On my daughter Julia’s 18th birthday we went to the San Francisco Tattoo Expo. She wanted to have a butterfly on the back of her neck and I was to have a tattoo done on my arm at the same time to commemorate her coming of age. We were the first ones to arrive at the Cow Palace. We wanted to check out each artist, compare prices before we made a commitment.
Some of the artists were burly big guys. Some looked like punk rockers and others seemed tribal and shamanistic. I looked at the tattoos on their bodies and just couldn’t connect with any of them. After making a complete round Julia and I settled on a Japanese lady. She was young and beautiful. Her long black hair reached below her waist. Her arms were covered with the most delicate and gorgeous designs. Her husband (also had long black hair) was working on a client. The artwork on his body had a similar style. We fell in love with the couple.
When the Japanese lady started working on Julia more people began to come into the venue. Some stopped to watch and chat. Many gasped when I told them I was there for my daughter . They pulled up their shirts or pants and showed me their tattoos. They told me stories of how furious their mothers were and some to the extent of disowning them when they found out about their tattoos. There were tears, still, and sorrow, and anger, and resentment after decades; all because of a permanent design on the body.
I was hugged and kissed and congratulated all day by strangers who seemed to have found some comfort in my presence. They didn’t care about the intricate butterfly that was slowly emerging on Julia’s back. They wanted me to be their mom. And I was, for a few moments in their lives.
