Stick It to Me—Stigma

Four . . . that is the number of tattoos my daughter now has adorning her body.  Yesterday she got number four . . . where her neck joins her back . . . and, it is of the Beartooth of the Beartooth Mountains in Montana.  It is actually a cool looking tattoo . . . in fact; all of her tattoos are pretty cool.  There is the tiny dove on her right shoulder . . . the peace symbol on the inside of her right wrist . . . the “Let it be” on the left side of her collar bone . . . and, now, on her neck/back.  If you did not know where to look, you probably would not even know she had any tattoos, but that does not hide the fact that she is a “painted woman”.

At least that is how some people react when they learn that she has tattoos . . . she’s a bad girl, a wild woman, a criminal, or even a druggie.  When I told some folks about her most recent tattoo, I got that reaction from them . . . you know that look . . . one that expresses lots of disapproval and curiosity.  Curiosity about what sort of person she is . . . and, what sort of parents are the wife and I, since our daughter has four tattoos!  As I said, if one did not know where to look, no one would even know she had tattoos.  So, what is the big deal?

In all honesty, as the kids were growing up, I was pretty staunch against tattoos.  I gave the kids the lecture (number 87, I think) about them not getting tattoos as long as they were living their parents’ house.  Part of the reason for this is because tattoos are permanent . . . you cannot easily erase them later on when they become boring.  Ask one of my friends who got the name of his girlfriend tattooed on his arm professing his unending and undying love . . . ended up marrying someone else, and after forty years still regrets that his wife has to see that “other woman’s” name on his arm.  There was also some of that generalizing about the sort of people who would have tattoos . . . didn’t they understand that their parents were ministers!  What would the congregation think?  As the kids were growing up, tattoos were taboo . . . three of them got tattoos within a few months of moving out.  Yeah, what sort of parents were we!

Unfortunately we live in a society that is prejudicial . . . that is very judgmental . . . that has opinions that are readily expressed . . . that likes to separate and divide . . . that generalizes . . . that likes to stigmatize . . . and, even more unfortunately, we are all guilty of taking part in it.  Yeah, I know what you are thinking, you are not a prejudiced person . . . phtttt!  We all are prejudicial . . . trust me, we are all prejudicial.  We have our likes and dislikes . . . our opinions . . . our ideas of what is acceptable and unacceptable . . . what is right and wrong.  All of this makes us opinionated.  Opinions express our prejudices.  Right or wrong, knowingly or unknowingly . . . we all have our prejudices.  I have only known one truly unprejudicial person in my life, and he hated everyone and everything!

Stigma is a “mark” or “sign” or “label” that is used to separate others because they are different . . . they are unacceptable to some sort of written or unwritten set of rules and norms . . . It is to brand someone through perceptions (right or wrong) as being different.  As we all know, being different is not good . . . after all, God created us all in the same image . . . God’s.  Surely your image of God is the same as my image of God!

Stigma reared its ugly head early in my life and the life of my family as I was growing up.  Two of my brothers have disabilities . . . one has Cerebral Palsy, the other has major learning disabilities.  Growing up they were just my brothers . . . we fought, laughed, played, goofed off, and got in trouble . . . just like all siblings do.  I did not recognize that their disabilities made them any more or less my brothers . . . they were just my brothers.  But outside of the house the stigma flew . . . they were retarded (which neither of them are) . . . they were burdens (no more than any other children) . . . our family was trash and to be pitied . . . and, the list could go on and on.  It is no fun being on the short end of the stick when it comes to stigma . . . you can only ignore it for so long . . . you can only punch out so many people . . . you can only bang your head on the brick walls so many times.

But it did not end when I grew up and moved away from my family.  I got married, we had kids . . . and, two of the kids ended with disabilities.  One son has Epilepsy, the other learning disabilities.  It was like déjà vu . . . I hated what it did to my family growing up, and what it did to my children.  It was wrong.  Plain and simple, it was wrong . . . then and now.

Now, as many of you know, the wife and I are ordained ministers . . . have been for thirty years now.  That in and of itself is a stigma.  When I started working at the university, it got out that I was an ordained minister.  Which in turn stigmatized me . . . oh sure, I got all the theological questions, all the “please pray for us” requests, but I also got this unfair stigma that I was a certain type of “holier than thou” saint.  Needless to say, experience has changed that opinion of me over the years . . . I am just like everyone else.  Shocking as that may seem, I really am like everyone else.  I cuss . . . fuss . . . think things I shouldn’t  . . . say things that I regret . . . and, pretty much live life like everyone else.  The problem is that sometimes even positive labels can become stigmas that do not allow the individual to be who God created him or her to be.

Stigma is sticking it to another unfairly . . . it is making generalizations about others unfairly . . . it is separating, dividing, and even killing others because they are not like “us”.  We are all guilty of it . . . we do it all of the time.  Think about how we lump all politicians and political parties into categories . . . how we react to people with mental illness (they are all crazy) . . . how we treat people with disabilities . . . how we portray the elderly on television . . . how we portray gay people . . . how we treat reformed criminals (once a criminal, always a criminal) . . . how we treat those in different economic classes . . . foreigners, especially those from the Middle East . . . and, the list could go on and on and on.

