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That’s My Arm, Dood.

A few days ago I posted an article to LinkedIn about tattoos (find it here: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/engraved-skin-regan-wann/). This piece was a professional consideration that led to me thinking some about the personal assumptions tied to having always-visible tattoos.

First, I get touched – A LOT. I don’t know if it’s that I am short and round or what, but I get touched to the same tune that an obviously pregnant woman’s belly gets grabbed by strangers. Sometimes it’s not a big deal, sometimes I have a truly head-tilt “wait, did that just HAPPEN?!” moment after it’s over. The tattoo that really seems to make people touch me is the one pictured in this article, a large tribal sleeve that runs from my shoulder onto the top of my right hand.

I should admit here that I’m not anti-touch. Eons ago I wore my hair in a flat-top and loved it when people would rub my head, which also happened a lot. I am not afraid to touch people when it is welcome: I’m a hugger, I’m downright cuddly with my friends, which is to say nothing of my spouse (who, luckily, is just as happy to drape back on me). I’ll hold your kid, I’ll high-five a stranger, I’ll even kiss your dog. So it’s not about the touch, per se.

But I’ve had my arm suddenly and completely wordlessly grabbed and caressed by grey haired businessmen, students, old women in the grocery, young women in the grocery, young men who appear to be tweaking, large slightly scary men who have lots of muscles, small children, and even – sometimes – by people I’ve known long enough to not expect them to want to inspect what, to me, is just – you know – MY ARM. Small children get a pass, by the way. But the rest of those people? ASK, Y’ALL! Consent matters.

Because my tattoos aren’t something I hold out in front of me to be seen. My reason for getting them is highly personal and more than a little emotionally complicated. They are not just part of me – they ARE me – so from my perspective it’s like me running up and grabbing someone’s foot or elbow or knee. I forget the tattoos are there, it takes me a minute to catch up and realize the person isn’t really trying to violate me, they are just curious.

Second, the fact that we both have ink in our flesh does not make us “the same.” I have actually, no hyperbole necessary, lost count of how many men have run up to me, grabbed my arm, and said some version of “Look at this, you’re going to love it!” only to yank up a sleeve (or, sometimes, a pant leg) to reveal a rebel flag of some sort while he grins. Bonus points if the rebel flag was obviously put there using a rig made out of a Bic pen. I’ll let you in a secret: I don’t love it. It doesn’t make me feel like we’re sharing a tribe or that we have one another’s backs. I don’t think it’s a super-far reach to realize that the content of a person’s selection of tattoos should be informative.

Sure, once upon a time, almost every American with a tattoo was likely ex-Navy and could assume a shared history. It’s been a really long time since that was the case, though, you know? Just as I don’t love it when I’m judged on my professionalism based on the ink that lives in my skin, I also don’t love it when I’m judged on my cultural reality based on the same.

Lastly (for this post, at least), the fact that I have visible tattoos does not make it a fair assumption that I’m “freaky.” I’m not saying I am, I’m not saying I’m not – I’m saying stop assuming you know what I’m into based on my skin. One of the strangest moments I had with this was a woman I knew only peripherally who admitted to me that she often pictured me with my spouse (who she had not met) having what she called “crazy sex” because we’re both “wild” and that it was the hottest thing she could imagine. I mean, am I supposed to say “thank you” to this, or…??? Because that far off look in her eyes told me she was picturing something in her mind’s eye that was really working for her, which is great, but that I kind of wish I’d been given the opportunity to choose to be included in it, instead of being confronted with the knowledge that I was engaging in imaginary sex right at that moment based on my skin.

To be entirely fair, most people are very respectful about touching and sharing when it comes to my tattoos. I’ve been lucky that I haven’t been threatened with harm or judged in a way that included hate or violence when it comes to how I look. There are some assumptions that I don’t want or bother to try to dispel, too. Most of the time I live in blissful ignorance of what people think about me, on every front. The truth is that I don’t want to be judged solely by what I look like any more than anyone else does – and the human engagements I’m really interested in having stem from real moments of being real people together. Sometimes we may genuinely bond over a tattoo, that’s totally fine by me. But seriously, folks, don’t touch people without permission.

(c) Regan Wann 2018

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