We Got Tattoos

A month before graduating from law school, my son was the victim of racial profiling. The incident set in motion a series of unbelievable events, resulting in Johnathan’s not being able to graduate with his class. For the most part, we were held to secrecy, or more accurately, confidentiality, meaning we had to cry at home, but put on a smile in public. And cry we did—or at least I did. I could hardly hold a conversation without tears. We rallied together, trying to comfort each other. I must say that the children were stronger than me and often encouraged me.

It was in the middle of this pain and chaos that the children decided to get matching tattoos, an equals sign, and one evening, sitting on the patio eating dinner, they ambushed me. Actually, I can’t believe how easily I capitulated. I think the idea of doing something to show our solidarity as a family felt somehow valid and important. Before I could change my mind, they made an appointment, and off we went to Transcending Flesh.

Here’s where the tragedy becomes a comedy, and bonding becomes flesh. I went first, and with the children all seated around me, the artist began his work. I was unprepared for the extreme pain of the process. It felt like Nick* was holding a burning match to my leg. He outlined the two rectangles and then began to fill it in.

The familiar black cloud began to obscure my vision, my children’s voices became distant, and I knew that I would faint—and I did. At first the children were scared, but when they realized I would be okay, they were so entertained—even taking pictures. Johnathan dragged me to a nearby sofa to recover. I knew I could not have an unfinished tattoo, so I gathered my courage and got back into the chair. Nick agreed to allow me to recline for the remainder of the work.

The children went on to get their respective tattoos and I waited in the lobby.

I will never get another tattoo. It was way too painful. But I do not regret this experience with my children. There was something very visceral about sharing the experience of physical pain. I felt we had entered into an almost sacred communion of deep love and compassion for one another. That in some small way, we had lifted some of the suffering from Johnathan, and passed it around and said, yes, I’ll bear it with you. And whenever I see my tattoo, I smile and remember.

*Not his real name.