Ink-a-dink-a-doo

My name is Beth and I have tattoos.

There. I said it. I’m also gainfully employed, pay my taxes, do not ride a motorcycle and am pretty sure I’m not in a circus.

I’m a far cry from the plaid, pleated uniformed 9 year old with pig tails that Sr. St. Elizabeth asked about having a vocation to become a nun. For the record, at the age of 9, the celibacy thing meant nothing to me, it was more having short hair, no nail polish and no make-up that influenced my decision. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that black is a really good color, and that wearing a veil wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when having a bad hair day. I’m still not willing to part with my mascara and fake nails.

I got my first tattoo shortly before I turned 20. I had flirted with the idea of ink before. My mother babysat a little boy whose mother had a rose tattooed on her breast. She strongly discouraged me from getting one in that specific location, but otherwise didn’t shy from the topic.

I went to the shore with my friend Geri in the summer of 1994 where we purchased temporary tattoos. I came home from that weekend to my grumpy father, ticked off about a bad golf game and seeing the sticker, angrily asked me when I had gotten the tattoo. I quickly calmed him down, assuring him that it was fake. A few months later, Geri and I went to a local tattoo parlor, made our appointments for the next Friday and paid our deposits.

I had told my mother I was thinking about getting a tattoo. She vacillated between indifference and fear that I would be scarring my body. When I left the night of the appointment, she begged me, with tears in her eyes, not to do it. I told her I’d think about it.

I lied.

Geri and I came back to my house; mom took one look at both of us, laughed and asked us to show her our tattoos. I lifted up the hem of my jeans – nervously showing her the tiny rose on my right ankle. She also told me that it would be a good idea to not tell my father. One night she came home from a dinner out with him, telling me how she almost choked on her glass of wine when he told her about the shocking (shocking!!!) news that the daughter of one of his colleagues got a tattoo! Of a rose! On her ankle!

I spent the next 12 years hiding my tattoos from my dad. With one it was easy. Angle my body in certain way, sit with my leg crossed and my hand casually resting over the offending body art. Over the years I’ve added 7 more designs to my body. Some are easier to hide than others. Lower back? No sweat. Left hip? Piece of cake. Upper back? A little more difficult.

Eventually I convinced my brother-in-law, then my sister, and to the astonishment of many, my mother to get inked. None of them have taken it to the extreme I have, but none of them have stopped at one. My father was another story.

One night I went out to dinner with my parents. While reaching for a piece of bread, my father clocked the rose on my right wrist. “How long have you had that one?” he asked. “Kelly has one too!” I spluttered. I then cheekily asked him how he had failed to notice the first tattoo, that I had since had re-inked, almost 12 years earlier. He told me that he had noticed it, just hadn’t said anything. Sure.

About a year later, again out to dinner, my father admitted that he had thought about getting a tattoo, but when he entered the Marine Corps, he had promised his father he wouldn’t. I pointed out that Pop-Pop had been deceased since 1989, so what was his excuse now? He then said that, given the right circumstances, he would get one. I whipped out my phone and made an appointment for him. Dad is now the proud owner of the Marine Corps insignia on his right bicep. I doubt he’ll get another, but I felt like I had won my case in a strange way.

I work in a corporate office and have had to get creative when it comes to dressing for work. Only shirts with collars, a chunky bracelet if I’m not wearing long sleeves, no skirts without tights. Despite the extra thought that goes into dressing, I love my tattoos. They are something that will always be a part of me – and each one has a story. I got one as a tongue in cheek tribute to a beloved boss who died too soon - he was decidedly anti-tattoo, but I know he'd get the joke. Another one to commemorate my 21st birthday.

My current boss knows I have tattoos and I know she doesn’t approve. Despite this, she and I have had a successful working relationship, better than most relationships I’ve had. When I sit across from her, I make sure my right hand is palm down, not flaunting the offending rose. I wear a clear retainer in the place where my diamond nose ring resides when I’m “off-duty”.

Despite the grief and the hassle, my tattoos are a part of me – nobody can take them away. I’m not naïve enough to believe I’m going to change the world. Tattoos will never be acceptable work décor, but I hope that people can see through the ink and see me.