Monday, June 19, 2006 | by nathan

Every Scar Tells A Story

Last week I cut my finger open. I was up late with Laurie, we were talking and drinking, venting, and being exceptionally grateful for the men we have in our lives; she for her husband Jaye, and me for Brian. After she left I got pretty down on myself, feeling really, really unworthy of having a guy as wonderful as the one I have. I unwisely decided to make another drink, and while cutting a slice of lemon to put in it, I sliced my finger open instead. I left a trail of blood from the kitchen to the bathroom, which I cleaned up while sobbing because of what I loser I am. I have been bandaging it faithfully and keeping it clean, and now, it looks as if I will have a half-moon shaped scar near the tip of my right index finger.

When I was twenty-two and living in Connecticut, I fell through a window at a Wendy’s. The window was improperly installed, and I, in a lame attempt to say hi to some friends, put my hands on it and the whole thing collapsed in on itself. It gave me a fourteen-inch scar on my head from scalp to sideburns (if I had them). Also, it gave me a very ugly scar on my left ring finger - the one that will hold my wedding ring come September. When I went to the hospital that night, I was in a lot of pain, and I was very sad; I had never felt so completely alone in my entire life. The man I loved had broken up with me, I had no real friends to speak of, and I was 2,000 miles away from anyone gave a shit about me at all. I almost punched a paramedic, who had told me to tell him to stop if it hurt to much, and then didn’t stop when I asked him to. As I was leaving the hospital, my eye black, my face, clothes and hands covered in dried blood, looking like something out of a horror film, I felt a surge of pain go through my leg. I looked down and saw a tear in my pants. I put my fingers in there and opened it up wide, and saw two pieces of glass sticking out of my knee. I reached down and pulled them both out, barely wincing at the pain. I had gone totally numb. I have scars all over my body from that experience; the one on my head is why I wear my hair long on the sides and in front. It leads to awkward conversations with hairdressers, meaning that every time I get my hair cut I have to relive the whole experience a little bit.

I have other scars. When I was two I was mauled by a dog on my aunt’s farm in Arkansas; the scar from that makes my hair perpetually want to part in the middle. When I was six a girl in my first-grade class tripped me and I busted my head open on a metal door frame. When I was thirteen my brother loaded a steak knife blade-up in the dishwasher, and when I went to unload it, it slashed my wrist open; I got mad and we had a huge fight, which turned into a huge family blowout. When I was sixteen I stepped on a piece of glass, and I have a chevron-shaped scar on the bottom of my foot. The stories my scars tell are sad stories; every one of them brings up a memory of a time that I cried, and felt ashamed, and pretty much had every insecurity I have about myself confirmed.  

When you get a tattoo, basically what happens is that the artist makes miniscule little cuts in your body and inserts ink into them; the process of healing creates scar tissue that holds the ink in place, and as a result you are left with permanent ink in your body.

I am awaiting my next paycheck so that I can get my first tattoo. In the meantime I am effectively mind-fucking the whole business to death, trolling the web and sites like Rate My Ink and Sacred Ink, trying to figure out what it means, this whole tribe of tattooed people. I have always wanted a tattoo. Many of my friends have them, and started getting them in high school. I have waited; partially afraid, partially unsure what I wanted. I have had bad experiences with piercings, after all, and it was not until I pitched a story about tattooing to my editor that I have really thought, "It’s now or never."

So I started looking at other people’s tats. I have been obsessively scrolling through Rate My Ink, and I’m seeing some recurring themes: American flags. Big, ugly crosses. Stupid, trendy tribal bullcrap that means nothing. Barbed wire. And the worst of all are the big, ugly skulls.  

I would like to be an optimist and believe that all of this has some symbological meaning for the tattooed person. I know I want mine to have some. I want whatever art I get to tell the other side of the story that the scars on my body tell: I want it to tell something about how I came to be who I am, about who I came to find out something about grace, and love, and redemption in the world.

First up, I want a Celtic cross on the inside of my forearm.

A lot of people seem to have Celtic designs, and this is fine. I lived in Ireland for two months and it changed me profoundly. I cannot hear the Irish hymn "Be Thou My Vision" without getting teary; I cannot see a Celtic cross without thinking about the Irish Sea, or Waterford, or standing in St. Patrick’s Cathedral and being absolutely floored by awe in the face of the sacred.

However, I am deeply into balance. Aside from the fact that I am a journalist who is obsessed with formatting, I am also a person of extremes and would like to be reminded of my need for balance, for middle ground. So, to that end, I want another tat on the other forearm, in the same place. And here’s the rub: two choices remain, two symbols that have become incredibly meaningful to me in my life. One, the Celtic trinity:

Or the other, the Sanskrit symbol for Om:

Which, while not a Christian symbol, I think says something very important about my life and the journey I have taken so far.

Okay, so those are the forearms. Then I got to looking at the tattoos people have of passages of Scripture. I studied biblical Hebrew for two years in college, and every time I see the script I believe it is one of the most beautiful written languages on Earth. So, I have decided to get two lines of Scripture tattooed around my wrists. On the left, a line from the Old Testament: Micah 6.7b "Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God."

כִּי אִם-עֲשׂוֹת מִשְׁפָּט וְאַהֲבַת חֶסֶד וְהַצְנֵעַ לֶכֶת, עִם-אֱלֹהֶיךָ

On the right, a line in Greek. Matthew 5.7: "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy."

I like the idea of having those at the base of my hands, as I believe that the church is the body of Christ in a very real way in the world - to be his hands and feet, to show mercy and do justice in the world, to do so humbly, and with reverence. I like the idea of consecrating my hands in this way.

Two others. Several years ago I promised Erica that I would get the same tattoo that she has, the Kanji symbol for friendship, yuujou.

Okay, EVERYBODY has Kanji tats, and there is even a site dedicated to mocking people who use Kanji without knowing what it means or appreciating the culture from whence it has come. But I love Erica, and I want to fulfill my promise to her. Someone told me, "Oh, don’t do that. You won’t want it anymore if you guys ever stop being friends."

To which I replied, "If we are still friends after everything we’ve been through, we’re solid."

Her tat is on her right hip, and because of my obsession with balance, I would like to get another on my left hip. Like, for instance, Ái, the Kanji for Love:

Or Kazoku, the symbol for family:

Though it seems a bit weird to have the symbol for family on my hip. At any rate, I want balance, and I want them to mean something to me and not just be trendy-ass art. No barbed wire, or lame tribal designs, which will be out of style in ten years; I want stuff that tells the story of who I am, and how I came to be here, and where I am going.

Justice, mercy, peace, redemption, friendship, family, love - this is my story in a few words, a few symbols, and the idea of having it out there so that the world can see it - or in the case of the hip tats, not see it, makes me happy. Like I said, it tells the other side of the story my ugly scars tell; it tells of how I made it through the pain that gave me those scars. By gathering the people who love me around me, by looking for redemption and peace amidst all the pain, and by always trying to work for justice and show mercy, even when it is totally, completely against my nature to do any of these things.

That, to me, is what body art is all about. And I have a feeling that, while it will hurt like hell to get them, I will be insanely happy to have these symbols, this story, on my body. But as you can see, there is still some indecision; input would be helpful here, Intenet. Let’s have it.

Ink, This I Believe