2008 Woodie Awards
Back to the drawing board
Erik Larsen
Issue date: 3/28/07 Section: Discourse
- Page 1 of 1
I went and did it again. I've turned my body into canvas and let someone else paint on it. Three years after getting the Buddhist symbol "Om" tattooed on my wrist - a symbol and a religion incredibly important to my own religious and spiritual development - I went back to Seattle, back to Laughing Buddha Tattoo and Body Piercing, one of the most legendary shops of its kind on the West Coast, back to my tattoo artist Nando, and once again, back to the painful and enlightening world of self-discovery.
Ah, the "obligatory college tattoo," right? A butterfly here. A dove there. I've seen it all. In fact, I know a girl who was trying to figure out how to get her ex-boyfriend's name covered up with another tattoo. The artist looked at her back and said, "Oh yeah, I could definitely do a really nice flower or something right there, no problem." To which she responded, "I don't really like flowers." I couldn't help myself: "But you like Deron more?"
The "obligatory college tattoo," simply put, is way too often a dreadful decision. It's bred out of peer pressure, newfound freedom, irresponsibility and drunken judgment. But not all tattoos, especially not all "college" tattoos, should have those same naìve implications. If you don't understand why people do this, it's all right, most people don't. But once you've sat under the needle, experienced the simultaneous pain and pleasure of that needle, seen yourself at the most trying physical moment of your life, you just might understand what a tattoo really means. It's like Nando said: "You've gotta earn it."
The idea of a tattoo is divisive. Some people see the body as a temple, beautiful in its purity and innocence. But some people - people like me, I suppose - see the body as a canvas, a blank slate in which to bring your mind and body together. And after four straight hours under the needle one unforgettable night in Seattle, I rediscovered that connection. It was by far the most pain I've ever continuously experienced, and after the first half hour of excruciating trauma, my mind raced with thoughts of walking out, of quitting at the start of the marathon. And then the calm came. Three straight hours of bizarre physical and emotional quiet. The tattoo needle buzzed away, I bled more and more, but for three hours I felt like I was in a deep, albeit painful, meditation, connecting my body with the massive Buddhist mantra I was having tattooed on my back, "Om Mani Padme Hum." Wipe away the blood and repeat. Wipe away the pain and understand.
But then the road became weary. In the last half hour, my vision cloudy from the blood loss and the unbearable pain multiplying as the needle knifed down my spine, I wanted to give up. I wanted it to end, and I wanted to get out from under that needle. But in those moments, in the very depths of physical and emotional suffering, I felt genuinely radiant. I felt peace and tolerance, patience and perseverance; I felt wisdom. As the blood and excessive ink were wiped clean from my body, I knew that for the rest of my life, I would have a permanent reminder to find my way back to that path, back to those feelings and back to what has shaped me into who I am.
I went and did it again. The "obligatory college tattoo."
Erik Larsen is editor in chief.
elarsen@luc.edu
Ah, the "obligatory college tattoo," right? A butterfly here. A dove there. I've seen it all. In fact, I know a girl who was trying to figure out how to get her ex-boyfriend's name covered up with another tattoo. The artist looked at her back and said, "Oh yeah, I could definitely do a really nice flower or something right there, no problem." To which she responded, "I don't really like flowers." I couldn't help myself: "But you like Deron more?"
The "obligatory college tattoo," simply put, is way too often a dreadful decision. It's bred out of peer pressure, newfound freedom, irresponsibility and drunken judgment. But not all tattoos, especially not all "college" tattoos, should have those same naìve implications. If you don't understand why people do this, it's all right, most people don't. But once you've sat under the needle, experienced the simultaneous pain and pleasure of that needle, seen yourself at the most trying physical moment of your life, you just might understand what a tattoo really means. It's like Nando said: "You've gotta earn it."
The idea of a tattoo is divisive. Some people see the body as a temple, beautiful in its purity and innocence. But some people - people like me, I suppose - see the body as a canvas, a blank slate in which to bring your mind and body together. And after four straight hours under the needle one unforgettable night in Seattle, I rediscovered that connection. It was by far the most pain I've ever continuously experienced, and after the first half hour of excruciating trauma, my mind raced with thoughts of walking out, of quitting at the start of the marathon. And then the calm came. Three straight hours of bizarre physical and emotional quiet. The tattoo needle buzzed away, I bled more and more, but for three hours I felt like I was in a deep, albeit painful, meditation, connecting my body with the massive Buddhist mantra I was having tattooed on my back, "Om Mani Padme Hum." Wipe away the blood and repeat. Wipe away the pain and understand.
But then the road became weary. In the last half hour, my vision cloudy from the blood loss and the unbearable pain multiplying as the needle knifed down my spine, I wanted to give up. I wanted it to end, and I wanted to get out from under that needle. But in those moments, in the very depths of physical and emotional suffering, I felt genuinely radiant. I felt peace and tolerance, patience and perseverance; I felt wisdom. As the blood and excessive ink were wiped clean from my body, I knew that for the rest of my life, I would have a permanent reminder to find my way back to that path, back to those feelings and back to what has shaped me into who I am.
I went and did it again. The "obligatory college tattoo."
Erik Larsen is editor in chief.
elarsen@luc.edu