I have a tattoo on my inner-right forearm that simply says 1/4.
That’s it, and it’s the precise 1/4 from my typewriter key, and most people when seeing it, ask they very same question: Why?
Take a moment when meeting me, and your eyes will probably wander all over my arms and hands, if the weather is warm enough to allow it. It happens to everyone, every time, they start to look the dozens and dozens of bizarre, completely unrelated, random tattoos. “They look like stamps,” I’m often told, “they don’t even go together at all,” is another I hear frequently. More often than any other question, I get one, time and again, from almost all that I meet:
“What do they all mean?”
My answer is always the same, and it always will be. When asked, I respond with one line: “I am covered in memories.”
That’s what they are, tiny tattoos for big memories, for big stories that I wanted to immortalize and make permanent. I collect memories, not masterpieces, and from the moment I started getting tattoos, it was always this way.
The 1/4 on my forearm you’ll one day notice and wonder why? I’ll tell you, for it, like all of them, is a tiny little bit of ink for a big memory, a reminder of a day with people I love in a place far from home. It goes like this:
It was a sweltering day at the end of June in Princeton, New Jersey. Myself, Sarah, and our dearest friends Pete and Lisa were all spending the afternoon wandering the town while we waited to attend the rehearsal dinner for Lisa’s sister, who was to be married the following day. After a long wander, we were walking back to our car when we passed a dilapidated basketball court right outside an equally run-down YMCA. There were weeds growing through the cracks in the half court line, little piles of dirt kicked up from anthills all over the key, and the rim of the hoop on the far side was slightly askew. Always a child, I found a ball that was in desperate need of pumping, and made Pete a little wager: “Half court shots, if I make it, you have to get a tattoo (his first!) of anything I choose. If you make it, I’ll do the same.” I remember him complaining that I already had a lot of tattoos, so this wasn’t as fair as it should be, so we quickly adjusted the terms, and decided that the tattoo of choice could be no larger than the size of a U.S. quarter, about an inch in diameter.
Pete went first, and missed wide left, but not by far. We all laughed, at the flatness of the ball, the crookedness of the rim, the distance from where we were shooting to where we’d have to make it, and he threw the ball back to me. In my memory, my shot was in slow-motion, in my mind, there was music like the Chariots of Fire theme playing quietly as my one-handed heave was sent heavenward and arced its way across that run-down court. I remember it going in, swishing through the metal chain that hung, only barely, from the rim. In my memory, even the cheers and groans of the 4 of us are in slow-mo, that bizarre Bigfoot like voice that comes when human voices are reduced in speed. I had won, and I knew at some point I would be cashing in that bet, and his forfeit.
That time came a few years later, when he and Lisa finally made their way across the country to visit us in Montana for the very first time. With a day or so left on their trip, I brought The Bet up again, and he agreed, it was time. Luckily, I am dear friends/family with my tattoo artist, so she agreed to move stuff around and get us in. All day we tried to figure out what the tattoo would be, knowing it had to be only the size of a quarter. Finally, after not landing on anything, I looked down at the typewriter I was typing on and saw it, the 1/4 key. “What if you got the 1/4 symbol, the size of a quarter?!” I asked. He agreed, and as a sign of good faith, I agreed to get it with him. We did. He on his shin, me on my forearm, and to this day, when we type 1/4 to each other, we really mean, I love you.
Tiny tattoos for big memories. For the big stories behind them.
Multiply this story for every single bit of ink on my body, and you’ll begin to understand why I do what I do, why I look like I let a toddler loose with a stamp and ink pad set on my skin. Why I walk around with the most bizarre collection of tattoos you’ll likely ever see. Each bit of ink is a big memory, is a story spelled out to my mind in a tiny bit of black. I love this, and I have always loved this.
There’s no wrong way to get tattoos, no wrong way to be tattooed, and I believe this. I have seen hundreds of “pieces” that are sprawling and united in some grand way. They are “perfect” in every sense of the artistic word, balanced, shaded in a stunning way, and they fit the spaces on the body they were drawn and designed for perfectly. I have seen full sleeves that are nothing but geometric shapes and lines, and they look beautiful. I have seen full back pieces that look cinematic in their artistry. I love them all, love the courage it takes to put yourself in the hands of another, trust their skills, and change your body for-ev-er. I think it’s like a club, and with every great club, there’s an initiation fee. This one is painful, but once you’re in, everyone else you see with one, understands. I love this, too.
I have no perfect tattoos, not in the traditional sense, but they are all perfect to me. Mine are snapshots, not masterpieces.
They are small, they are seemingly random, but each one holds an entire world inside. You’ve long known I am a very nostalgic person, I write on this more frequently than I probably should, and you’ve also long known that I embrace imperfection in such a way that it IS the art, rather than the exception to it. All of this, is embodied in my own strange philosophy of what tattoos should be. Why not carry the memories you’ve made with you? Why not map them out on your skin, so every time you see them, you’re back to where you were then, who you were then?
Do you have tattoos? Do you regret any? Do they tell the stories of who you were, or what you lived? I would love to hear of yours, the stories behind your favorite ones, or if you have none at all, I’d love to hear what you’d want to get as your first if ever you chose to.
I’m covered in memories, hundreds of tattoos that look like faded and blurry postage stamps I’ve collected on my journey through life. Some are fuzzy, some are stretched, all are imperfect—and I love them all now so much more than I did the day I got them.
These are my journal entries, inked on skin not paper. These age as I age, as the stories behind them. It’s ok to want flawless tattoos that are walking works of art, it’s ok to want singular pieces that make a bold statement, there’s no wrong answer. For me, it’s this way, and it’ll always be this way.
I’m running out of space now, not for the memories, not for the stories, but for the ink that tells them. I suppose it’s onto the legs, next. I’ve only a few there.
So much more room to fill. So many more stories to tell.
Here we go.
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