LAS CRUCES, N.M. — Tattoos have always been taboo for me. Growing up, I spent the majority of my time with my mother’s side of the family, and not a single member on that side of the family had any tattoos, no doubt in part to my grandmother’s disdain for them. I vividly recall her ranting to me one day, declaring that the only people who had tattoos were criminals. On shopping trips with her, whenever we would come upon someone with even the smallest tattoo, her face would morph into pure disgust.
This sentiment seems to be a common one, not just in traditional Mexican-American families, despite Mexico having a rich history of tattoos, dating as far back as the times of the Aztec nation, who believed tattoos were a bridge to forming a deeper connection with the divine, but a fair bit of the population. In fact, according to an article published on “Psychology Today,” despite the rising popularity and increasing commonality of tattoos, people with tattoos still face heavy stigma and discrimination from other individuals, as well as prospective employers.
Despite these deep-rooted stereotypes instilled in me and seemingly ingrained in society at large, I always knew I wanted a tattoo. Anytime I watched a movie or television series and there was a character with tattoos, especially a full sleeve of them, I immediately thought that character was the coolest person alive. I aspired to be just like them.
So, starting from the day I turned 16, I begged my parents to sign a consent form so I could get my first tattoo. Their answer was a resounding no. Then my 17th birthday crept up, and I tried my luck and asked again. Once again, the answer was a stern no. And so I spent the first months of 17 feeling dejected, even more so when my uncle from my dad’s side of the family wound up getting a series of small Roman numeral tattoos on his knuckles later that year. I thought he looked like a badass, and I was jealous.
Finally, my 18th birthday arrived, and I was now considered a legal adult who didn’t need the permission of my parents to get a tattoo. The first thing I did that morning was Google nearby tattoo shops and called every single one to check if there was any availability. I was able to find a shop and set up an appointment, and then later that day, without telling my parents, I set off to get my first tattoo.
The entire drive to the tattoo shop was chaotic. My mind was preoccupied with worries about how painful the tattoo would be and the negative reaction from my family. These worries increased even more once I was finally sitting inside the shop, waiting for my artist to finalize the stencil of the tattoo I had chosen, a Psyduck grasping at its head. There was no going back now.
The entire tattooing process was quick and surprisingly painless. I left the tattoo shop feeling like a brand new man, a man with a Psyduck sitting proudly on his right forearm.
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