The Adventures of Anna and Leland

Monday, February 6, 2012

In Defense of Ink

Last week, some poor unsuspecting student writer for a college paper posted a fairly nasty attack on women with tattoos. Which promptly went viral and said writer received a barrage of savage personal attacks in return. And on one hand I do feel badly for her - I can only imagine some of the vitriol she attracted - but on the other hand, when you write a condescending, ill-informed, sexist, and insulting essay where you state that women with tattoos are classless, inelegant, amoral, standardless idiots who are ruining their beauty in the eyes of men, you probably shouldn't be surprised if you get a little blowback.

Yep, women with tattoos are all the same...

After all, at least 15% of Americans have tattoos, rising to about 40% for people ages 18-29. 15% of men and 13% of women have tattoos (source), and I imagine that statistic is higher for people my age, though I couldn't find a source to support that supposition. We are the tattoo generation. And you know what? 84% of people with tattoos do not regret getting them.

Our tattoos are shallow...

I have four tattoos. All are relatively small and can be hidden with a three-quarter sleeve shirt. Based on the responses I've gotten from the general public, it's not hard for me to believe that of people without tattoos, 27% think that compared to someone without a tattoo, I'm less intelligent, 39% think I'm less sexy, 25% think I'm less spiritual, 47% think I'm less attractive, and 25% think I'm less healthy (same source as above).

thoughtless...

Those statistics get a resounding "meh" from me. Especially the ones regarding my attractive/sexy quotient. Because as much as this may surprise certain student writers, everything I do to and with my body is not geared toward the goal of increasing my appeal for men. Or women. My body is about so much more than my sexuality. I have pride in my body not because I look sexy in high heels, get manicures, wear trendy clothes, change my hairstyle, or go to the mall with girlfriends (all of which said writer posited as a satisfying and meaningful alternative to tattooing), but because it is MY BODY.

meaningless...

My tattoos are visual reminders of impactful moments in my life, meaningful and deeply personal transformations that I have chosen to permanently engrave into my skin so that I can never forget those lessons, those moments, that person I was. Some of them have more meaning than others, but all of them have come to essentialize and symbolize ME. This is why I don't really like getting asked what my tattoos "mean". That's a whole conversation, and most folks just aren't that invested.

And representative of failing modern morals

I hated my appearance in high school. You come up with any synonym for fat or ugly, and you can bet I've hurled it at myself. I internalized those hateful epithets so deeply that I still get confused when people compliment me. This annoys Leland to no end. "Do you think I'm blind, stupid, or lying?" he said once after I rejected a compliment from him.

My first tattoo

When I was 19, I chose to tattoo myself with the Egyptian symbol nefer, which has many meanings but always has the meaning of beauty. It was the first time I'd ever dared to think of myself as beautiful, much less to express that belief so openly as to have it marked permanently on my body. I still expected some cosmic force to deny me the tattoo, or at least to laugh at me for it, for the ridiculous belief that I was worthy of the label beautiful. The tattoo was an important part of my ongoing journey for self-acceptance. I had dared to believe that I had beauty. And the more I told people what the tattoo meant, the more I embraced it.

I am not beautiful because of this tattoo, but it
allowed me to celebrate my beauty after years of self-hatred

When I was 20, a friend and I each chose a warrior figure from a Spanish cave painting and had it tattooed on our upper backs, just below the nape of the neck. Skye was my dig partner on the first real archaeological investigation I was ever a part of, and the tattoos were chosen to commemorate that. Everything about the dig was exciting for me, the opening of a door into a new professional life.

It's hard to take a picture of your own back

My little warrior still represents my connection to the archaeological past, and he has also come to symbolize the strength of my body. Though this is the tattoo I spend the least amount of time thinking about (I can't see it, after all), it feels like a challenge and a promise that I've made to myself. I will honor my body by making it healthy and strong. Because my body is worthy of my time and energy - and not just a project to define my self-worth by my sex appeal.

