Tattouage

An old thing I'd written:


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"What are you doing here?"
"Who are you?"
"What is all this for?"
The boy’s brow furrowed in young suspicion. His eyes were almost angry. He looked at me like I was a stranger who had beckoned him to come over. Scoot, you little pot-licker.
There were two of them, a smaller boy having run up to see, emboldened by his questioning friend. "Ta shou shang you shenme dongxi?" The larger of the little boys whispered to his friend. He spoke loud enough that I could easily hear, and he probably assumed I couldn’t understand Chinese. Or did he?
I’d learned a long time ago that children are often much, much, bolder than grown-ups. Even the shy ones, once they’ve gotten used to you a little, will tell you to your face your nose is big or you run funny.
"Shi xiong mao de shou", I said, and looked at him. It’s a bear’s paw. I didn't want to be scary, I was mostly just exhausted, for one and didn't want some kid annoying me. However, apart from that I had was also looking forward a bit to his surprise at my having understood him, and my response in his language. That was always a good kick for foreigners, surprising the locals. He and his friend would probably pause, a little open mouthed, and ask "You know Chinese?" Maybe they'd say "哇！" (Wow!) and start asking me questions about where I was from. That's usually how these things turned out.
Instead, he responded immediately, and knowingly, and gave my pride at playing the awe-inspiring stranger a kick in the nuts, “Wo zhidao a, wo shi wen zuo shou de nage”.
Oh. He knew all along; he’d been referring not to my right shoulder but the Chinese character “Forever”, or “Eternity”, on my left arm.
“Shi ‘yong’. ‘you yong’ de ‘yong’”, I said, now a little concerned.
The older boy looked at me for another second with his companion, wearing their little jackets and near shaven heads. Then they scampered off at a half skip, the younger one saying “Na ge xie de bu dui” (“It’s written wrong”) and going on to describe the proper composition of the character meaning forever, stroke by stroke.
I looked at the ground and smiled ashamedly. How fitting.

I had gotten the red and black Chinese character, which looks a little like the character for ‘water’(永 versus 水）, when I was sixteen years old. Handed the artist a banana-yellow fake I.D. with my grainy, gloomy photo on the front the state of California behind it. I had been from a 40 oz in the back of my friend’s truck outside of school when the question came up. Not drunk enough to be turned away at the door, but tipsy enough to be open to suggestion.
I chose a Chinese character to represent my Chinese half, immediately vowing I would get a tattoo on my right shoulder to represent my Caucasian side. Cute, right? I chose ‘eternal’ out of the twenty or so Chinese characters (I had never studied Mandarin before) advertised on the shops wall because a tattoo, and its meaning...well they last forever.
It was the first time I had been in a tattoo parlor, and the first thing you notice is the smell. Usually a tattoo shops walls are either clinical, hospital white, or gothic black The walls are then covered with the colors and shapes and sizes of hundreds of tattoo displays. But whatever the mode of color employed, the smell is the same. The chemical smell of the ink, apparatuses, and cleaning fluid, and a touch of latex. The second thing you notice is the sound, assuming the shop is busy. That buzz from the gun, bringing to mind pain and needles and hard edged, sharp machinery. Combine the two, plus the visuals from the pulsating color of the designs strewn on the walls and in large book end shelves, and you have an atmosphere that would too readily lend itself to the genre of gore-torture movies popularized by the "Saw" films. (On a side note, this atmosphere feels quite homey to me now)
When I was 17, 18, even 22, I didn’t think I would ever go out of my way to hide my tattoos. Surely, even at that younger age where I flaunted ink in public, I would be annoyed at the beach; I felt judged by older adults and felt that it was a judgment unfair. I told myself that was the price I paid for the decision. Besides, anyone who got to know me would see that I was a nice guy. In fact, people who met me, including ex-girlfriends, often remarked I wasn’t the type suited to tattoos...but that it was cool that I had some. In that regard, I felt they were a sexy secret I was almost eager to share to ignite a reaction. Much like surprising some Chinese kids with hidden language skills. Close to ten years later I try to cover up my tattoos more and more.
In Ko Phi Phi, Thailand, my lovely, adorable girlfriend (who dislikes my tattoos) remarked that she had never seen so many tattooed people in her life. And looking at the packs of foreign tourists and expats on that little island, at the birds and characters and portraits and butterflies and numbers and words on tanned bodies, I had to agree. We stopped outside a tattoo shop and I joked with our friends: "What better way was there to show you had a great time vacationing in Thailand, than a permanent tribal on your face?" I was speaking loud enough to hear so that others could perhaps catch my mild, but real, disdain. Everyone was tattooed here, lounging around waiting to get drunk on the beach, a colony of beach bums had taken over Thailand’s most beautiful beaches and made them a tourist trap. Yea, get some tattoos the Thai way, you stagnatis.
I was, however, curious about the prices. A willowy beautiful young foreign shop keep, who’d run off to Phi Phi for 10 months via Malaysia, told me about the process. How they used the traditional bamboo needle/hammer to do the tattoos, and how it made for brighter colors and hurt less than the machines. She showed me her tattoo of “Faith” on her lower lip, written in cursive. She couldn't have been more than a couple years older than me when I first got mine.' I was impressed, but remarked that the pain of the gun was why some people got them in the first place. She gave me a weird look.
When people asked me about my tattoos, I used to explain how my left arm was for my mother, and that I’d get more Chinese characters to complement the ‘yong’ at the peak…kind of like a poem or line of importance describing family or love and sealed by that forever about it like the sun over the mountain. It was incomplete, but either way it displayed my love for my mother and my family and my Chinese heritage. I used to explain the bear's paw symbolized the strength of my father, and his admiration for Southwestern Native American culture. Sometimes, said I was part Native American to people I figured I wouldn’t see again. When I got the one on my chest, a bird, explanations became harder. For one thing, people couldn’t discern it.
“Dude, is that a witch?”
“I’m thinking...Star Trek, maybe?”
“It looks like a moon over water at night” (My favorite, and an explanation I used going forward sometimes)
“Banana.”
I’d have to explain the bird, they’d screw up their faces, and then either because they saw it or to save my face, they’d go “Ah!” and say yes, it was definitely a bird.
The one on my back is pretty self-explanatory. 'I love my brothers,' in a mish mash of Chinese and Spanish. With the triangles symbolizing the three of us together. (我amo我的hermanos)
Now, when people ask about my tattoos, I joke that a tattoo lasts forever, I really liked the Cincinnati Bearcats, and that I didn’t know what I was thinking with the one on my chest. I feel like I’m being lighthearted. You know, not taking myself seriously. For one I’m tired of the question. But also, I think they have lost some meaning over the years. At the least, I forget that they’re there.
The one on my back is the hardest to reconcile because it came with the clearest meaning. I got it drunk, not just tipsy like the first one, to commemorate the friendship and brotherhood with my two best friends. It was like a deal sealer for the three of us, not that you need a tattoo to say you’ll be friends and loyal to each other for the rest of your days, but the process had gravity to it. That night, in New York, we stayed up all night. After three bars and wandering around the city for hours, we entered a neon drenched store front, to porcelain walls and that familiar scent.

