How I Got Away With My First Tattoo at the Plucky, Smug Age of 16

Amidst Birthday Memories With My Dearly Departed Faja (yes, that is an Austin Powers reference)

Six years old, sleepily curled up in a wooden chair listening to the dull clink of ice on plastic, I impatiently awaited my quesadilla.

It would come cut into four small triangles, and something about that familiarity held a soothing I craved. Hearing the waitress approach, I sat up quickly. My tiny heart clenched in frustration when I saw that she didn’t have any food. Her toothy, un-even grin spread as she sat down a big ol’ salty-rimmed drink on the table.

My Mom’s hand instinctively reached over to rub my back as she continued in conversation while I pouted at no one and wished we were somewhere else. I hated Mexican food. I did love my Dad, though.

My chin barely clearing the table, I rose to see his soft brown eyes curling into two jolly half moons, cheeks rising into fleshy hills, protruding in perfect roundness like his belly would when we cuddled on the couch. He laughed over the rim of his salty, fresh margarita, the single alcoholic beverage he’d have once a year on his birthday.

Momily-bug would soon pile us into her grey station wagon and drive us the 10 minutes home for this special occasion.

We all chose what restaurant we’d go to on our birthdays. So, naturally, I always picked TGIFs for the baby back ribs. But, every November 1st, my Dad would choose the one Mexican restaurant in Kailua, the only Mexican restaurant I had ever seen on Oahu.

I called my father Papasan, Dad, or Daddy. He was born in Tucson, Arizona, in 1940, to a goat herder turned train conductor and a Baptist housewife. By having my Dad, Ken, they certainly added a stupendous and bright-eyed spirit to the town. His strong-willed, big-dreaming, go-getter personality shined in the small city, which was quickly growing past 35,000 folks in population.

Tucson was two-thirds Anglo and one-third Hispanic at the time, the latter mainly of Mexican heritage, contributing vibrant Mexican culture and cuisine to the place. The food there must’ve been real tasty. However, here in Hawaiʻi, Mexican cuisine was hardly available and barely okay. My Dad enjoyed his birthdays with it nonetheless. I’m sure gritty, fond memories of home out on the range flooded his dinner with joy no matter where he was while those saucy enchilada bites flooded his senses with cheesy, tomato-rich flavor.

Sixteen years old and seated across my Papasan in a booth at Los Garcia’s, I prepared for the reveal I intended to make on this holy Father’s day.

My parents had just returned from a vacation in Germany or China… somewhere foreign and far away. Every time they returned from the doctor with news of my Mom’s increasingly perilous Alzheimers condition, he would whisk her off to some place they had dreamed about going once all the kids were out of the nest. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like they’d be able to do much by then, so they were doing what they could while they could.

It was sweet and romantic and often left me behind and alone with my Dad’s eldest son, John. John was in his late 40s and recently moved into our recreation room above the garage.

I was aggrieved at the whole situation in a general sense but made an effort to hold no grudges for being without my parents for these travels of theirs. Instead, I was grateful for my Mom’s joy when she would get back and show me pictures of her adventure. She’d laugh at the stories, showing me photos of her giggling on the Great Wall wearing a giant red button with a picture of my Dad pinned to her travel shirt. He would wear one of her, too, so that if she’d wander off and get lost or confused, they could point to their buttons and get help from strangers to find their way back to one another again.

My fingers smirked restlessly in my palms, “Dad! I got you a Father’s day present…”

During this last trip, I took the opportunity that our parentless free reining house had to recruit John to assist me with getting through the law for this particular “present.” He was old enough to look like he could be my father, so we used that to our advantage when completing the paperwork for the deed.

Tucking my hair behind my right ear, I pulled back the ends, turning to face the open restaurant floor, revealing my first tattoo. My Dad’s eyes quickly found the inch-sized K I had permanently inked in cursive behind my ear.

K for Ken, K for my Dad, K for my rock.

I got the idea from a cool older gal I worked with at a fashionable, high-end dress shop. Fabulous, stunning Liz had a tattoo of an L for her Mom. When she explained her ink, a light went off in my head. I wanted a tattoo, and I figured if this sneaky behavior was in honor of my Dad, I could more smoothly get my folks on board. Besides, he was my pillar of strength, and while this would be my first tattoo, time would tell that it would not be the last inspired by or dedicated to my dearest Papasan.

He leaned over the table and squinted as the K came into focus. Finally, he shrugged and smiled with a twinkle in his eye, shook his head, and ate a bite of his food. His grin and otherwise lack of surprise or reaction tickled me. He knew me well enough by then. Well enough to let my self-expression fly.

The time he called me out on my eyebrow piercing two years prior didn’t vibe quite as carefree. However, I had a solid course of action, then too. So the initial, tense confrontation dissipated nearly as quickly as my current reveal. I couldn’t dedicate my piercing to him, but I could ally myself with long side bangs and hide it for two months. When he noticed, at last, from afar, he zoomed into the living room where I sat watching T.V. Pulling back my hair; he angrily asked me what it was. My Dad, full of anger and up close, is not something to take lightly. I was ready for it, though. By then, I had the data to calmly explain that if he hadn’t noticed the piercing plain on my face for two whole months, then it couldn’t possibly dictate what people see and think of me. Foiled by my readied and solid stance, he backed away grumpily; his argument squashed before he could make it.

I knew him well, and as I revealed my tattoo, it became more evident than ever that he, too, knew me.

How comforting it is to know your family. Truly, there is no such other peace.

“And Mom, I got your face tattooed on my bum!”

My Mom let out a low “Julia!”

I laughed.

“You know how much I detest tattoos; how dare you get one in honor of me!”

I doubled over.

Her face turned stiff, her brow furrowed, shoulders rounding, her hands less like the doves they typically embody and more like claws gripping their fork and napkin in battle-ready defensiveness.

I was laughing so hard I could barely get my next words out. She was so mad I couldn’t keep it going for longer than those 5 seconds, “Mom! I did not get a tattoo of your face on my bum. Did you hear what I said? My bum! No!”

She promptly relaxed and moved to save face by returning to her gentle demeanor, pushing her food around her plate with a charming sort of embarrassment. Then, smiling and rolling her light blue eyes, her humorous tone relieved me, “Well, good!”