Vanessa LaFortune

Ink.

My first tattoo is small, stationed on my right ankle in a zigzag of what it meant to be 23. I thought about it for maybe a year, more likely 6 months. I barely think about it now, a part of my body I rarely pay attention to, and that was the point. To have something there that I could still be surprised at, but able to hide if necessary. If you are a theater person, you will understand. Something easily covered for whatever character I had yet to play-- which turned out to be unnecessary in the long run. It was my secret, my daring flash of the "bad girl" I pretended to be. Maybe it would have meant more if I hadn't gotten it with...my mom. Really, how cool is it to go get your first tattoo on your 23rd birthday with your mother? And anyway, it was her idea. As I came in for breakfast that morning, she greeted me with an excited, “Want to get tattoos today?” I was so taken aback, who was this woman? This woman who had admonished me that I was not to get a tattoo until I was “18 and supporting yourself.” (Who is really supporting themselves at 18, by the way?) Shock quickly devolved into excitement, although tempered—this was my thing, wasn’t it? Since when had Mom ever wanted one?? Still, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right? So, what was supposed to be my act of rebellion, became a bonding moment for us at a time when, I suppose, we really needed something to be. And hadn't I rebelled enough already as a teenager? I don't remember who I was without it, now. It is a mark of the esoteric things that make me who I am: my Sun and Moon sign conjoined into one neat little image. My heart on my sleeve, as it were. Everything I thought anyone needed to know about me was right there, on my right ankle.