My little warrior's got my back

When I was 21, I found myself in emotional chaos, heartsick, depressed, lonely, and without purpose. I had no energy, no spark. I was in a valley that I couldn't climb out of and I knew it, so I did something impetuous. Without telling anyone beforehand, I got another tattoo. This one combined the Triple Goddess Symbol with the Adinkra Hye Won Hye. The Triple Goddess symbolizes the powers of the feminine, representing the three stages of womanhood - maiden, matron, crone - as the waxing, full, and waning moon. The Hye Won Hye is an Asante symbol (a people from Ghana) that was used on hand-stamped cloth. At the time I got the tattoo, I understood the meaning of the Hye Won Hye as "that which cannot be burnt". To me, this meant strength in the face of difficulty, walking through fire without injury.

My problem child tattoo

Of all my tattoos, this one is not one that I would choose to get again, largely because it is appropriative. I am not a Pagan, nor am I even Black, let alone Asante. In fact, I once had a guy at the gym ask me if I was a Pagan after he saw the tattoo. When he learned that I wasn't, he gave me an earful. (Years later, a female Pagan friend told me that she thought the tattoo was fine, and that the idea of feminine energy and strength shouldn't be a symbol exclusive to Pagans.)

A symbol of my life, not a regret

But do I regret this tattoo? Not at all. It didn't magically pull me out of my depression and it reminds me of a low point in my life. But you know what? Those are things that happened to me. This tattoo, perhaps more than any other, is a perfect encapsulation of who I was at the time that it was made. Years later, I learned that the Hye Won Hye has another meaning as well. It means forgiveness. And so that tattoo has gained another layer of meaning as I healed - forgiveness for the person who broke my heart. Forgiveness for myself.

When I was 22, I fell in love again. My new boyfriend offered to buy me a tattoo as a graduation present. After only five weeks of dating, we ended up getting the same tattoo - SPQR. This is an abbreviation of a Latin phrase, "Senatus Populusque Romanus" - The Senate and People of Rome. The phrase was used exhaustively throughout the Roman Republic and into the present Italian state. It turns out that my boyfriend and I had each, individually, always wanted that tattoo. We spent hours (in that way of new couples) talking about the symbol of Rome as the crux of humanity. All roads lead to Rome. For me Rome represents the totality of human experience.

All roads lead to Rome

And because of the circumstances in which I got the tattoo, it will always remind me of the spring when I was young and newly in love with the man who would become my husband. It reminds me of the giddy richness of love's chemical intoxication, and of the impetuous, wonderful, foolish things we do under its spell. Even if someday we are no longer together, that time will always be unimaginably precious to me. Regardless of the circumstance, I want to remember my past, not pretend it didn't happen.

Leland graciously allowed me to take this
picture while he was playing video games.
Can't you feel the romance?

Like most tattooed people, I have dozens of anecdotes about others' reactions to my tattoos. The middle-aged woman who frowned at me and said, "you're such a baby to have all those!" (I was 27). The sales associate at David's Bridal who assured me, "those can be covered up with makeup." The numerous men who used my tattoos as a pickup line. But really, I don't care what you think of my tattoos. I always like to hear compliments, of course, but I didn't get them for someone else's approval. I got them for myself.

Whatever, haters

Humans have been tattooing themselves for at least 5000 years and this practice has had meaning all over the world, in the past and the present. And if you have the gall to openly stereotype me and 40% of your peers because of our tattoos, then I admire your cajones but I also feel very sorry for you, because that attitude is incredibly shortsighted. When you give in to those prejudices, you're setting yourself up for a very narrow life and you will miss out on some truly incredible people. You're entitled to your opinion, and I hope you enjoy the tiny little box that it will keep you in.

Eww, tattoos. Let's stereotype people!

Of all the issues in the article that kicked this whole thing off, I was primarily disturbed by the internalized sexism on display. I was secondarily annoyed by the arrogant suggestion that someone without any tattoos can promise that practically any other activity will be a more rewarding experience than getting one. Maybe that's true - but how the hell would you know? But finally, I was caught by the student writer's foolish and almost plaintive question:

"But at the end of the day, are you really a happier person? Has this tattoo, for instance, caused you to learn something new about yourself? Has it challenged you? Has it led you to self-growth?"

That's probably a question you should have asked of some tattooed folks, instead of assuming that you already knew the answer.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Craft Round Up

I've never thought of myself as a crafty person.

Unless we're talking about crafty as in mwa-ha-ha (evil laughter), in which case... well, maybe only in my head.

