The Story of My First Tatt
June 9th 2011 04:06
So for all of us, there has to be a first time.
I was brought up in a dysfunctional religious family, and we attended a little fundamentalist church that had many of the hallmarks of being a cult. Their view was that children having a mind and will of their own was a Very Bad Thing, which had to be beaten out of them. Children needed to be "broken", a bit like wild horses, I guess. There were very strict views about what we could wear, what haircuts we could have, and in such matters, what the child wanted was not a consideration. The church told the father what was right, and the father was sole authority in the family - what he said goes.
As a result, I spent my childhood looking like a complete dork, and being picked on at school because of it. But sooner or later, children become teenagers. Came the time when my father could no longer control me. I left the church when I was 13 or 14, I think. I left home when I was 15, got a flat (unit?) with an older acquaintance, and a job. And predictably, I vowed that I would never look like a member of that church again. I grew long hair (it was in at the time), and chose my own clothing.
So at 15, one of my workmates bet me $10 that I wouldn't get a tattoo. It was a great idea - this could be my Declaration of Independence, a permanent statement that I was rejecting my father's views and his religion.
Unfortunately, there was no "tattooing parlour" (as they were then called) in our country town. But I found out that there was a tattooist working from the front room of his home. I found him. I don't recall what the laws were then, but he had no qualms about tattooing a 15 year old, he just asked me not to ever tell the police where I got it.
Back then, there was no need for a tattooist to actually have any artistic talent. You bought sheets of "flash" (i.e., tattoo designs), and traced them onto a stencil to transfer the design onto the skin, and just followed that around with the tattoo machine.
Of course, I wanted something bad-arse, but Normie (the tattooist) talked me into getting something reasonably small, high up on my arm where it could be covered by a short-sleeved shirt, and something that was not in any way offensive.
This was because tattoos carried a stigma which could affect your employment prospects, and your social acceptability.
Hence, I now have a little tatt on my right arm of two flowers with a scroll. The scroll stayed empty for a lot of years. Of course, you normally put "Mother" in your first scroll, but I felt I couldn't because my mum hated tattoos and I didn't want to upset or dishonor her. I couldn't put my girlfriend's name in the scroll, 'cos you change girlfriends quite a lot when you're 15. So eventually, the scroll got filled in with the make of my first large motorcycle.
I don't remember whether I ever collected on the bet.
As an irrelevant aside, Normie later died in mysterious circumstances, shot trying to climb his fence. No-one ever knew what that was about, although many suspect it was to do with drug dealing.
Was your first time a big deal?
I was brought up in a dysfunctional religious family, and we attended a little fundamentalist church that had many of the hallmarks of being a cult. Their view was that children having a mind and will of their own was a Very Bad Thing, which had to be beaten out of them. Children needed to be "broken", a bit like wild horses, I guess. There were very strict views about what we could wear, what haircuts we could have, and in such matters, what the child wanted was not a consideration. The church told the father what was right, and the father was sole authority in the family - what he said goes.
As a result, I spent my childhood looking like a complete dork, and being picked on at school because of it. But sooner or later, children become teenagers. Came the time when my father could no longer control me. I left the church when I was 13 or 14, I think. I left home when I was 15, got a flat (unit?) with an older acquaintance, and a job. And predictably, I vowed that I would never look like a member of that church again. I grew long hair (it was in at the time), and chose my own clothing.
So at 15, one of my workmates bet me $10 that I wouldn't get a tattoo. It was a great idea - this could be my Declaration of Independence, a permanent statement that I was rejecting my father's views and his religion.
Unfortunately, there was no "tattooing parlour" (as they were then called) in our country town. But I found out that there was a tattooist working from the front room of his home. I found him. I don't recall what the laws were then, but he had no qualms about tattooing a 15 year old, he just asked me not to ever tell the police where I got it.
Back then, there was no need for a tattooist to actually have any artistic talent. You bought sheets of "flash" (i.e., tattoo designs), and traced them onto a stencil to transfer the design onto the skin, and just followed that around with the tattoo machine.
Of course, I wanted something bad-arse, but Normie (the tattooist) talked me into getting something reasonably small, high up on my arm where it could be covered by a short-sleeved shirt, and something that was not in any way offensive.
This was because tattoos carried a stigma which could affect your employment prospects, and your social acceptability.
Hence, I now have a little tatt on my right arm of two flowers with a scroll. The scroll stayed empty for a lot of years. Of course, you normally put "Mother" in your first scroll, but I felt I couldn't because my mum hated tattoos and I didn't want to upset or dishonor her. I couldn't put my girlfriend's name in the scroll, 'cos you change girlfriends quite a lot when you're 15. So eventually, the scroll got filled in with the make of my first large motorcycle.
I don't remember whether I ever collected on the bet.
As an irrelevant aside, Normie later died in mysterious circumstances, shot trying to climb his fence. No-one ever knew what that was about, although many suspect it was to do with drug dealing.
Was your first time a big deal?
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