Ink

So, I kind of get the whole tattoo thing.

There are parents who think that getting a tattoo is the worst things their kids can do. It’s a low-rent stain that cannot be undone, an expensive mistake, a tacky end to their child’s innocence. And in some ways it is. It’s the newest sign of rebellion, like long hair in the sixties, except way more permanent. But for the generations coming up, it’s completely normal, acceptable, and hardly a judging offense.

With our emphasis on acceptance of each other, the lines have blurred or even disappeared on some of the standards of the past. Not all of that is good, but lots of things that used to cause our foremothers to purse their lips disapprovingly are really small matters in the grand scheme of things, and it’s good to take on a more accepting attitude.

Two of my kids have considered tattoos. Kelsey has one and talks of getting more, and Phillip has declared his intention to get inked in the not-too-distant future. These were not impulsive decisions. They researched tattoo studios and considered carefully where on their bodies the adornment would be located. They also spent a lot of time debating designs, and I have to say their choices reflect their personalities and things and relationships that are important to them.

While these were their choices, they did talk to me about them. I encouraged them to pick something that would really be personal to them, since they would be wearing it for a long time, and to have it installed in a place that could easily be covered by clothing. While perfectly acceptable for my kids’ peer group, tattoos are not considered mainstream by most employers, and we would hate for them to miss out on a job due to a conspicuous dragon. We definitely want our kids to be employable.

A little rebellion is good for the soul and helps us grow up. Even in my youth I was pretty serious and conservative, and I didn’t rebel much as a kid. I wish I had taken advantage of my youth to dress outrageously or to do funky things with my hair. The only thing I remember my mother and me arguing about was my emerging feminism. She didn’t understand why I thought women should be referred to as women, not girls (“Someday you’re going to WISH someone would call you a girl!”—still hasn’t happened). I maintained that language should be inclusive, there should be equality in the workplace and in the church, and women who are assaulted aren’t somehow asking for it. My mom thought I was an idiot. All these years later, feminists are still fighting the same battles, and I’m still a feminist, so maybe it wasn’t really rebellion. Maybe it was growing up.

I’ve thought about getting a tattoo myself—I figured it was the one way to make tats seem uncool to my kids—but I’m not a fan of paying for pain. And at this point in life, I’m not sure I could come up with a single meaningful symbol. Life keeps changing me in amazing ways. I’m not willing to write anything in ink just yet.