I GOT A TATTOO! (book chapter preview)

The best piece of advice I ever got about writing, is that you know you are doing it right when you feel deeply embarrassed about what you are writing. That was definitely the case when I wrote the following chapter for my book ‘The Art of Attunement’ - a collection of short real-life stories about moments when I was deeply in tune with my inner compass, and moments when I absolutely wasn’t. You can probably guess that this story is about the latter..

Let’s dive in:

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The moth and the porch light

At night, moths are drawn toward whatever is the brightest thing, mistaking it for the moon. It’s the easy beacon, not the true guide. They exhaust themselves circling what was never meant to lead them.

2001. The year I get a tattoo (I wish I was kidding)

“Arjanna is getting a tattoo.” Alice announces while slathering butter and jelly on a croissant. I’m staying at her place because her parents are quite liberal when it comes to curfews for 17-year-old night life explorers. They are however less liberal about skipping breakfast after a short night. It’s 9AM. I have dark circles under my eyes. My hair smells like cigarette smoke, my ears still ring, and I was hoping for a bit of small talk.

Alice’s mom laughs hysterically. Her golden hoop earrings jingle as she throws her head back. My formerly ash-grey cheeks turn bright red. “I, I am not sure yet, I, I, ehm, I am thinking about it,” I mumble, hiding my face behind my tea cup.

“You are the last person on earth that will get a tattoo. If you get one, I will pay for half of it, because I know you’d never do something so foolish,” she decides.

That's not exactly the answer Alice had hoped for. The next week during lunch break, we wander into a tattoo parlor close to our school. We try to look as 18 as possible while flipping through the catalogs. We would never admit that we’re hugely intimidated by the woman with 8 facial piercings getting ready to get a tattoo behind her ear. We pretend we are used to smelling a blend of coffee and antibiotic ointment, and hearing the buzz of the tattoo machine in the background. We admire the full sleeve of the shop owner, and debate tattoo placements with him. The belly (sexy, but what about sagging?), the ankle (elegant, painful), the upper arm (cool, but could be too masculine). “When in doubt, just do the lower back,” he suggests.

I love the thrill of having access to this grown-up world, maybe more than the idea of something permanent on my body. “You’re the tribal tattoo type, tiger,” Alice declares. “I am personally more of a Chinese symbol girl. But my mom will never allow me to get one, not even when I am 18.” She sighs dramatically. “It took me 5 years to convince my parents to get my ears pierced,”I remind her. “I think my chances are just as slim.”

“Mom, can I get a tattoo?” I drop my backpack on the floor of the small kitchen of our 19th century townhouse and drink some water straight from the tab. “Oh I didn’t know you wanted that, but I guess so. Let me talk to papa about it. Do you already have ideas of what kind of tattoo you want?”

I shrug and leave the kitchen, climb the crooked stairs to my bedroom and flop on my bed. I look around my room, which my parents call my museum. My eyes wander over the popstar posters and Erwin Olaf prints, my fish that are hardly visible in their uncleaned tank, the silly pictures of me and my friends, the feather boa on the book shelf. The books! I pick out The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me. The monkey could make for a cute tattoo! Or maybe Miffy. After all, the inventor of Miffy lives in our neighborhood so it makes total sense. Sort of. I drag myself to my desk to wake up my third-hand computer, crank up the modem and type ‘tattoo’ in the search field of Google, a brilliant new search engine I have just discovered. Five minutes later, I am on a website with simple tribal tattoos. One catches my eye, and I put a paper on the screen to copy it with my pencil. If I extend the bottom line a bit, it looks like the Aries sign. Not that I care about my sign, but I’ve heard somewhere that tattoos should have a meaning. I disconnect the modem and pop back to my bed to read The Giraffe. It’s a weird story anyway, with a giraffe, a pelican, and a monkey that run a window-cleaning company.

“So you want a tattoo?”, my dad asks over my favorite mac and cheese dinner. My parents, my sister and me are sitting at the tiny dinner table that is designed to cleverly fit in our kitchen. I’m trying to detect any emotion in my father’s voice, but he seems quite neutral. “Alice and I are both thinking about it, but she thinks her mom won’t let her, so maybe if you agree that might help her convince her parents as well,” I blurt. My dad pierces a piece of ham. His bushy eyebrows cover his eyes while he is looking at his fork and I still can’t see what he thinks. “We think your tattoo could be a nice gift for Sinterklaas. I mean, not the whole amount, but we could do 50% for example.”

My heart skips a beat. 50% + 50%  = a free tattoo. Which teenager wouldn’t want that?

“Tiger, you did it! You’re going to be the first kid at our school with a tattoo.” Alice high-fives me when I walk into the classroom. The Stabilo gang (conveniently named after the markers they collect devotedly) swarms around us. “What, you’re getting a tat?’ asks Chris in disbelief. “Can we come and watch when you get it?” The news spread quickly. During Latin, Femmy drops a note on my desk that says ‘cool dude’. That is the longest sentence the it-girl ever communicated with me.

A few weeks later, I enter the tattoo parlor again, this time with a permission slip from my parents, and five friends in tow. I still feel ambivalent about getting a tattoo, but there is no way back for a proud teenager. I sit on the chair, trying to hide my nerves. The tattoo artist makes a copy of my tribal drawing on my lower back, while managing my herd. “Only two of you in here at a time. Don’t touch anything, don’t crowd me unless you want your friend’s tattoo crooked.” He flashes me a mirror, then starts. There’s no transition, no ceremony, nothing to mark this moment my skin loses its ink virginity. I feel overwhelmed, but focus my energy on looking calm and composed in front of my friends.

That night, I am babysitting a toddler. The seam of my pants peels the plastic that covers my fresh tattoo back. My skin feels raw. I successfully put the toddler to bed, then go into her parent’s bedroom to look at my fresh tattoo. Between her elegant silk dress on a hanger, and his tie hanging over the side of the mirror, the tattoo looks out of place. It’s not perfectly mirrored either, one side is slightly longer than the other.

At Alice’s breakfast table, I thought saying yes was bravery. Now, whenever I catch my tattoo’s uneven curve in the mirror, I know the bravest thing is to pause, let the crowd pass, and wait for clarity to come.

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That was sneak preview #4

Just like last time, I am so curious to hear from you! Have you written a book, and do you have tips for how to keep going? How did this story resonate with you? How do you know that you are in attunement, or not? I’d love to hear from you.

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