An Armor of Ink

The first 6 to 8 weeks of a college semester are known as the “Red Zone,” and this is the time period a student is most likely to be sexually assaulted or raped. It’s a fact emblazoned across my mind and embedded in my bones. But it’s one I didn’t know - until I was raped at the beginning of my college experience. My collegiate years were marred by a man with no human decency, but reclaimed by one who is a master with a tattoo machine. Through his work, my arm has evolved into a testament of the strength of survivors and daily affirmations that I am more than a statistic.

We began with Ophelia’s flowers - a woman often defined by what she represented to the men in her life, her father and Hamlet. But her monologue shows us that she is more than capable of her own aspirations and feelings. Her emblem guards my elbow to my wrist. She wills me to believe survivors and demand advocacy.

As we turn inward, we see Medusa’s snakes and powerful gaze. Many people don’t realize that Medusa was a gorgeous woman - until she was raped by Poseidon in Athena’s temple. Athena then turned her into a gorgon - adorning her head with snakes and turning her stare deadly. You might believe she did so out of a punishment, but I know that women protect women. She did so to prevent Medusa from ever being harmed by another.

Under her crown of snakes, there is a triad of images: a clasp, a fishhook, and a human eye - pictorial representatives of a Margaret Atwood poem:

“you fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye”

This piece reminds me that not everyone who comes into your life is meant to be there. Most survivors are assaulted or raped by someone they know and trust - maybe even love. It takes immense strength to put yourself first and demand better.

Lower, and we come to the phrase my mother used to sign all of my birthday cards, “Always know you are loved.” Her handwriting calms me and encourages me to always love myself - and to lean on others when I don’t know how.

Rotating the arm, brings us to a sword - representative of the women of Camelot: The Lady of the Lake, Guinevere, and Morgana. While we only hear of Arthur, the women of his life played far more than supporting roles. History has a tendency to forget women or accredit their successes to others. We have a duty to uplift each other. To fight for each other.

These stories are connected by a line of Morse code. One I don’t offer to translate (not even to my own mother), but keeps me grounded. I share it with someone who shares a story familiar to mine. It is a promise to love ourselves, to love each other, and to keep moving forward.

When others see my arm, they see pieces, flashes, of a story. They see a girl who loves tattoos and dedicated her skin to black ink. I see reminders to hold my head high and keep creating things that no one can take away.

Ophelia’s flowers guard my outer forearm. Willing me to believe myself and want better for survivors who haven’t reached that checkpoint to healing. Medusa’s eyes ward-off danger from the crook of my elbow. Reminding me that even the most-powerful women can be assaulted, but that doesn’t make them any less beautiful or strong. Atwood’s words echoed in images on my inner forearm: Not all relationships are good. Even if they are easy.

I’m building an armor of survivors. A sleeve for me. Ornamentation that anchors me to this body and dispels any ill feelings I hold to myself or my home. I will reclaim Atlanta for myself. Georgia for myself. And, I’m starting with my left arm.