Remember, tatoos aren't a thing to rush

By Peg Elliott Mayo

columnist

"My parents are so old fashion, I can't believe it!" Thus began an e-mail from "Jenny," my 15-year-old friend now living in Ireland.

She went on, "All I want is a couple of simple little tattoos on my legs. It's not like I want a screaming eagle on my back or anything."

I responded, asking exactly what it was she had in mind.

"A triple spiral on my right thigh and a 'sheila-na-gog' on the left. In case you don't know, the triple spiral is carved on stones at Newgrange, not a hundred miles from here. It's more than 3,500 years old. The Sheila (there are lots of ways to spell it) is even older. She's pretty rude looking to the shallow minded - showing herself off - but some say she is the raw female essence. I just like them both. Would you write Mom and explain why tattoos are OK?"

I declined.

It's not as if tattoos, scarifications and piercings are new ideas. The use of the human body as an artist's canvas or sculptor's media is ancient. In tribal societies, Maori, Oceanana, Celtic, Native American, Japanese, for example, it was ritually done as part of coming of age, acquiring levels of proficiency in religion, war or power.

The combination of scarification (ashes rubbed in incised wounds) with black tattoos in elaborate, symmetrical designs were the fierce pride of the elders of New Zealand's Maori culture. They are both beautiful and horrifying. The designs are elegant; the stoic suffering necessary to receive them appalling.

Some scars or tattoos identified clans and others were purely decorative.

Today, there are subcultures which have clan totems - a knife with blood dripping from it, that sort of thing. Gangs often have a symbol on hand or cheek, as a means of identification.

There are a thousand jokes about the tattoos sailors carry, received while stone drunk in a foreign port. Hell's Angels and other motorcycle clubs that call themselves outlaws are usually highly decorated. There is a sense of initiation, of being accepted into an exclusive society in these indelible markings.

Many years ago, I worked (oh so briefly!) in corrections at an honor camp. The inmates were almost uniformly tattooed. A sure-fire icebreaker to was to ask what they meant to an individual.

One memorable guy had a jaunty worm, with a top hat and fancy cane emerging from his navel. I forget what it meant to him. Others had the usual "Born to Lose," hearts with "Mother" in them and, in one case, a scorecard of six women's names on his biceps.

Most were self-inflicted with a needle melted into a toothbrush handle, ashes and red ink. Profoundly ugly and often infected.

Contrastingly, the body art of Japan can be exquisite. Subtle colors and sophisticated forms forever part of one person's hide.

Tattoo books and magazines show that everything from the lotus to Bugs Bunny to unspeakable representations have been applied. I had a friend once who had healing flowers and herbs over her entire torso. Clothed modestly, you wouldn't have realized the gentle, wise hospice nurse was bringing more than was apparent to the bedside.

The idea of tattooing or piercing (even ears) is foreign to me. Partly from my dedication to avoiding pain, but more from lack of connection. A friend has a circuit of black spirals around her wrist. It's beautiful. For her.

For Jenny, it came out, the proposed tattoos were multipurpose. They are fashionable and, depending on the skill of the artist and judgment of the receiver, beautiful or intriguing.

The spirals and Sheila do have significance with her. The spirals seem like the paths of life, "where do I go from here." The Sheila speaks to her growing sense of feminine power and desire to identify with it.

Then, of course, she feels she must do something to define herself differently than her parents would choose. In psycho-gobbledygook, she's "emancipating."

I wrote her with this advice: "I wish you'd watch people on the bus or anywhere who have old tattoos. You know, faded, murky and forever. Forever is a long time, Jenny, so don't rush this one."

Peg Elliott Mayo is a mentor who provides private consultations. She lives in the Coast Range and invites comment at uncommonideas@rivervoices.com; P.O. Box 542 Blodgett, OR 97326; 541-456-2282; or her blog: http.pegelliottmayo.blogspot.com.