Ink on the body

I have, for the past six years of my life, gone back and forth over the debate of tattooing my body. Would I be doing it because I wanted it, the tat's design and symbolism speaking to me irregardless of anyone else's influence, or was I contemplating it for the sole purpose of joining the mainstream, to ink my body in some defiance of normalcy, to add a touch of toughness to my nice guy exterior? The debate has raged, ever flipping between the yes and the no, various arguments for both making their cases heard in an attempt to win the judgment of my mind.

I have always known what I wanted my first tattoo to be, サッカー, katakana writing for soccer, as the combination of a birth in a Japanese hospital and a life surrounded by the world's game made sense. As often as I wanted to go out and get it, it wasn't until my dad's death a year and a half ago that I ever truly seriously considered bearing the pain. Couple that with the current events of my life, bio parents finding me and another heartbreaking relationship failure, and decision making has become easier, the knowledge that my current state of affairs leaves me wanting more guiding my way.

I knew that the katakana tattoo would have no significance or serve as any adequate reminder of the impact that my father's life had on me. In trying to find a meaningful symbol I stumbled upon the idea of our Donaldson family crest and was able to gain an antiquated, clean and obviously treasured copy from my uncle shortly after dad's passing. This original version must have been 70 years old, its artwork and design speaking to a time far more quaint and traditional than anything seen today.

I had never seen the family's crest and was impressed with the content, a shield painted with various symbols of different meanings. Emblazoned in the middle of the shield was a two headed eagle signifying power and protection, the eagle harboring a ship of hope in its chest dead center. An open hand signifying faith and sincerity adorned the upper left of the shield as a knight's helmet of wisdom with a hand grasping tightly to a dagger rose just above the shield. The only real downer were the flowing banners, but they could be lost in the modernization.

I tucked the paper safely in a folder and took it to a couple of tattoo artists in town, hoping one of them would be able to come up with a design more current and less archaic. I stopped off first at Scared Art, a tattoo parlor right across the street from OSU that shares a space with various bars and a Hawaiian restaurant loved for it's blahah portions of sweet shoyu chicken.

Walking in I felt the judgment come down fast from artists and patrons alike. Somehow I looked out of place, a guy wanting a tat without the angst necessary, a clean cut patron in a seedy parlor. I sat down and waited 30 minutes, one of the artists finally asking if I needed something, as if I just came in to peruse their lovely selection of periodicals instead of needing anything this business could offer.

Matt, the artist finally astute enough to grasp the money earning potential, looked at the crest with intrigue and carefully made a copy telling me that it would take him a week or so to come up with a mock up, my explanation of modernizing the version seen on the copy seemingly finding its way to understanding in his mind. He told me the cost would be between $120 and $130, a fair price for something of its magnitude.

While waiting on Matt I decided to look into another parlor in town and went to High Priestess. I found it odd that a clean cut town like Corvallis had more than one tattoo parlor, but the college kids and their post adolescent angst obviously offset any overabundance of corporate mentalities. High Priestess was vastly different from Sacred Art, set to almost entice populations from both college dorms and office cubicles, clean and neat but with artists who obviously breathed their work, sleeves of tats and piercings galore on all.

The receptionist, a cute 21 year old named Aubrie, was less artist and more of a beginning canvas, her arms laced with cute little tats, a bunny hopping right above her right wrist the most obvious. She told me that her tat artist was at lunch so I killed time in the corner looking over the three ring binders full of tat examples and slowly understood why there were so many meaningless tattoos floating around on so many soulless wannabes, the desire to just get a tat outweighing any serious judgment.

Marci, the tattoo artist, a woman of about 35, covered in a full front of tattoos and piercings that would take hours and numerous wrenches to get through airport security, came in 15 minutes later and set to feeling me out, wondering why this clean cut, middle aged guy was seeking a tat. Showing her my family's crest I tried to talk her through what I was looking for but she seemed to genuinely struggle to grasp what I wanted, though I think this was more due to her hope of adding cost rather than any lack of intelligence. She quoted me $200-$300, a price I balked at wondering why her vision was twice that of Matt's.

