My story ; isn’t over
My grandpa believes tattoos are only for whores and sailors.
My mom must be either a whore or a sailor because I’ve been to the tattoo parlor with her at least five times. Seven years old, I sat in a dark, smoky room with my thirteen-year-old sister as our mother got her first tattoo. I was mortified by what I saw around me: vulgar images of naked women, skulls, and motorcycles. What was I doing here? I was far too young to be here. Why was my mom here? She wasn’t the kind of person who got tattoos. She worked at a hospital, had a family. She didn’t ride on motorcycles or smoke cigarettes. But, newly divorced, she was embracing her independence as fully as a single mother with two children could. There, above her left breast was a ying-yang that announced her newfound belief that she was her own person and could make her own choices, a concept I would not understand until I was much older.
My grandpa’s not a sailor, but he decided to have his tattoo inked onto his left hip because he loves me deeply. The tattoo became his stamp of solidarity with his granddaughter after I fell apart. I’ve only seen his tattoo once -- the day he had it done -- but that’s okay. He was 85 years old and immensely out of place in the tattoo parlor in his pressed slacks, tucked-in button-down shirt, and driving gloves. The expression on his face revealed how uncomfortable and horrified he was to find himself, or any members of his family, in such a disreputable establishment. He lay on his side on the table, pants pulled down to expose his hip, a joint that had been replaced with a new and improved metal version only a few years earlier. My grandpa still didn’t like the idea of tattoos, and insisted that his be as small as possible, but he decided to embrace his inner sailor to support me.
Now I gaze down at my left wrist: the black ink standing out against my porcelain skin. My story ; isn’t over. After two half-assed suicide attempts and months of struggling with the turmoil that caused them, I came across a website for Project Semicolon, a movement established by Amy Bleuel. In its essence, the movement has become a symbol to raise suicide awareness. In Bleuel’s vision, a semicolon continues a sentence, in contrast with a period, which ends it, full stop. The sentence is your life, and you’re its author. The moment I discovered project semicolon, I thought of it as something I would obtain later in life, after I had gotten better. However, as I worked tirelessly on myself, I decided to use it as a promise to myself. The inked bracelet encircling my wrist reminds me that as low as I once fell, I ultimately realized I could handle all the ups and downs as the adult that I have become.
Three generations of whores and sailors are now a part of my family, linked by our semicolon tattoos. My mother’s most recent tattoo is almost identical to my own: Her story ; isn’t over. It represents the relief she now feels knowing her daughter has recommitted to life. My grandpa sports the tiniest semicolon you’ve ever seen, a mark of his love for me. My father adorned his wrist with the semicolon, simple and visible. My own tattoo, which covers the traces of my lowest moments, means different things to me at different times. Sometimes it is something I want the world to see and understand how far I have come. Other times, it is something I try to hide because it represents how far I still have to go. At all times it connects me with the people who stood beside me when I needed help the most, reminding me that I am the author of my own book because….
My story ; isn’t over.