ANYWAY, I had my fair share of crafting in Girl Scouts and art class and Sunday School and so on, and I always sort of dutifully followed directions. I'm not particularly dextrous and never considered myself to be visually creative, plus I'm kind of lazy, impatient, and easily bored. Not really a good combination of traits for, say, making a reproduction of the Mona Lisa out of beans and rocks and cat fur and things you find around the house.

But my dear mother did teach me how to use a sewing machine and I had a few half-hearted attempts at making clothing in which I always took the laziest possible way out (tape is a perfectly fine way to hold up a hem, thankyouverymuch).

Then my sister-in-law got pregnant and one of those brash, unlikely, over-ambitious ideas popped into my head. "Hey, I wonder how hard it is to make a quilt?"

Not very, as it turns out.

Quilting involves a lot of precise, detail-oriented, repetitive work. Which is the kind of thing you'd think that I'd hate, but I actually love, as long as I have something else going on in the background. So I watch mindless TV and quilt. Desperate Housewives is particularly good for this. Right now, in addition to two super-secret projects (gifts), I'm making a king-size quilt for us using scraps from previous quilts and several of Leland's old shirts.

These are nine-patch blocks.
And the lighting I took the pictures in
is what photography pros call "shitty".

I'm hoping that it doesn't look too insane when I sew it all together. But that's Future Anna's Problem.

As mentioned in the previous post, I also recently made some very pretty mint jelly.

Oh mint jelly, I will never eat you all

And a couple of weekends ago, I went haring off down another trajectory after my mother-in-law and soap maker extraordinaire Phyllis expressed a desire to learn how to felt soap. I Googled up some tutorials and thought "I can do that". And guess what?

Boom.

Really the only special skills you need to have in order to felt soap are to possess hands or exceptionally dextrous* feet. And a tolerance for touching wet unspun wool, which is slightly creepy since it is basically wet hair. You get the wool wet and agitate it around the soap, and it shrinks around the bar just like your favorite sweater in the wash. The idea is then that the soap is enclosed in its own washcloth/gentle exfoliating surface. To be honest I thought it was more fun felting the soap than using it afterwards. But apparently some people love that kind of thing, so to each their own.

I also did a really neat-o project yesterday, and I took lots of pictures so let's get our tutorial on, everyone!

We're going to turn an old t-shirt into a bag, like the kind you might bring to the farmer's market to put all of your local organic vegan gluten-free lactose-free cruelty-free food-free goodies into, you crazy hipsters, you.

Step 1: Start with that great t-shirt that your friend gave you (you know, the friend who always gives you the best presents) that fit for about ten minutes and forever after has sat languishing in your drawer, accusing you with its eyes.** By the way, Electric Fetus is an awesome record store (and maybe just a wee bit of a head shop) in Minneapolis.

Step 1. Shame t-shirt.

Step 2: Cut off the sleeves and the collar. You're making the handles of the bag.

Or just stop here and have a very attractive tank top
to wear to the monster truck rally

Step 3: Festoon your loved ones with the discarded sleeves and collar, then take pictures of them looking reproachfully at you. Laugh at them while you're doing this and threaten to post it on the internet where the twelve people who read your blog will see it.

Nova only has two expressions: reproachfulness and guilt

And Leland has his mouth full. Lovely.

Step 4: Turn the t-shirt inside out. You can either cut the bottom hem off now or after you've sewed it shut. I did it after. Doesn't matter. Slap a few pins on the bottom to hold it together.

Step 5: The only step which requires some semblance of skill. Sew a straight*** line across the bottom. I used a very wee stitch length to make the stitch stronger and did a second stitch 1/8th of an inch apart to reinforce the bottom of the bag.

No, it doesn't need to be neat. It's the inside of a bag.

Step 6: Turn the t-shirt rightside out and marvel at your creation. Put things in it.

Done.
And you've entertained yourself for 10 whole minutes!

And that's it! And next time you're at Giant Eagle, you can tell the uncaring bag boy that you upcycled your t-shirt all by yourself! But don't use the word upcycled because you will sound like a tool.****

Yay!!

THE END.

EXCEPT FOR THE...

VERY IMPORTANT FOOTNOTES

*Dextrous seems to be the word of the day.

