As a child, people with tattoos were badasses and rebels—I imagined they sat in somebody’s basement, fearless, silent and maybe smoking a cigarette while someone bled them slowly in the name of body art. I wanted to feel that strength. I was petite and black and a girl and tired of being teased and abused. I wanted to flex.
When I was 13 I sat my parents down to tell them about an important decision. “I’m getting a tattoo as soon as it’s possible.” They, like parents, expressed mirth (my father, with the “aiiiiight” chuckle) and disappointment (my mother, with some sort of wild admonishment). By then I had absolved myself of the worry of disappointing my parents but not yet the tween pleasure in shocking them. I watched them squirm and went to my room to begin sketches. I was too young to understand the levels of my decision but I knew that one day I wanted to be covered in images like a pair of NBA jeans.
I diligently kept the promise I made my parents. 15 years later, I have ten tattoos and counting. My first was on my 18th birthday, as a present to myself: the masks of tragedy and comedy on my shoulder blades. (“Laugh now, cry later” is the number one hood tat, after prayer hands and your baby’s footprints.) That decision was more than just teen angst—tattooing had just become legal in New York again in 1997. I remember listening to the City Council members talk about how futile it was to ban tattoo shops—a mandate that had been in place since 1961— since they still operated all over the city. They argued that it was better they regulate them. I was ten and it was the first time I’d witness the government use common sense.
Tattoos, to me, were really creative way to make yourself unique and let motherfuckers know what you’re about. The most customized of accessories. Eventually, I got memoriam tats for my grandmother on both my ribs, lying on a bench in someone’s living room while I smoked a Newport 100, laid in enviable glory like North West’s baby hair.
Even still, I carefully considered all the ups and downs of being inked. What kind of job would accept a black girl with a full sleeve? Would I be doomed to wearing long sleeves every day like my best friend’s sister who was an RN? The idea of being restricted in my clothing was blasphemous so I began to eliminate all careers that were boring.
Would boys find it unattractive? Well, I would never date anyone that wack.
But I was setting myself apart and grabbing onto the right to be whatever I wanted. Tattoos were frowned upon in American society, merely, but to God-fearing Haitian people they were a downright insult. It was something crazy American kids did. Even my young church friends debated the rebels and the herbs—the herbs all wanted piercings because they were “reversible.” Simultaneously, my faith in the Roman Catholic church had started to wane dramatically—it was my social life, but I found myself side-eyeing during the sermon every Sunday. I perceived an attack on my womanhood and body before I even knew what that meant. The idea of casting myself permanently out of patriarchal heaven with the permanence of ink was the perfect middle finger to the church and all repressive culture. My third tattoo was of a cross on my spine.
As time goes on, the world fusses less and less about tattoos, and a few years ago I even took my boss, a high-level executive and father of two, who finally decided to pull the trigger. I watched him discuss his first tattoo with other clients and heard their confessions of falling prey to the “tramp stamp” or tribal band. But all of us were curious—we all wanted to challenge ourselves against the needle and survive, to play rebel for a bit. Some of us keep going back.
Sometimes I would chide myself for my tattoos not being big enough or colorful enough. But there are few colors that stand bright against my red-brown skin and I was still hesitant on large pieces. I would treat myself to a tattoo before every birthday, reminding myself I was alive and surviving far longer than expected. It became important to commemorate the brave sense of self I’ve been championing as long as I’ve been able.
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