Today I saw a T-shirt in an On-line cycling apparel store
that said, “Scars are Tattoos with better stories!” Man….I like that. I'm going to order that t-shirt up. How that little phrase appeals to my internal
sense of cosmic order and “no-shit-a-tude.”
Before you get all defensive and assume that I don’t like
tattoos or have some issue with folks wearing them, take a deep breath and read
on. I really and truly do not care what
anyone does with their one and only true possession, their body. I don’t believe that it’s up to me, not for a
single blistering second, to dictate or judge another because they have chosen
to participate in what has become our latest and most popular personal fashion
interest.
Folks have been tattooing themselves for thousands of
years. Tattooing is known to exist in
many of the earliest of human tribes throughout Europe and Africa, and became
more mainstream in the 17-1800’s when sailors where exploring the Polynesian
Islands. Even the word, “tattoo” finds its origin in the Samoan word “tatau” as described by the great explorer Capt. James Cook. As late as the 1800’s, tattoos were even
considered a mark of great wealth in some European royal circles.
The problem I have noticed is not in the tattoos themselves, or in the
wearing of them, but is instead a little more endemic in our modern
culture. Remember when everyone used to
smoke? Smoking used to be cool. I smoked, I liked it. At first, it seemed like anyone who smoked
was a rebel, in that James Dean super cool way, and was in some part a social
outcast or outside observer. You didn’t mess
with them, because they quietly exuded an air of potential danger. In the same way, someone who had a tattoo, or
more than one, was clearly not to be messed with. They sported an “I don’t care” attitude and
were considered to be “on the edge.” Generally,
a smoker might have been considered rough, but someone with a tattoo quite
usually also smoked, making them rough and tough.
Like so many things we do, we do them because we want to establish an identity. We dress, act and participate in life’s
offerings that resonate with our sense of soul and purpose. To identify and be indentified in a certain
light is as old as time. Tattoos are no
different, but it does appear that the “edginess” may be dulling just a
little. So many people, young, old and
every variation in between now proudly adorn themselves in ink, bought and paid
for in one of the many local tattoo parlors.
One can no longer make an assumption of character or presence based on
body paint alone. It’s a good thing, I think,
because any social stigma that dies off in our collective conscious is a move
in the right direction. Another example
I can think of is the earring. I
remember when a man who wore an earring was automatically considered to be a thug,
gay or a displaced pirate. No
longer. That little personal identity preference
went from disapproval, to mass appeal in no time.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, social approval or disapproval
can have the inverse affect. It’s not
long ago when a man wearing a clerical collar was considered to be above
reproach, a pillar of moral standing and unqualifiedly entitled to our
trust. Just ask yourself today, what
goes though your mind when you see a priest in public. Perhaps it’s an awakening
whose time has finally come. Something
about “judge not lest you be judged” comes to mind.
On my body are no tattoos, but there are many scars, some deep and
long, others little more than a nick.
Some I earned by acting bravely, others were engraved in my flesh through
acts of carelessness and reckless stupidity.
No matter how I got them, they are mine and each one tells a story. The one on my thumb is the result of dropping
the corner of an engine block on my hand while trying to manhandle it into the
bed of a truck. Another, on my skull, is
the result of childhood neurosurgery. Surgeries, welding burns, sheet metal cuts and
battle wounds can be found if you look hard enough. No matter the mark, I’ve paid for every
single one.
I like the idea of a tattoo, but have never been able to decide on one
particular design. There are a couple of
things a scar has over a tattoo. One is
its stealth like quality. They don’t usually
come to light until someone gets close enough to notice, and by then, that
someone is usually a friend. A scar also
has the added delight of another dimension.
Most scars can be felt with the caress of fingertip from an interested
party, while a tattoo cannot. A tattoo,
however, can be wondrous as an art form, a picture board and often can turn a
body into a novel. Tattoos are often treasured by their owners and deeply
profound and personal.
Still, for me anyway, there is a notion which hides in a corner of my thoughts. The thing is….everyone is doing it. It’s become a fad, which in some respects
really detracts from those who don’t follow along with the latest craze, like
all the “shee-ple,” who do something just because they want to fit in and
muster the appearance of “cool.” It’s possible
that the original motive for getting a tattoo has faded with time and
popularity. The desire to do a thing because
it is unpopular hardly seems worth the effort anymore, armed with the knowledge
that soon most others will follow along. Like a baboon’s shiny red
undercarriage, most of us like to flash our hobbies at the world around us in
the hope that we might be perceived as just that extra bit more special than
the next shiny, red-assed, baboon beside us.
Cycling finds some overlap here.
Everyone rides a bike at some point in their lives, but it used to be
that few took the adventure to the next level, suffering pain and great
personal cost (like getting a tattoo) to advance an interest and love in
something that not everyone else did.
About ten months ago now, when I got back into cycling after decades of
over eating and fat-ass-ery, I was not prepared for just how popular and
mainstream long distance road biking, mountain biking and overall cycling had
become. Like all things that seem to piggyback
our identities, the technology and marketing are a phenomenon unto
themselves. Where there is a fad,
industry pounces like a lion waiting in the long, dry grass. Soon, and without objection, we habitually surrender
our collective jugular to the jaws of capitalism and opportunity.
Like the T-shirt in the beginning of my story, I will do just exactly
that. I want that shirt and I will buy
it. I will buy it because I want to wear
it. I want to wear it because I identify
with the subject matter, and it in turns identifies me. I love being a cyclist, and I like how I feel
when others connect with me and share the same desire, to see the land, pedal
stroke by pedal stroke, mounted on the latest carbon fiber wizardry and adorned
in the most recent “Techni-kit.” (That’s
my new word….don’t friggin’ steal it).
When I was younger, I did try to fit in with the crowd. I smoked too much, and I did get my ear pierced,
(actually I did it with a small finish nail, lighter, a hammer and the corner
of a table, which accounts for another scar on my noggin) but I never did get a
tattoo. It’s not the “getting” that kept
me ink free. As a musician, poet,
mechanic and cyclist to name a few interests, I could never find the one tattoo
that would label me well enough for the reader.
I long for a day when we, as people, will be able to identify one
another, free of judgment, stigma, ill conceived perceptions and ignorance by
recognizing each other by name alone, accepting all that we are, will be and
desire to be, to embrace each other in love.
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