The first time I saw a tattoo was downtown at a submarine sandwich shop in the small Canadian town I grew up in. I was 8 years old. It was the summer, and Dad had been away the whole week coaching at a basketball camp. Mom had taken my brother and I out to grab dinner Friday night as a reward for being good boys.
My brother and I stood with our subs wrapped in wax paper, ready to leave, Mom pointing out her own sandwich toppings through the glass to the store employee. I noticed a middle-aged man 10 feet away, sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, staring out the window.
He was unremarkable, except for the black ink anchor on his outer forearm.
I tried not to stare.
On the walk home, I asked Mom about the anchor. She explained what a tattoo was, and that it might mean that the man had been in the navy.
Our town had a handful of very noticeable people. There was the old man with a metal hook instead of a hand, our neighbor down the street was a little person, and I’d seen a teenager with a bright purple birthmark that covered half her face.
I put the anchor-tattoo man in this group of very noticeable people, though he was further down the list than the others. If he wore a winter jacket, he wouldn’t be noticeable at all.
I didn’t think much about tattoos after that.
Then, about 10 years later, in high school, getting a tattoo became a thing.
Kenny Cobbler was one of the first people my age to get a tattoo. Kenny and I had been frenemies in grade school, then we’d caught on with slightly different crowds as teens. We still crossed paths occasionally.
When we were 18, I ran into Kenny at a small backyard gathering. A dozen people sat around a campfire in lawn chairs.
Kenny motioned me over and rolled up his sleeve, “Check this out, Clarkey.”
In the flickering firelight, I saw that Kenny had gotten the logo of a well-known Canadian beer brand tattooed on his upper arm.
I was impressed.
I’d heard it was painful to get a tattoo, but Kenny didn’t let on about that. The logo was a good size too, not too big, not too small, and it looked like the actual logo. This wasn’t some crumb-bum sketch an artsy-fartsy schoolmate had done on Kenny for free with a tattoo gun made of a Bic pen casing and a guitar string.
I admired Kenny for committing himself to a specific beer brand for the rest of his drinking life, too.
“Sweet! That’s mint, man!”
In the cold light of the next day, I thought about Kenny’s tattoo a little more.
Maybe it wasn’t so cool after all.
First, Kenny’s tattoo wasn’t creative. He hadn’t drawn out his own design. This wasn’t some image that had come to him in a dream. There was nothing original about his tattoo. Quite the opposite: it was a logo made by a huge company to appeal to as wide an audience as possible. It had been printed an infinite number of times onto labels, boxes, t-shirts, hats, and so on.
Second, Kenny had paid his own money to be branded. Any time he wore a tank top he provided free advertising for the beer company.
The beer company should have paid him for getting branded.
Of course, I shouldn’t have expected a teenage boy to get an amazing first tattoo. Teenage boys aren’t known for their impulse control and concern for their long-term future. There’s a reason they pay the highest car insurance rates.
For me, Kenny’s tattoo marked the start of a trend that’s lasted 20-plus years. I’m still surprised at how common tattoos have become.
I remember when it was just leather-skinned ex-sailors and motorcycle gang members who had tattoos.
I remember when going to the beach just meant seeing a terrific amount of back hair and stretch marks. Now, going to the beach means seeing a terrific amount of back hair, stretch marks, and every type, size, and color of tattoo I could possibly imagine.
I don’t know why tattoos have become so popular, but here are a few guesses:
we want to feel like part of the group, so getting a tattoo is an easy way to fit-in
rites of passage have disappeared as we have become non-religious, so getting a tattoo is a substitute way for young people to mark their transition to adulthood
humans evolved over thousands of years to expect daily physical pain, yet we get little of that in modern life, so getting a tattoo is a way to feel some discomfort
This is all speculation because I don’t have a tattoo. I’m a wimp.
Also, I never found a symbol, image, or combination of words I thought cool enough to be on my person forever.
But I’m not anti-tattoo either. I don’t care what other people do to their own bodies, long as I don’t have to pay for it. My attitude towards tattoos is the same as my attitude towards Taylor Swift’s music or the WWE: it’s great millions of people love these things, but they just doesn’t connect with me. I have a hard time making myself interested in something I find uninteresting.
However, I can think of 3 scenarios where I would have gotten a tattoo:
If I’d come across some symbol, image, or combination of words that captured a religious belief or personal philosophy I had, I would have considered getting it applied to my skin. The writer Ryan Holiday has Stoic slogans and images tattooed on his body in places where he can easily see and be reminded of them.
If I was a member of a highly competent group, like the Navy SEALs or the US Olympic swim team, I probably would have gotten a small tattoo to bond with my teammates and be reminded of my accomplishment.
If I had some kind of problem forming new short-term memories, I couldn’t trust anyone, and I was trying to solve a crime that involved a beloved family member.
Those days have passed. I’m a middle-aged, suburban dad, who plays too much fantasy basketball. Sadly, it’s nearly certain I’ll exit this world tattoo-less.
I’ll have to console myself with my scars and jewelry.
There’s a healed-up gash along the left side of my head where no hair grows. That’s from a childhood fall down the stairs and, strangely, a reminder of a wonderful, very active, rough and tumble boyhood.
Through my eyebrow, right next to the bridge of my nose, is a vertical scar, like Harry Potter’s lightning bolt. Only, I didn’t get mine from an encounter with the worst wizard in the world, but from falling on some shoreside rocks while playing alone on a rope swing that was too big for me. That’s a reminder not to be reckless.
My wife and I shopped for my watch in Taiwan. She used to wear one that’s the same brand. It’s the first semi-expensive item I bought after paying off my student debts.
Then there’s my wedding ring, most important of all, which is a reminder of a promise I made in front of a churchful of family and friends many years ago.
I don’t see how any tattoo could be better than any of these.
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