**Man, I am full of beans today, aren't I? This is what you get for telling me my blog posts are funny. I get all carried away.

***or wobbly, depending on how many gin & tonics you've consumed by this point. As long as it goes all the way across the bottom, who cares?

****Yes, the CONCEPT of upcycling is great. Take something old and useless and make something new, functional, and hopefully cute. But do we have to have such a self-congratulatory, self-righteous word for it?

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

New Year's Resolutions

I don't do resolutions. Mostly because I feel that New Year's resolutions are sort of made to be broken anyway. Also because I'm already perfect.

But this year, I'm making just one resolution: post more on the blog. And by "more", I mean "at all". I could do some song and dance about how busy I am and how I lost the battery to my camera (actually, I lost the charger first and then I found the charger and lost the battery), but I haven't posted since June.

So....

Anyway, here's a brief list of things that have happened since then.

I witnessed the birth of my nephew - which was awesome. And though the nurse kept joking about how it was "birth control" for me, it actually made me feel better about the whole idea of giving birth myself.

Leave me alone lady, I've had a hard day

I also got to spend lots of quality time with my in-laws and my almost three year old nephew, Luke.

I lived through my first earthquake and (almost) my first real hurricane. Busy year, meteorologically speaking. I was still in Pennsylvania for Irene, scheduled to drive back to North Carolina the next day.

During the drive, we ended up miscalculating gas consumption and had to spend an hour waiting in line for gas in an area with no power. When I finally made it home to Leland, there was a certain amount of chaos waiting for me. We lost electricity for almost three days, though many others in Greenville never lost it at all. Our power lines are somewhere underneath the tree in the above picture. Whoops.

We ended up harvesting armfuls of basil and mint this fall. Leland made pesto, and I made mint jelly. Both turned out pretty well, though the pesto has already been consumed and the mint jelly is... languishing. The jelly is a beautiful green color and it tastes nice, but I'm at sort of a loss of what to do with it. And when I get my new camera battery, maybe I'll post a picture!

We had two adorable foster kitties, Lucy and Genevieve. Lucy is all black, with a nick out of one ear (it's how some groups mark stray cats who have been fixed), and Genevieve is black and white. They were both very sweet and energetic. Fletcher was less than pleased. He did his standard routine of hissing half-heartedly at them for the first couple days and then strenuously ignoring them thereafter.

Genevieve is a special needs kitty... kind of. She has some kind of ailment which affects her gait. She has some malformation in her hips, but also

perhaps some neurological involvement. Perhaps even some vision issues - no one knows. But the upshot is that she walks like she's drunk. She hugs the wall as she walks and sometimes she falls off of things.

However, her condition is not progressive and so doesn't seem to be a cause for any alarm. She plays just as hard as any other young cat and will most likely live a completely normal life.

So it's totally cool to think the way she walks is a little funny.

Genevieve was adopted a couple days ago - but Lucy's still available! So if you're in the market for a sweet young kitty with a loud purr, an adorable chirping meow, and very soft fur, get on over to the Humane Society.

(By the way, I have no idea about the picture formatting. Blogger is stupid.)

Our holidays were very nice. My parents came for Thanksgiving, and we joined Leland's parents and his sister, brother-in-law, and their two kids for a Christmas at the Outer Banks. It was lovely. Quiet, temperate, calm. We saw dolphins every day and actually saw a whale as well!

Nova even got to come with us.

We've had Nova for more than a year now and she's had a huge improvement in her temperment and behavior in that time. (Spellcheck wants me to make 'temperment' into 'empowerment'). She was so well behaved around our little nephew. However, she did not like the ocean. She loved to run on the beach, but fearfully scampered away from the waves like the world's biggest, dumbest sandpiper. So much for that Labrador blood.

And finally, the biggest news of all...

TRUST GOT ADOPTED!!!

A lovely family adopted Mr. Trust in early November. Because of his unique circumstances, the Humane Society gave the family my phone number in case of problems. His new owner did end up calling with some problems shortly after he was adopted. However, just before Thanksgiving I got another call. Trust is not only settled into his new home, he's doing great! He's calm and loving with his family and seems to be, well, a normal dog.

YIPPEE!!

So here's to a happy 2012. And more blogging!