I Don’t Feel Like A Criminal (Or Even A Delinquent)

Ever since I was young, I wanted a tattoo. By the time I was 8 I had made up my mind that it was probably going to be something with skulls with flames optional. There is no question in my mind that I was influenced by my uncle Jeffrey who, for as long as I can remember, always had the most badass tattoos- a bunch of skulls with a grim reaper thrown on for good measure. I don’t remember ever asking too many questions about how much they cost, if they hurt, or the significance behind them. I just knew they looked cool- and I wanted one. My dad would hear nothing of it and even went so far as to proclaim that in this, for the most part liberal family, that tattoos would not be tolerated and simple discussion of them was quickly quelled.

In Ukraine, as was probably my father’s experience with tattoos, most people associate them with convicts and delinquents on all levels. Most of the tattoos I have seen on Ukrainians are what can only be characterized as “jailhouse tattoos” although I have not had a discussion regarding the prison record of any of the people I know with them. Mostly I see them at the sauna when clothes come off. Usually in the form of a name or religious symbols. Some have morphed over the years into less defined blobs- that were probably made with low quality equipment some time ago. I have seen just a couple of tattoos on locals that look like the work of a modern shop with modern equipment. Even rarer is to see them on Ukrainian women, but they do exist. During my first few weeks at site I was still trying to get to know and understand Lenara. She was, as I discovered, full of seemingly contradictory opinions that she is not afraid to tell the world. About a month after I got to site, in August, she and I went to Kiev for a Peace Corps function. It was hot and people were in short sleeves rather than bundled up. As we walked together, we passed another volunteer and she remarked on his abundance of tattoos. “Look at that!” she exclaimed in a hushed tone. “Why does he have to have all of those tattoos? He really is crazy, you know!” I countered with the obvious, asking why she feels the need to prejudge this young man, segueing into the novel idea that she might be interested to walk up and ask him about them to see if there was something he would be willing to tell us about. It was my wishful thinking that maybe she could have her mind changed, or at the very least she could have a real life experience that she might not ordinarily have. Later, during some down time, I approached and reintroduced myself explaining that I was hoping he would be willing to say a few words about his body art to a curious, if slightly prejudicial Ukrainian. Of course he was game. I called Lenara over and introduced her to Jesse, the very man we had recently gossiped about. I guided the conversation in a way that would ensure a non-confrontational meeting. I asked if he could show us his tattoos up close and tell us if any of them had any specific meaning behind them. As he told his stories about several examples of the art, he slid his sleeves up further to reveal even more ink. In no time Lenara had an expression of wonder and amazement, briefly forgetting any and all remarks that had been spoken earlier. Two of the stories resonated with me. As he pointed to a purple globe that almost covered his forearm with a small figure on the top, Lenara pointed and blurted out “The Little Prince!”, a story, he said, represented a close family connection for him. The other was one located on the inside of his wrist which read “I Love You”. It appeared hand written, as if someone had just scrawled on his skin with a Bic pen, and he explained that this was a direct transfer of some of the last words written by his brother before he passed away a few years back. I am certain, he did not go into detail regarding the circumstances, but the way in which he relayed the story was enough to elicit emotion from anyone within earshot. Even though the introduction and discovery could not have gone any better, in retrospect, it seemed that her newfound respect for tattoos- regardless of the number, was fleeting. Not that I could have expected her to turn around a lifetime of ingrained opinion as the result of just one meeting, but at least I was able to show her that the truly personal meanings behind some people’s tattoos can never be known until you ask them.

The reason I call her thinking contradictory manifested itself the day we took a trip to the beach. It was one of the larger beach destinations in the area, one with an actual promenade with shops and stands along it. As we walked, we eventually came upon a guy who was creating temporary tattoos for anyone with 25 UAH burning a hole in their pocket. They were expected to last a week to ten days (I suppose, depending on how hard you scrub in the shower). He had a book of ideas, like any professional artist would. Lots of butterflies. Lots of flowers. Lots of skulls! Lenara wanted one in the worst way. She was giddy with impatience as she waited in line for the artist to finish with the client before us. I hadn’t seen someone this excited about a street artist’s services, since they offered face painting at the kid’s carnival in America! Seriously, Lenara could hardly contain herself. The whole process took about 10 minutes, with a lot less pain- and cost, than a real one. And when it was all over, she wore that semi-abstract, stenciled outline of a flower and butterfly more proudly that most people flaunt their permanent ink. I mean, after the initial drying, there is no need to keep your sleeve rolled up, but that was the only way she could get her friend’s and family’s shocked reactions over the next 10 days- otherwise, what was the point? I sensed the excitement of getting and showing off the fake/temporary one to be inversely proportional to the disdain she had for the art that others made lifelong commitments to. I half-joked that I would pay for a permanent one for her when she was ready.

So, why am I talking about tattoos today? Well, a fellow PCV is doing a presentation about the “cultural phenomenon of tattoos in America” and has solicited pictures and stories. I thought I would contribute the following story.

Many people have more tattoos than I do. Many have deeper personal stories than I do. But, I belong to the only woman with a Sweet Polly Purebred tattoo.

On the day of my 21^st birthday I started the process that lead to me getting my first, and so far only, tattoo. I thought for a while about what I would want that was not going to embarrass me in my later years. Luckily, I had grown out of my skull phase from when I was 8, and after much internal deliberation, decided to go with a character from my youth, Underdog. All these years later, I have never regretted getting the tattoo. I’d like to think I carefully considered the long term ramifications of both the content and placement. Thinking if this was something that would embarrass me if my family saw it or when I was old and had to explain it to my grandkids? The last thing I wanted was to be like an acquaintance of ours who had a lot of forearm tattoos that he was embarrassed about and wore long sleeves all year round to cover them up. Anyway, the one, on my right shoulder was properly considered and even though they are more popular now in America than ever, I have no regrets being part of the subculture.

Then, in the time during our engagement, my now wife Eleonora, decided she wanted a second tattoo. If I recall correctly, it was right around Christmas when she showed me what she had done. It was as meaningful to me as getting my name permanently placed somewhere on herself, yet, I joked, benign enough to not be an embarrassment to her after “our divorce”. Most people have never seen her tattoo and fewer would make the connection that it is actually the counterpart to mine. I have Underdog and she has Sweet Polly Purebred, the love interest of Underdog’s alter ego, Shoeshine Boy. At this point, they could both use some updating in the color department, but the sentiment has never changed. I will always consider myself an “underdog” and she will always be my “sweet Polly”- unless we get divorced, that is.