up years ago, but I still have their logo on my arm. I told him how
the grim reaper made so much sense after my dad died (that’s why I got it), butnow it just reminds me of a person I’m not anymore, and a very sad moment in mylife I’d rather not be reminded of.
“When I got these tattoos,†I said, “I never thought I’d regret them. But now, I’m tired of looking at them, and I’m tired of people judging me for them.â€
I told him that I never thought that one day I’d be ascout master, and I’d wind up telling my boy scouts that my tattoos were birth marks in a silly attempt at getting the boys to stop asking about them. Or thatI’d feel compelled to wear pants around my future in-laws, and avoid family trips to the pool for a year so they wouldn’t see my tattoos and tell me Icouldn’t date their daughter (knowing what I know now, I didn’t have anything to worry about, but at the time I was terrified that my tattoos would ruin my chances with Mel).
I didn’t realize that one day my four-year-old daughter would stand next to me as I sat on my bed with no shirt on, rub her small hand across the blue sun on my shoulder, and say, “This is pretty,
daddy.
Then she’d smile, and I’d look at her perfect little body, the one that her mother worked so hard to grow, and worry that she would oneday come home with one of these things, and it would be my example that led her to it.
Most nights I look in the mirror, and don’t pay my tattoos much attention. But sometimes, I just stare at them, and think about how sick I am of looking at these faded images on my body that remind me of something I was, but am not now. They remind me of a time when I was very depressed and
confused and struggling with the death of my father.
A time I’d rather forget.
I know that some people don’t regret getting tattoos, but I do. I have friends who are very passionate about changing theway tattoos are perceived. And I agree with them. I don’t judge others for
getting tattoos, but I’m not going to advocate for them either because I dislikethe ones I have.
Not surprisingly, Neco came by a week later to show me the Pokémondragon on his forearm. I told him it looked cool (there was no changing hismind now). As we chatted about the shop he went to, and how it didn’t hurt that bad, I wondered if he’d ever, one day, feel the same way I do.
I was chatting with on of my students about tattoos. I work at a university, in a program that helps uder represented students, and thisconversation happens more than I’d like to admit. I don’t look like the kind of guy that would have tattoos. I’m more of a nerdy, fatherly, academic type, withthick-framed glassesand slacks. But I haven’t always been this way. I was, atone time, well… cool.
Or at least I thought of myself as such. (Actually, most peopledescribed me as white trash, because of my long grizzled hair and neck beard,but for the sake of this essay do you mind if we just say I was cool? Thanks.)
The students name was Neco. He’s a bright kid, Hispanic,from Portland, Oregon. The tattoo conversation came up after Neco saw me at the gym. I was wearing shorts, and on my right leg (get this) is a large tattoo (6 inches by 3 inches) of the grim reaper. He saw it, as students always seem to,and asked about where I got it and why. Then he wanted to know if I had more,which I do. Then he wanted to see them, so I showed him the blue sun on my leftshoulder, and the abstract face on my right arm. Later that day, he stopped bymy office to ask my opinion about the tattoo he was planning to get.
This happens at least once a term.
“I’m thinking of getting a Pokémon dragon,†he said, hiseyes lighting up with hope and aspiration. I could see a younger me, age 19 (same as Neco) pondering how boring my body was, and how much cooler it would look with the grim reaper on it.
“Hmmm…†I said, “I don’t know. I mean, really think aboutthis. How serious do you think employers are going to take you with a Pokémondragon tattooed on your forearm? You graduate in a year.â€He thought about it for a moment. Then he said something idealistic.
Something I might have said when I was young enough to assume I could change the world. “People need to stop judging because of tattoos.â€
“Yeah… I get that,†I said. “And I agree. But the fact is,they do. They always have. And I worry that they still will once you get donewith college.â€
I went on, telling him that the forearm is a tricky place tohide a tattoo, and he said he didn’t care.He wanted everyone to see it. We went back and forth for some time, and I all I couldthink about were the people who tried to talk me out of getting a tattoo.
