Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Indelible Ink

2006; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 29; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/cal.2006.0042

1080-6512

Addie Citchens,

Fashion and Cultural Textiles

On campus we were called the "Metro" girls. We made good grades but kept Club Metro hot every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night. Angela, Tonya, Yarby, Pam, and I were joined at the hip, so every time one of us was involved in something idiotic, we all were. Out of the blue, the subject of tattoos came up. Angela knew a friend who knew somebody who knew a dude that did tattoos. So she called, and that same night we piled into my 626 and drove to the anonymous apartment. I should have taken the nasty neighborhood as an omen. We had to pick our way 'round busted tires in the grassless lot. Across the street, a three-legged pit lunged at us, barking insanely. Fortunately, he was chained up. We walked inside without knocking. The interior of the apartment was so hot that immediately sweat began to trickle down my back. Two rickety fans circulated the pungent, weed-filled air. "Oh my God," I whispered loudly, "They're doing drugs in here." A chorus of voices laughed at my expense. The room was so haze-filled that there could have been five people in there, or twenty-five. Against my better judgment, I was still adamant about being tattooed. Then this short, light-skinned dude came up, introduced himself as Red, and said he would be tattooing us. Red was pretty. He had pink, pink lips, big hazel eyes, and curly hair trapped in two cornrows. I assumed that because he looked so much like a woman, this whole tattoo experience couldn't possibly hurt much. Somehow, I ended up going first, and instead of choosing flowers or butterflies or grinning cartoons, I decided on a panther. On the glossy magazine page, the panther crouched, muscles taut and claws sharp. It was big. It was fierce. It was different. It was me. Obi was the artist, and for nearly an hour and a half, I lay across his bed with my shirt up and my skirt below my navel. Painstakingly, he sketched a panther on my belly in ink. When he finished, it was so beautifully detailed that I gasped. My girls and I were excited—until we saw the tattoo gun. Red pulled a needle from a sealed bag and pressed it into this gray, primitive-looking instrument. I almost pissed on myself when he revved it up. Sensing my apprehension he gave me a Grey Goose and pink lemonade. He also passed me this little pipe, which I promptly puffed. Soon I was so relaxed I began singing. Angela held my hand as the needle pierced my skin over and over. I felt this intense pain radiating all the way through to my back. The respite I had felt soon wore off. The vibrating gun spit and sprayed ink all over. (Red only had three colors.) Even though it hurt like nothing else in my life had, I felt like a celebrity because even the high people on the couch came over to watch. When it was done, I had this black lump of [End Page 93] ink on my stomach that looked nothing like Obi's original. Red said that it was normal and congratulated me on being tattooed with a prison gun and taking it like a man. I gave him twelve dollars. To make matters worse, all my "girls" backed out on me. None of them got tattooed. Even then, it took me two weeks to realize just how awful it looked. When my ultraconservative, very religious mother found out, she cried and asked me if I was on drugs. It finally sank in that I would have this botched artwork for as long as I lived, and I started crying as well. Tears flowing, I assured her I was drug-free and very, very sorry. Actually, I wasn't sorry about the tattoo. I was sorry about not going to a reputable parlor. In addition, I learned that the people you call friends might not necessarily be so. The girls with whom...