Going Rogue and Bleeding Easily

I got a tattoo and no one in my family knows. If you keep reading, I’d be much obliged if you just kept this between us.

Prescott, Arizona has an annual tattoo convention in early July, which brings artists from around the country (and a few from overseas) to the casino northeast of town. Entering the main hall, where booths line the walls and form aisles to traverse, the sound of tattoo machines brings to mind a horde of insects. These ones bite if you have the money. I don’t remember exactly when my interest in tattoos began, but by the time I made it to that room I really wanted to be there. Tattoos had worked their way into my consciousness over time, most directly through the people I surrounded myself with at school. Still, friends notwithstanding, this wasn’t a community I thought I’d feel comfortable even being around, much less trying to join – artists and patrons covered in ink from neck to ankle are, from the outside, a pretty tight bunch, and they can come off as unattainably cooler than thou – but I was wrong. Of course they want you to be there, of course they want you to flip through their portfolio. I walked by every booth four or five times and left with a fistfull of business cards.

One belonged to an artist who tattoos under the name Horiken. He and his friend, Horishin, had come from Japan, and I dallied at their table the longest. When done well, Japanese tattoos, or irezumi, are far and away the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Deeply rooted in Buddhist and Shinto mythologies, and evolving from the ukiyo-e woodblock prints of Hokusai, Hiroshige and others, they allow their owners to tell stories about themselves through visually and thematically complex imagery. Dragons and koi are common motifs, alluding to strength, power, and perseverance, but there are hundreds, if not thousands, more. There are rules, and lots of them. Maple leaves and cherry blossoms shouldn’t be in the same tattoo; the seasons don’t mix. The physical practice itself goes back a long time, and artists still apprentice with masters – Horiyoshi III, Horitoshi I – for years before venturing out on their own. Over centuries the Japanese have developed a style of tattooing that integrates seamlessly with the human form. Far from the only clientele, Japan’s organized crime syndicate, the yakuza, are nonetheless well known for their full-body suits, and as such, most people in Japan still associate irezumi with criminality and gang membership. Onsen typically ban tattooed individuals from enjoying their hot springs, and most people in Japan who are tattooed keep their work covered. Slowly though, thanks in large part to the growing ubiquity of tattoos in Western culture, it is becoming more acceptable to show them openly, and as they become more visible, Japanese tattoo imagery and practice is rapidly spreading around the world. Here in Arizona, the traditional style of American tattooing – think Sailor Jerry, Don Ed Hardy – is king, but Horiken and Horishin were plenty busy.

Both were working at a shop down in Mesa for a couple days after the convention before heading back to Japan. I’d been drawing in a sketchbook for a few months by then, little trees and mountains and other uninspired designs, changing my mind on what I wanted over and over and over. Friends of mine thought I’d never go through with it, unable to make a decision, and were duly surprised when I announced one day that I’d scheduled an appointment for later that evening. I decided on a red-crowned crane the night before, knowing – perhaps trusting – that it would be well-executed and, most importantly, someone else’s work, and therefore not subject to my inevitable self-criticism. As they were preoccupied, I went alone.

Mind you, the convention is one thing, but a tattoo shop is the den, where all the coolest of the cool congregate and be cool together. As a non-tattooed, decidedly uncool individual, I expected to feel even more acutely out of my element than before. Wrong again. It may have helped that Horiken spoke no English, nor I a word of Japanese, so I watched him work in reverential silence. His translator made sure everything was in order before taking off for the entirety of my sitting to get coffee or something. But more importantly, getting your first tattoo is, naturally, something to be celebrated, not judged. Other artists in the shop wandered over periodically to watch the bird take shape, from freehand sketch in green and red sharpie to outlining to shading. They paid close attention to a fellow practitioner at work, then looked at me and gave their approval. I ate it up, mainly to myself as I looked from my leg to the walls and ceiling covered in tattoo flash and back again, barely suppressing a sheepish grin.

One reason I worry about my parents’ reaction, apart from their own preconceived notions about the sorts of people who would tarnish their bodies with tattoos, is that I have a blood condition that might have precluded me from getting one at all. You, reading this, probably have anywhere from 150,000 to 450,000 platelets per microliter of blood. You clot just fine. At last count, I had less than 10,000. Normally this does nothing to hinder my daily life, but knowing that getting tattooed is literally being stabbed thousands of times with bunched needles, I called my doctor beforehand just to be sure and got his blessing. Still, after Horiken finished and wrapped my crane in saran wrap, it bled profusely. I pulled out my phone and typed, “I bleed easily” into Google Translate and showed it to him. He chuckled and nodded. I asked if it would heal alright, and he said not to worry. With napkins wedged under my leg for the two-hour drive home, I couldn’t have been happier, and I knew I’d be making that trip again.

Cranes are revered in Japan, representing longevity and fidelity. I got one because I love birds, and this is one I haven’t yet seen in person; it speaks to all that I have yet to accomplish and experience in my life. After a real-life encounter, the meaning will remain, but it will also just be a bird on my leg, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Tattoos are life-markers, telling not only the story of the imagery ingrained in the skin but also of the time when the wearer made that choice. This choice I made, somewhat impromptu but long considered, stems from circumstances that will someday seem perfectly alien to my future self, but I won’t have forgotten where I’ve been and how far I’ve come.

A stigma lingers in society regarding tattoos, but I don’t care. There are people I know, and plenty I don’t, whose tattoos endear them to me immensely, both for their artistic expression and the fact that they literally wear their emotions and ideas and values on their sleeves. There are few things I appreciate more than that. When I work up to that inevitable conversation –interrogation, more likely – I hope they’ll understand.

Will Flemer listens to more podcasts than you have unread emails. He appreciates craft beer, trap music, The New Yorker and walking places with his camera. You can find his photography here.