I was the only one who got a tattoo. My two brothers chickened out. Or perhaps they just had the sense not to rush into permanently marking their bodies, as I slammed the counter exclaiming:

"Fuck it, I'll get the tattoo for all three of us!"

Now, at this point in our lives, those two guys annoy the heck out of me. I even feel like I lost respect for them. One, because he always changes his mind, is undependable, and is a loud buffoon. The other, because he never lets any argument of any size go, and he whines incessantly. But I do love them as brothers, and no matter what any of us go through I can say with confidence that we’ll make the same jokes when we’re together. No matter what side of the world we see the sun setting in, we'll be close, I think. But I don't have the urge to meet them right now; I'm glad the tattoo is on my back.
About three years passed, and when one of them finally came around to getting his unifying, blood brother tattoo, I didn’t have the heart in me to say I thought it was a real dumb idea. I still do.
When I arrived in Shanghai for my first semester of studying Mandarin at Jiao Tong University, I had no idea it would be the most fun, if not one of the happiest, times of my entire life. Those five months spent studying, going out, and most importantly, meeting people from around the world and connecting with them, was unforgettable. And I often long for that time back. I was popular with everyone I met there, as well as those I didn’t meet. There was never an hour of time when I didn’t have someone available to eat with, drink with, or laugh with. If I spent time alone it was by choice and by turning my cell phone off. I didn’t worry a bit about things, except for studying Chinese and a certain girl. She was also the reason it was one of the best times of my life. But she’s another story, a much longer story probably. I was happy, taking in the sights and sounds of a new world. Shanghai. My tattoos and biracial makeup made me something unique, and I felt special and I felt like a complete package. That was two years ago.
And that leaves me with yesterday. My inaccurate Chinese character. Even the 的 on my back isn’t written correctly. I was exhausted, sitting on that track, my head and heart pounding the blood through me at such a surge I could barely talk without throwing up my insides. In the middle of a training regimen that just two years ago I could complete, shower and change, and then go for diner and drinks .
As I write in my room, I have a fever and can hardly eat a bowl of soup thanks to that workout. No job, lost money, wondering what to do with my life for who knows the hundredth time since that semester ended. It all seemed so clear back then, when I registered for school. And it felt that way when I sat down in that chair and felt the needle’s buzz hum over my skin and that satisfying, scratching pain that makes you feel like you’re accomplishing something, or that you're brave. When the truth is you haven’t done a brave thing in your life, and just because something lasts forever on the skin of youth stretch taut with muscle and vigor doesn’t mean it will be remembered. Or matter.

I felt whole back then, indeed my only want was time for reflection. Now I have so much time I can’t sleep well.

At the track, I watched those kids march away together in friendship, and wondered if they’d stay friends, stay brothers, and ever get a tattoo of it. Their mothers probably wouldn’t let them.