People claim that tough biker dudes gotta have ‘em, a pirate isn’t a pirate without ‘em and you wouldn’t be able to identify a convict without one. Or so some people assume. No, I’m not talking about swarthy sideburns or a shank. I’m talking about tattoos.

Due to aforementioned stereotypes, tattoos were forbidden under my parents’ roof when I was growing up, but one incident shocked me into eternal curiosity. While at Disneyland a burly man wearing shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt caught my attention. You wouldn’t expect to find him in that amusement park. However, his choice of tattoos completely disbanded this notion. Donald Duck beamed from his bicep. Goofy grinned from his deltoid. Minnie Mouse peeked over the top of his raggedy T-shirt at the base of his neck. The Epcot building highlighted his massive calf and Peter Pan sailed across his bulging quads to meet Dumbo. It was horrific. It was fascinatingly colorful. It was convenient that I didn’t have to wait in line for three hours to see my favorite characters. 

I knew a girl in high school who was a fan of Alan Rickman. She celebrated her love for the acclaimed actor by stamping a portrait of his face on her back. Permanently. Once, she walked straight from a viewing of V for Vendetta into a tattoo parlor and etched a giant “V” alongside ol’ Ricky’s mug.

Disney Man and Drama Girl glorified pop culture in the flesh. The living work of art who impressed me most, however, was a Samoan man—and not only because he could scale a coconut tree with his bare hands. Broad bands wrapped dagger-like tendrils around his body. The patterns boldly punctuated a regular beat across his skin. A ripple across the black strokes indicated the stress of the sinew and muscle beneath.

He explained that the continuous tattoo was a reflection of his coming of age. If you think a needle is bad enough for inking, try boar’s teeth. “They don’t skip any where,” he said gravely. I looked at the tattoos that crawled up his knees and spilled onto his upper body.

“Nowhere?” I asked.

“Nope.” I gulped.

After many painful days passing in and out of consciousness, the tattoo was completed, and the boy was finally considered a man.

I did not initially understand the attempt to concretely pronounce elusive ideas in such an obvious way. Did I not want to maintain the intrigue of what constituted me internally?

A few years later, I found myself at the top of Wat Arun (the Temple of Dawn) in Bangkok, Thailand. I took a lotus stalk, dipped it in water and sprinkled the blessedly cool elixir over my shoulders in the humid heat. As I gazed over the city, everything that culminated in that moment assured me of my beliefs, where I fit in the puzzle of the universe. Most importantly, I felt like the luckiest person alive. I understood what kind of sentiment inspired one to go under a needle and change the aesthetic of the body. My lotus tattoo serves as a quiet reminder of the things I stand for: Purity, creation, compassion. It grows out of the mud toward the sunlight.

I realized that tattoos are permanent only so long as your body walks the earth, and after that, even they, too, decay. Whether you get a tattoo to think of your favorite cartoon, depart from adolescence or simply reveal a facet of your personality, tattoos serve as illustrations to a finite story in your life. The ideals they represent, however, have the potential to live on.

Image sources: imageshack.us, www.metapedia.com