Body Art

The other day I sat with my book group in a coffee shop in central Phoenix. We had gotten done talking about the book we had read this month, Madonnas of Leningrad, and were reviewing all the books out there that we could read. One of the members of the group mentioned a book she had read set in China that along with a story she really enjoyed gave a great historical look at tattooing in China.

The description of the book led to a little chat about tattooing in general. One woman said that her children didn't get tattoos because they could not be buried in the Jewish cemetery if they had marks on their bodies. Another member talked about her feelings on tattoos. They were not particularly positive.

Tattoos still cause a buz in certain crowds... old prejudices die hard and it is difficult for some to see how the tattooed lady will fit into society. I thought about the man I met many years ago who had tattoos from his wrists to his shoulders, from his hips to his knees, and one blue-black line around the third finger of his left hand. I steered clear of him. The tattoos put me off. But then I found out he was witty and smart. He had a PHD in anthropology from a Jesuit University. He had been Dean of Students at one of the local community colleges. When he came out of the navy he had opened up a tattoo parlor near the beach in Ventura. He told me you could make a lot of money in tattoos.

I told them of my son-in-law's tattooed arms that give him the look of a tall skinny Maori warrior. I told them about my youngest child, the wild one, getting a tattoo on her foot the day she turned eighteen and how I wanted to go into the bathroom and throw up when I saw it. I told them about my oldest daughter... the sensible one... who has a small tattoo on her hip., and that the first time I saw it I said, "you have a tattoo" and she replied as she jerked her jeans a bit higher, "no I don't!"

I used to hate tattoos. I had all kinds of opinions about the kind of people who would get tattoos. But then these big gentle incredibly kind boys began to show up at my house... and they had holes in their bodies and hardware in places it did not belong, and artwork dancing up and down their arms and legs. I still worried about the consequences of having all these decorations, but I knew I loved them anyway.

Then a couple years ago, my friend Miriam, needed a colonoscapy. Miriam sat next to me in choir. She was older, probably late seventies, the feistiest women I had ever met, and she was alone. I told her I would stay with her and help her the night before. A colonoscopy is a snap, but the prep really sucks. So after a bit of convincing, she agreed to let me come be with her.

The prep for a colonoscopy requires that you fast for twenty-four hours before you begin, then you need to drink a gallon of what amounts to flavored salt water to clean out whatever else is left in your system. To say the least, near the end of the prep, you cannot leave the throne room or the throne. Because the drink is cold, and you are pouring it in so regularly, you become cold. So there you are, shivering cold, sitting on the toilet, fearful of moving off it for any reason. It is tough at fifty, but when you are in your mid seventies and weigh less than one hundred pounds, you just should not be alone until you are safely tucked into bed.

And so, with Miriam, I was the person who delivered the glass of elixir every twenty minutes. She sat and I walked from the kitchen to the bathroom, talking and listening, being there with her, in what would have been too big an ordeal to do on her own. Finally she was done. Everything she was supposed to drink, she had. Everything that was supposed to come out, had. And so, still sitting on the toilet, I began to help her into a clean nightgown and get her ready for bed. And that is when I saw it.

A tattoo. A big red, kissing lips tattoo right there on her wrinkly, saggy seventy-plus ass... and I said, "My God, what the hell is that?" And Miriam said those are "kiss my ass" lips. She and her girl friend had both had kissing lips tattooed on their rumps for their seventy-fifth birthdays.

What fun. What a great lesson for me. What a wonderful lesson for a person like me who tends to hear the voices of propriety blasting in her ears... a person, who is way too full of "shoulds." Miriam had the ability to laugh. She remained young regardless of the years that crept up on her.

A tattoo. What is it really? Art, sometimes for arts sake, sometimes to make some kind of statement, and sometimes art that was just for the audacious fun of it.

I doubt I will be getting one any time soon, but I have decided to be open to the possibility.