Two days ago I was a “good” girl. I’ve been the good girl my entire life. Thirty-nine years of doing what I was told, making my parents proud, working my way through college, buying my own home, raising three beautiful children that have good manners and get good grades in school (well, except the 3-year old who insists her name is “Mexico” and, according to her daycare teachers, sings much too loudly at naptime), marrying a wonderful person, holding down a successful job, etc. All those things that ‘good’ people do.

Yesterday I got my first tattoo and now, it seems, I’ve crossed over into the ‘bad girl’ territory.  Not necessarily because I chose to get a tattoo, but because I chose to get it on my forearm. A very large, noticeable permanent marking in a very visible spot. A spot not easily hidden from view. This makes me a risk-taker, a rebel, and a dangerous person.

When I first told my parents I was getting a tattoo, they were extremely disappointed in me. When I came home yesterday after spending the day with my husband getting it done, my mother was literally speechless when I showed her. In fact, after insisting numerous times that it was “fake” and acting like she wanted me to stop joking around and take it off to show her the real one, she became completely silent when she finally realized it was not fake and was not going to be peeled off.  My father then asked me if I got it when I was in prison.  It’s lovely to have such support when you make a decision of your own.  I don’t need them to say they like it, I don’t need anyone to say they approve of the decision, but some respect for my personal choices would be refreshing.

I went out to run some errands this morning and was very surprised at the reactions from people I encountered. Maybe I was super-sensitive because of the comments from my parents the previous evening, but I think I’m just a very aware person and good at being intuitive.  The woman at the deli counter at the grocery store seemed very cautious and afraid of me.  The checkout guy, after ringing up all my items and bagging them for me whispered “It’s really beautiful” and then asked me about it and how long it took to have it done and then mentioned again that it was beautiful.  A girl at the drug store with an eyebrow piercing smiled as I walked toward her to checkout and said “Wow, I think we have a fresh one!” – obviously very aware of what new tattoos look like, so we talked a bit and she mentioned she was trying to find someone to do another tattoo for her, but hadn’t yet found what she wanted.  I came home feeling like I’d crossed over into some new social group just in one day.

I have always wanted a tattoo, but it wasn’t until I started watching the “* Ink” shows on TV that I really understood how powerful tattoos can be and how emotional they are for so many people. In my mind, I could never quite bring myself to think of that ONE image that would represent who I am and what I stand for. I never thought about the fact that I could have many images representing different parts or times in my life. It had never crossed my mind until I heard the stories of others being tattooed. It was the sharing of stories and personal experiences that made me rethink my ideas of tattooing.

I spent months researching tattoo artists, reading blogs, looking for photos of styles I liked and artists whose work I respected. If I was going to get a permanent image on my body, I wanted it to be an artist I felt understood me and could design what I wanted to have said.  I had originally planned to have my tattoo on my inner calf – a place easily ‘hidden’ but that I would be able to see and know was there.  The day before my tattoo appointment as I was driving to work I had a revelation that I felt my tattoo shouldn’t be on my leg at all, but on my arm. My forearm.  I went and talked with my boss about it to get her opinion and ask her for advice.  She’s a fantastic person and I respect her greatly so I knew she’d be honest with me. She also happens to have several tattoos, none of which are easily visible with normal clothing.

During the course of the conversation, she told me that she knew in her heart exactly where each of her tattoos belonged on her body and that if I felt this tattoo belonged on my arm then that’s where I should put it. She said that I should be prepared for what I might encounter by doing that (stares, judgements, etc) but that it was my body and if that was right for me, that’s all that mattered. (God bless her, she also checked to see if it was against any policy my employer may have had against visible tattoos. – There is no such policy).

I’ve had several people say things to me since yesterday like, “Wow, you don’t start small, do you!” or “Wow, when you get a tattoo you really get one!”.  My feeling is this: If I’m going to permanently mark my body with artwork from an amazingly talented artist that took me months to find, using an image that represents me, my husband and my children along with something that means a lot to me.. then I am going to show that off. I’m not going to hide it away underneath a pantleg because it might offend someone. I’m not going to get a tiny little tattoo that isn’t easily visible because people might stare at me otherwise, and I’m NOT going to adjust my wishes and desires to make others happy.

My boss/friend also said one other thing to me on Thursday and that’s really stuck in my head since she said it. She said “Diversity encompasses a lot more than race and sex and if we’re going to value diversity, innovation and creativity then we’d damn well better start valuing that in our employees as well”.

I am the exact same person that I was two days ago. I just now happen to have an amazingly beautiful, personal piece of artwork on my body that represents not only an amazing experience, but things in my life that I will forever cherish.  I’ve had this tattoo for one day and my eyes have been opened to the differences in our culture that I was never aware existed.

My 3-year old went with me on the previously mentioned outing to the grocery store this morning and while holding my hand walking quietly, looked up and said “I really like your tattoo, Mommy.”  I thanked her, she said “You’re Welcome” and we continued walking.  When I told her that part of it was for her, her eyes lit up and she picked the part of it that was “her” part.  Now she’s connected to the artwork and experience too.

If I had to pick one goal for my life, it is to raise my children to be open-minded, respectful and tolerant. Not just of different races and genders, but of all people – for all reasons.

I don’t have any tattoos. I’ve wanted to get one for a long time, but for some reason I always felt like any tattoo I got would have to be representative of my entire existence in one image and with that much pressure.. no wonder I never got one!

It wasn’t until about a year ago that I started, slowly, to realize that I didn’t have to get just ONE tattoo, I could get several… many even, if I so chose. Knowing that, I started thinking about what I’d like my *first* tattoo to be. I have decided on a peapod design with vines, two sweet pea flowers (to represent me and my husband) and three peas (to represent my kids). I collect “pea” related things so this is a perfect thing for me.

I spent some time last night pondering why exactly I like peas so much. They’re cute, obviously.. round little balls of joy, if you ask me…. but what else? There must be more.  I started thinking back and trying to remember ‘peas’es (sorry) of my life. The first thing I thought of was how the first time I ever had snow peas or sugar snap peas I was at my grandmother’s house. I have such amazing memories of my Grandma and so that was a great memory.  Then, when my kids were really small, the very first garden I planted had sweet peas in it and I still remember watching my little ones rush out to the garden and stand there on summer evenings picking peas right off the vine and eating them like they were candy. A few years ago when I’d made the biggest decision of my life (walking out of my marriage) and was living on my own with not a lot of money, there were nights I ate only a can of peas for dinner… and I loved it. So peas almost represent a sort of independence for me, too.

The last and probably fondest memory I have of peas are when my best friend (now my husband) spent an entire month making green craft balls into miniature peas of all sizes, some no bigger than the tip of my pinky fingernail.  He glued individual googly eyes on *EVERY* *SINGLE* *PEA*. Every single… pea. There were thousands of them, truly. Some bigger, some larger, but none bigger than the tip of any of my fingers.  Once he’d finished that chore of a project, he mixed all those little peas with plastic miniature snowflakes, tiny sleds, and small little plastic candy canes.  He then shoved all of those things into a small wooden box intertwined with battery-powered miniature white Christmas lights, turned them on and mailed them to me from North Carolina. They arrived at my house a few days later, and he was sure to tell me to open them in the dark so that the little lights he put in there would light up the box as the tiny peas spilled all over the floor.  In that one moment, I was overwhelmed. Any man insane enough to spend that much time gluing plastic googly eyes on green craft balls was the man for me.

I married him about two years after that and it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

Yeah.. a peapod tattoo will be good.
July 25 at Integrity Tattoos in Royersford, PA by Justin Bolonski.