Get Inked

The buzzing sounds like an incessant mosquito resting on my eardrum. Most say the noise is the worst part. The common cliche of mind versus matter runs through my head as I wait my turn. The noise rests only for the slender needle to gather more liquid ink. Instead of sucking blood, this tool punctures the skin and drags vibrant blues, greens, and oranges transforming the boring tan color of flesh into an artistic masterpiece. After 45 minutes of perfecting my idea, I roll up my T-shirt, lay on my side and inhale as deeply as possible, trying to create as much space between my rib cage and the tender thin skin that protects it.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware that I am very fond of tattoos and so is my father. He has seven while prior to last week I had two. He has his religious leg displaying an intricate Christ head, a cross wrapped in a "In Memory of Mom" banner and "In Memory of Dad" intertwined through a rose-cross hybrid.

His other leg has less of a theme, but if I had to pick one I would say it his Tribute leg. He has my name as well as my brother's in thick cursive letters, a giant horse with protruding muscles standing tall on its hind legs, and the multi-colored Autism Awareness Ribbon.

Not all people like tattoos, in fact my mom thinks his legs look like comics strips but beauty is in the eye of those who can take the pain. Tattooing is truly an art form, a honest expression of self and the amount of detail and complexity that goes into forming these epidermic showpieces, looks like they were created with a fine tuned pencil rather than a bobbing needle.

All of my father's tattoos have special meaning to him as do mine. He took me for my first tattoo on my 18th birthday, I guess you can call it one of the ways we bond. My first tattoo was the polychromatic ribbon my father has above his ankle. I remember walking into this tattoo parlor in Sayville, NY my stomach twisted up like a carnival pretzel. I signed a waiver and watched as this burly man with hair almost longer than mine, sanitized the entirety of the room. He cleaned and covered everything from the tools he was using to the phone cord that hung on the wall. He shaved my hip, cleaned the area and geared up the machinery that would permanently paint my flesh. Maybe it was the spot of my tattoo, but it didn't necessarily hurt. It felt more like he was rubbing a piece of sandpaper on my hip.

Seventy-five dollars and twenty five minutes later I walked out an addict.

Less than a year later I was ready for tattoo number two. My friend had a cousin who was a tattoo artist, so on a steamy summer day we went together, both getting secondary pigmentations. I repeated the cleansing process this time on the inside of my foot and gripped the chair so hard I put holes in the bottom. There was more fatty tissue on my hip, more flesh to absorb the needles' wrath. Flexing my foot, I felt like he had stabbed me with a blunt object and was literally dragging it through my tendons. After five minutes, which felt like five days, I limped away painfully content with "Monti" branded on my left foot forever.

I vowed to myself I was done. Two sounded like a good number and nothing else really moved me enough to paste it indelibly on my body. The Autism Awareness Ribbon was a tribute to my 17 year old brother who has autism. The intermingling puzzle pieces decorated my hip and reminded me of every struggle, lesson, and journey he has taken my family on. It may just be a pretty ribbon but it represents the open-mindedness, selflessness and patience Nicholas singlehandedly instilled in me; it might just be ink on skin but it symbolizes that baby steps for some can be leaps and bounds for others. To me, it personifies the real meaning of sacrifice.

There are only three Monti women in my entire family, one in each generation. I have Cohen cousins and DeSalvo cousins, but I am the lone female Monti. Thanks to tradition, if I ever decide to engage in that whole marriage idea, it will erase Monti from my license, my bills, and the last name scribbled on my future children's math tests. My brother is the only other Monti in our generation and I have a strong feeling he probably won't be saying "I do" before a priest anytime in the near future. We cant even get him to accept the "cookie" on Sundays, let alone get him into the church and the closest he has come to a relationship is carrying around a decrepit picture of some girl in his class that he tore out of his school yearbook. So if I do decide to take part in the sanctity of marriage, even though my last name will legally change I'll always have it with me.

It wasn't until the last month of school when a saying stirred something inside me; put the way I view the world into words. My boyfriend, who has a tattoo of his own, had an idea for a new one: "Count life's blessings, not its problems." It struck me. My entire life I have been conditioned to see the brighter side of things. I have been forced to see the glass as half full, to look past the tribulations and see the silver lining even if it was buried beneath tears and trauma. Optimism has been carved into my brain whether I liked it or not.

I sat on the idea for a few months and finally a few weeks after my 22nd birthday I walked into the Devil's Rose in Bluepoint, NY with my hands shaking. Even though I already had two tattoos, that familiar buzzing dragged up my two vastly different experiences, fairly distressing and relatively traumatizing. The man that did my first tattoo left his first parlor in Sayville, and with a new partner, they started their own.

Typically when you walk into a tattoo parlor you are bombarded with skulls, pictorial half naked pin up girls and a sound system blasting screaming voices that never should have gotten a record deal, but Devil's Rose is different. Its somewhat vintage feel was less dark and intimidating than the other places I had been. There were random knickknacks on the walls, turquoise bar stools, and three rooms separated by old changing screens. Even though Devil's Rose is fairly new, it is inviting and friendly unlike many other tattoo parlors that try to fit that stereotypical dark and evil image.

I met with Eric, who had cut off all his hair since I last saw him, and after three drawings he perfected my next tattoo. I lay on the cold cushioned table and stretched my arm towards the opposite side of the room. Buzzing ensued and so did the torture. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be until that needle crept directly over my ribs.

Peaceful or about to die?

The fact that my arm cupped my ear was not only making me lose sensation in that shoulder but seemed to amplify the sounds I heard inside my body. It felt as if the needle plunged right through my flesh and I could hear it vibrating the bone. Every single one of my muscles tensed, ceased, and cried for mercy but I did not say a word. It was so worth it. 

Puffy and bloody :)

Whether it is one of those domino effect days where you wake up with a huge pimple, put sour milk in your cereal, get a flat tire on your way to work and then get there and realize its Saturday or when it seems like your being battered mercilessly by life and can not see the light at the end of that eternal tunnel, I can look down and always be reminded to count all the blessings in my life rather than to harp on all its problems. It can ALWAYS be worse.