’m having my tattoos removed.
I have quite a few tattoos. No one ever
believes this—because mostly they’re cov
ered up by clothes—but 1 do. 1 had the first
one done over a decade ago, and I still remem
ber exactly how it felt, sitting there in the chair
while the needle etched a picture into my
body. It was, in many ways, a spiritual experi
ence. The image reflected how 1 was feeling at
the time, and it was a visible marker of my
growth. 1 also thought it was just
I
plain cool.
Since then, I’ve had four
I I
more, each one marking a partic
ular moment in my life. I’ve
enjoyed getting each tattoo, and
each one means something to
me. But 1 don’t need them any
more. I don’t know why, really,
except that one day I was looking
at them in the mirror and I real
!
ized suddenly that it was time for
I I
them to go.
So now, once a month, I go to
the dermatologist and lie on the
table while he takes off the tat
toos with a laser. Because we’re
doing all my tattoos at once, this
takes a while. I have a lot of
time, as he moves the laser over
my skin, to think about it all and
what it means.
My first tattoo was of the
White Rabbit from Alice in Won
BY
derland. I’ve always been a lot
like the White Rabbit, and 1
THOMAS
thought he would make a good
talisman of sorts. The woman
who inked him onto my shoulder
was used to doing things like burning skulls
and naked women, and she thought my rabbit
was great. She even had me model in a tattoo
show when it was all
over.
A year later,
when I told her I
wanted another
tat, she suggested
doing the same
rabbit, only in a
very butch motor
cycle jacket and
boots. She thought it
symbolized the two
sides of my personality, kind of
a gay boy yin-yang thing. I agreed, and
on went the rebel rabbit, back to back with
his more refined waistcoat-wearing, umbrella-
toting twin.
Now the White Rabbit and his brother are
being burned off my shoulder. One laser burst
Invisible ink
Getting a tattoo marks a special moment in life—
and removing a tattoo reveals another milestone
at a time, their lines of ink are being broken
into small bits that my lymph system gobbles
up and swallows. Tattoo removal is a long,
painful process. The laser only takes away so
much ink each time, and you need to wait a
month between treatments. It will take
me about six months to be wiped clean,
like a blackboard stripped of chalk.
Right now my rabbits are about
half gone, ghostly reflections of
their former selves. When I look at
them in the mirror, I see them just
below the surface, as if they’re star
ing up at me from underwater.
While from a monetary and pain-
management standpoint I would
prefer it if one treatment wiped
away all signs of the tattoos, I kind
of like this gradual goodbye. I’ve
lived with these pictures for so long
that I don’t remember what 1 look like
without them. This way, I have time to
get used to the idea.
When someone asks me to describe
what getting a tattoo is like, I can’t really do
it. I can tell them that it sort of feels like
having a pin dragged along your skin
repeatedly. But that’s inadequate. I can’t
explain that the rest of it, the won
derful part, is feeling
something
being
that particular moment in your life. I can’t real
ly explain how having to trust someone to
paint your skin with a steel needle and colored
inks is one of the most inti
mate moments you
can experience.
All I can tell
them is that it
kind of hurts,
but in a mag
ical way.
Similarly,
1 can’t really
explain how
having my tat
toos removed
feels. I can tell
you that the
physical
pain of
being
burned with a laser is like being snapped with a
rubber band repeatedly. In doing research on
tattoo removal, I found one source that
described the pain as being splattered with
bacon grease. While hardly encouraging, this is
a fitting description, but mainly because the
smell really does remind me of bacon cooking.
(The other day, while undergoing another
treatment, I sniffed the air and had the sudden,
horrible realization that the only thing that
really keeps humans from becoming someone’s
breakfast is the fact that pigs can’t manipulate
machinery.)
But the physical pain is only part of the
process. The real work is in saying goodbye to
the person you used to be. When I called to
make my first appointment for laser surgery, the
nurse said, “So, it’s time to grow up, is it.r’ I
know what she meant, but she’s got it all
wrong. This isn’t about growing up. It’s about
continuing the journey. I’m not having my tat
toos removed because I don’t like them, or
because they stand in the way of my getting a
job. I’m having them removed because, just as
it was important for me to get them in the first
place, it’s now important for me to reclaim the
space they occupy. I want my skin back. It’s
part of an overall process of reclaiming my
body, which is important to me right now.
But even when they’re gone, the ink turned
into invisible particles eaten by my system,
my tattoos will still be there. I will
remember how it felt to get them,
how it felt when someone rubbed
his hands over them admiringly,
and how it felt having them
removed. Each of these
memories is important to
me, and I don’t want to
forget them.
There is pain in
memory, but there is also
joy. So, as the laser zaps
my skin and the White
Rabbit and the other
tattoos grow fainter
and fainter, it’s with a
mixture of sadness
and relief that I let
them go.
I just wish I
smelled less like
bacon frying and
more like a Pop-Tart
toasting.
■ M ic h a e l
T h o m a s F o r d «
the
Lambda Literary Award-winning author of Alec
Baldwin Doesn’t Love Me and That’s Mr. Fag
got to You. Write to him at Shopiltee@aol.com.
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