It’s the oldest story in the book—the young, sheltered teenage girl leaves the home of her overprotective parents to go to college, and goes crazy. She goes to parties. She drinks. She wears revealing clothes. And somewhere, in all of her shenanigans, she finds herself in a tattoo chair at 1 A.M. while the Playboy bunny is poked into her shoulder. And I guess in some ways, I am that girl.
To understand why I made the choice I did about my tattoo, you must first understand my parents. My parents were not overprotective, per say, but had strong opinions on what I should and shouldn’t do. My mother in particular made it clear that she had the ability to have the last say in every choice I made. Sure, she wanted me to be independent. But I was constantly reminded that at any moment, she could swoop in and take the reins from me should I make a decision that was too objectionable. Even in college, I was forced to give them the account information for my school profiles so that they could check on my grades in real-time, or run by my roommate choices with them to ensure I was rooming with the “best possible fit”.
I love my parents, and they have made many choices over the course of my lifetime that have made me a better person. But when I arrived at college, it was almost magical to see how self-sufficient I could be on my own. I was used to bringing everything to their attention—every grade, every thought, every decision. College gave me a sense of independence that I quickly learned I could not live without.
Yes, I began to go to parties, but even though they were the last place that my parents would ever want me to be, their lessons taught me how to protect myself and stay safe.
I drank, and wore revealing clothes, but it wasn’t meant to be a strike against my parents—those were my decisions about my body, decisions that I could come to on my own.
And yes, I even got a tattoo.
My parents have largely negative feelings about tattoos. This is probably because the people in my family have some of the ugliest tattoos I have ever laid my eyes on. Still, I knew that even with their reserved feelings, if I mentioned getting a tattoo, they wouldn’t necessarily stop me.
So why didn’t I tell them?
Like I mentioned before, my parents like to have the last say. It’s difficult for them to watch me grow up, and to be in less of a position to direct my actions. They’re genuinely afraid to see me make mistakes. And while their hearts are in the right place, their hearts have no place on my subcutaneous skin. If I told my parents about my intentions to get a tattoo, I knew that their response would be that before I put needle to my skin, they would have to “think about it”. I would be expected to wait until they came to a decision. And at the end of the day, they probably would have agreed to let me get one!
But here’s the thing—this was not a decision that I thought was theirs to make. When I look at my tattoo for the rest of my life, I don’t want to think “this was something my parents allowed me to get”. I want to think “this was one of the first, huge autonomous choices I made in my life. I made this decision to put this on my body. And it’s beautiful.” Cheesy, perhaps. But freeing.
What is my tattoo of? I won’t say, in case my parents happen to find this article. But it’s classy, small, meaningful, and barely noticeable. One day, they’ll know about my tattoo. I just hope that they’ll understand why I made this decision on my own.
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