Were My “Folly Tattoos” a Cry for Help and an Act of Self-Hatred?

There are beautiful tattoos, and then there are those that just look like mistakes.

Courtesy of Andrew Morollo

I live in Portland, Oregon, where more than half of the people on the streets are tattooed. I myself have five tattoos (five discordant, faded tattoos) — all of which can be easily hidden with clothing. I have a rose (that’s now a messy black and purple smudge) on my ass, a yellow and red sun around my navel, a half-fox-half-dog looking creature that I designed myself on my left ankle, and a Celtic-knot-pattered, palm-sized pregnant spider (also my own design) on the back of my right shoulder. My husband jokes that unlike people who have really cool tribal sleeves, artistic armbands, or large colorful Japanese or blackwork designs, the marks on my skin are clearly “folly tattoos” — the type people get on a whim or when they’re drunk.

I had them all done in Singapore — where I was born and raised — between the ages of 14 to 18. I am 43 now, and I haven’t been inked ever since my eighteenth birthday.

Yesterday, I met my new neighbor, Jen, for coffee. It was a cold day, and my tattoos were concealed. Jen was telling me that she upset. She had just spoken with her younger sister in San Francisco and learnt that the girl had gotten three tattoos over the weekend.