I thought about how my mother cried when I showed her the one on my leg. And how she told me that if I got another, she’d take me off her health insurance. This was a strong threat at the time considering I was struggling with depression and anxiety, and meeting with a therapist and psychiatrist. I thought about the retired plumber I worked with at Lowe’s who, after hearing me mention that I
wanted a tattoo, pulled up his shirt and showed me his large round pale hairy gut.
On it was a stretched out misshapen something.“It used to be a pirate ship,†he said. “Now it looks like a
grease stain. You sure you want a tattoo?â€
And I thought about the overweight woman who worked inlighting and electrical. She showed me her thigh after the plumber showed mehis gut (we were all in the break room). At first it looked like a dirty drierscreen, but after she pulled her skin tight, I could tell it was a spider web.
People told me I’d regret it. They tried to show me examples of their regret, but I pressed forward. I tried these same clichés with Neco. I told him how the abstract face came from the back of some old punk album. The band broke up years ago, but I still have their logo on my arm. I told him how
the grim reaper made so much sense after my dad died (that’s why I got it), butnow it just reminds me of a person I’m not anymore, and a very sad moment in mylife I’d rather not be reminded of.
“When I got these tattoos,†I said, “I never thought I’d regret them. But now, I’m tired of looking at them, and I’m tired of people judging me for them.â€
I told him that I never thought that one day I’d be ascout master, and I’d wind up telling my boy scouts that my tattoos were birth marks in a silly attempt at getting the boys to stop asking about them. Or thatI’d feel compelled to wear pants around my future in-laws, and avoid family trips to the pool for a year so they wouldn’t see my tattoos and tell me Icouldn’t date their daughter (knowing what I know now, I didn’t have anything to worry about, but at the time I was terrified that my tattoos would ruin my chances with Mel).
I didn’t realize that one day my four-year-old daughter would stand next to me as I sat on my bed with no shirt on, rub her small hand across the blue sun on my shoulder, and say, “This is pretty,
daddy.
Then she’d smile, and I’d look at her perfect little body, the one that her mother worked so hard to grow, and worry that she would oneday come home with one of these things, and it would be my example that led her to it.
Most nights I look in the mirror, and don’t pay my tattoos much attention. But sometimes, I just stare at them, and think about how sick I am of looking at these faded images on my body that remind me of something I was, but am not now. They remind me of a time when I was very depressed and
confused and struggling with the death of my father.
A time I’d rather forget.
I know that some people don’t regret getting tattoos, but I do. I have friends who are very passionate about changing theway tattoos are perceived. And I agree with them. I don’t judge others for
getting tattoos, but I’m not going to advocate for them either because I dislikethe ones I have.
Not surprisingly, Neco came by a week later to show me the Pokémondragon on his forearm. I told him it looked cool (there was no changing hismind now). As we chatted about the shop he went to, and how it didn’t hurt that bad, I wondered if he’d ever, one day, feel the same way I do.
I pal around with a lot of people who have a lot of tattoos. They are righteous about it. "Yeah, it sucks but it reminds me of being 19 in Florida." "Sure, it looks dicey now but I will never regret getting my college team on me 'cause they still rock." "Okay, maybe the whole lyrics of "name-the group" in text on my ribs is kinda lame now but I don't regret it."
I regret a lot of things. Even if those things made me smarter or more worky or kind of tearful in retrospect. There's nothing wrong with regretting something. It's "okay" to look at the giant scar you got from wearing shorts at the Julesburg motorcycle cross country race because you were a little tanked the night before and saying, "Damn, I sure wish I hadn't tried that bike in shorts".
It's okay to be regretful about youthful things. You don't have to spend the rest of your life defending some dumb decision that lingers on.
You can admit a mistake while still liking a format.
Do you regret ink? Why or why not? Dish
byclintecwards
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