Tattoo
I screamed for the
last time. A long, loud, delicious scream. All my epidermal pain receptors
stood at attention. I prayed that the isopropyl alcohol would do its job
well. The piece of cotton emerged black from the excess ink, and bright
red from the blood I shed. Then I vomited. My lizard, which I named “Liv,”
meaning life, emerged from my pain, beautiful.
By Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz
Northern Dispatch
Posted by Bulatlat
Five years.
It took me five years to finally gather the courage to go. No, not
because I was afraid of the pain, but because of its permanence. For
someone who is enamored with the idea of the mutability of things,
feelings, ideas, the tattoo is a horrifying objet d’art0: indelible
forever, under my skin, in my blood.
In the
studio of the tattoo artist, the process began with the choice of design.
Knowing that for early Filipinos, the tattoo is talismanic, my design had
to be my totem
-
the lizard. The lizard is much revered in the
Cordilleras
because it is considered a messenger of the gods; the link between the
Spirit World and Earth. As a writer, I resonated to that responsibility. I
had a preference for the tribal motif and the artist warned me that
because such a style requires “blacking” the entire design, it would take
longer and naturally be more painful.
At that
time, no promise of physical pain could daunt me because inside I was
completely battered, struggling with the death of a dream. In fact, I
figured that perhaps the epidermal trauma would even give me comfort -- a
respite from the turmoil of the spirit. I also reassured myself with the
lizard’s powers, which I believed I would imbibe in the process: the
ability to cut off its own tail when in danger. And then grow it back.
AUTOTOMY.
The artist
began by transferring the design onto my back with an ordinary ballpoint
pen. Light, graceful strokes, preparing me for the needle. The
excruciating pleasure softened me, made me languid. Like a lover, a moist
tongue on my back
-
a kind of foreplay, yes.
Part of the
anxiety in getting a tattoo is the sound that the machine makes -- like a
dentist’s drill. You can shut your eyes and choose not to watch, but even
if you try to cover your ears, you will still hear it, the insistent drone
that warns you that the first blood will now be shed.
First, the
outline. Accomplished with just one needle, the size of the hypodermic
used to draw blood for an H.I.V. test. “Are you ready?” Dolfo, the
artist, asked, smiling.
“No, of
course not. Just do it.”
And he
pressed the needle against my skin firmly. I could almost hear the skin
break and the blood spurt -- but maybe it was just my imagination.
Nearing a bone, the pain doubled, and I shouted in defiance. He stopped,
wiped the area of blood. He started again. I screamed again. It is not
true when people say getting a tattoo is just like getting bitten by ants.
Dolfo knew
that it was time for an anesthetic.
“Would you
like a beer?” he offered.
“Is that
allowed? My cousin, who got a tattoo in
California,
said it’s dangerous,” I inquired, wincing.
“They’re
just overacting. We’ll never get this done if you keep screaming.” So he
got me a bottle of Red Horse -- 500 ml of strong, dark beer that I gulped
in ten minutes.
Sufficiently
numbed by the alcohol, I asked him to try again. Part of why I let him
continue was the fact that it was too late to make him stop. When he was
done with the outline, he handed me a mirror so that I could judge his
handiwork. My half-done lizard was already striking -- but my back was
red and swollen. I could see the tracks left by the needle, and the blood
that he kept wiping off with cotton dipped in water.
He changed
the needle with 5 tiny ones to fill in the design. It was not that
painful when he began again. Maybe it was the beer. Or maybe my skin had
gotten so used to the constant battering that my mind did not register it
as pain anymore. Is this how the hymen breaks with the first sexual
intrusion? Does the constant beating against it eventually become
pleasurable?
When he was
done, he wiped the design with a cotton wad dripping with alcohol. The
coup de grâce. I screamed for the last time. A long, loud, delicious
scream. All my epidermal pain receptors stood at attention. I prayed that
the isopropyl alcohol would do its job well. The piece of cotton emerged
black from the excess ink, and bright red from the blood I shed. Then I
vomited.
My lizard,
which I named “Liv,” meaning life, emerged from my pain, beautiful. She
looked almost alive, as if she were crawling up my back, onto my shoulder,
every time I moved. The tattooing took three hours, but the pain of the
wounding lasted three more days.
Already, I
wanted another one. Northern Dispatch/Posted by Bulatlat
( In
traditional Cordillera culture, tattooing was ritually done to keep a
record of bravery, tribal seniority, and property. Today, many tattoo
shops dot
Baguio
City’s
landscape, proving that the tradition is alive and well.)
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