Though I hesitated I knew I wanted a tat and so I lay down a $40 deposit as an act of faith and told her I needed to see her vision for the crest first before I could make a decision. I also wanted to buy some time so I could check the work's heraldy to see what was expendable should her vision be worth a fraction of her ego's cost. She was caught off guard when I explained why I thought her price was high, my business sense of looking elsewhere throwing her for a loop. Being unsure of her vision and design we agreed that if I did not want the crest I could apply my deposit to the katakana, a tat I was sure of.

I was asked to come in that Fri to look at her design and let her know which I would want etched on for life, as the crest would take a three hour time slot and the katakana only an hour and she wanted to free her schedule should I choose the smaller of the the two. But last week was a crazy one of new families and I completely lost track of the days and my thoughts so I went in on the following Wed to see the mock up, hoping she would not be too pissed at my forgetful nature. She showed me the mock-up and, as I had feared, she did very little in terms of modernization or change of design so I decided on the katakana, thus freeing her schedule, and knew I would be back the following day to get myself inked.

Thursday rolled along like any other day, no feeling of nerves or trepidation, just a sense of psuedo-excitement (I say pseudo because after all that is happened in the last few years excitement is nothing more than slight change in perspective). After class I ran home to relief myself, wanting the comfort of my own trusted toilet over the cracked seats of McAlexander Fieldhouse, and to change socks, my feet reeking from the soles of indoor shoes soaked from years of sweaty use.

I was enjoying the brief respite when I happened to look at my appointment paper and noticed that I was scheduled for 12:15 instead of 12:30. Frantic to not be late (never good to piss off a woman with a needle) I hopped into my car and drove like the Wolf from Pulp Fiction, bumping De La Soul the whole way, my mind on life and the future instead of life's past for once.

Arriving a couple of minutes late I ran into Marcie headed out the door on a smoke break. I quickly showed her the artwork and was told to wait inside, that she would be back in a couple of minutes. Inside I couldn't help but notice how many kids came and went, the allure of adulthood and the freedom to do to their bodies the things their parents plead against while their friends egg them on drawing them in droves.

To my surprise, as I was sitting on the black leather couch thinking about the next hour, I was surprised to hear my name, a voice of surprise and excitement elicited from a girl I met recently but am always excited to see as her beauty, intelligence and natural ease elicit in me the desire to suddenly lose a decade from my life. She bounced over to me in her soccer shorts and gray sweatshirt, here in support of a friend getting her first belly button piercing. We chatted for a bit about life and soccer until the inevitable question of my purpose in a place such as this was uttered from her lips. Not quite knowing what her response would be I showed her the design and where I was putting it and she seemed intrigued, like this was out of character for me. She asked if I had any others and, in that moment, I wished my body was adorned with art and I could have teasingly told her that I couldn't show them to her for fear of her reaction.

My youthful wishes left with her friend, a kind goodbye following her out the door. A couple of minutes reality settled back in as Marci returned from her smoke break and began the preparations for my tat. After a few minutes she called me back to her office to talk placement. Once agreed upon she shaved my right leg just above my calf line and applied sanitation soap and asked my to lay down on my stomach as the tat work was about to begin.

I will admit that for a brief instant the idea of what was about to transpire hit and my nerves crashed, my fear of needles gripping my mind, but they quickly vanished as I recalled my reasons and resolution. Marci got to work and there was very little pain causing me to wonder why people always talked of the adrenaline rush. Only a couple of times did the needle feel like a million bees stinging the same spot at once but it never got to the point of panic or pained yelps. Ten minutes later it was over.

Based upon her $300 quote for the crest I had expected to be paying close to $100 but I was told the cost would be $60, $20 more than my down payment. I guess that getting to know your tattoo artist was a definite benefit.

My ability to relate to and give her advice for achieving her fitness goals while easing her mind's concerns that her experiences in raising her young boys was somehow abnormal put her at ease. I looked in the mirror at a simple, meaningful tat and knew that it would not be the last, I had at least one more whose significance far outweighed this one. I think this one was just the test, to see if I could withstand the pain, to see whether the experience was for me and not for for some ideal I feared I was not reaching.