Which brings us back to tattoos and my daughter.  It is unfair to stigmatize my daughter because she has four tattoos.  She is intelligent.  Good looking.  Hard-working.  A loving and devoted mother and wife.  She laughs at her father’s jokes.  She believes in God . . . tries to eat only organic and natural foods . . . reads all of the time . . . sings all of the time . . . enjoys life.  She is special and unique, and she happens to have four tattoos . . . did I say that they are all pretty cool tattoos?  So why the looks when I tell people that she has four tattoos?  What difference does it make?  She is beautiful, just as we are all beautiful, as God created her to be.  Who are we to mess with what God created . . . after all, scripture tells us, we are all created in God’s image.

Over the years I have come to view tattoos differently.  I have even caught myself thinking about getting a tattoo from time to time . . . of course, the children have encouraged me to get off the pot and do it . . . but, it hasn’t happened yet.  But, it is getting closer.  Maybe, just maybe, I will have to get one to support my daughter.  What would the neighbors think!  What would my congregation think!  What would my co-workers think!  What would the world think!  That would really blow my minister stigma out of the water!  But, who cares?  I am who I am . . . in God’s image . . . as God created me to be.  If it is good enough for God, it should be good enough for everyone else.

Please don’t stick it to others . . . please do not stigmatize.  Label bottles, not people.  In the end it is how we loved that will make the difference . . . if that isn’t something that Jesus told us to be about, then I don’t know what is.  Tattoo or not, I love my daughter for God created her to be . . . besides, like her, I love the Beartooth Mountains too.

Catching Up

Unsavory characters . . . criminals . . . convicts . . . military and ex-military . . . bikers . . . hippies . . . Japanese mafia . . . rednecks . . . greasers . . . and probably many more politically incorrect images for my fellow human beings who have tattoos.  Negative images.  Growing up those were the only ones I was told had tattoos—people on the dark side of life.  Thus I pretty much grew up thinking that tattoos were not good and said something bad about the individual.  This is sad because I was grossly misinformed. 

Fifty percent of my immediate family has tattoos.  Until the kids graduated and moved out the wife and I were adamant in our resolve that they could not have a tattoo.  The oldest child wasted little time getting a tattoo—within three months of going off to college.  Since that first tattoo he has expanded it and it takes up a good chunk of his back.  The daughter was next with a small one of a dove on her shoulder, followed by a peace symbol on her wrist, and then one –a phrase—across her shoulder blade.  The youngest was the last to decorate his body with a tattoo—a cross of his design on his shoulder.  It was difficult to picture our own children as any of those unsavory characters mentioned above . . . though at times we wondered.  They were just being themselves . . . their tattoos supposedly help to define themselves through body art.  For the most part I can see them in each of the tattoos.  Had to soften up the opinion on tattoos when the preachers’ kids are the most decorated ones in town.

I also have two clergy friends –a husband and wife—who have tattoos.  They got them to mark an important milestone in their lives.  They had simple tattoos done above their ankles—a safe place for a minister to have a tattoo.  I always thought there was a rebellious side underneath that conservative ministerial air around them.  Truth be known, they are pretty normal people—nothing close to the caricatures mentioned above.

I have been thinking about tattoos lately.  Over the years the kids have tried to get me to consider getting a tattoo—even volunteering to get one at the same time.  Each time I have come up with good reasons not to get a tattoo.  I don’t like needles.  Needles cause pain.  Tattoos are made with needles.  Sounds like a legitimate reason not to get a tattoo . . . unless they serve a lot of beer while the tattoo is being done.  That’s one reason.  A second reason is that old image of what a minister is supposed to be—tattoos are not a part of that image.  The congregation would start talking, as if they needed something else to add to the fire.  It would not be good.  Another reason is that I do not picture myself as being . . . well, unsavory.  But, I do have a little rebel in me and tattoos still fascinate me.

Each year, I get closer.  The problem is that I now cannot decide on what I would get for a tattoo.  It has to be something that represents who I see myself as, what I believe, and how I want others to see me.  I don’t want just any old tattoo.  I want one that is me.  Something that has significant meaning to me.  Right now I am stuck between two images:

 

Yeppers, I am stuck between a moose and a turtle.  Until moving to Montana I would have never considered a moose.  The turtle would have won hands down.  The moose has made great progress in my psyche in a short time to the point that.  I thought about something like the image above, but even as a minister I don’t think that is too tough looking.  Probably something my grandchildren would love, but would get me laughed at in any of the local watering holes.

Despite the moose gaining in popularity I am still leaning towards the turtle.  Ever since I was in junior high—all because of a fluke—I have been given turtles as gifts from family members for years and years.  I don’t know if it is because I look like a turtle when I wear green, but I have quite a turtle collection hidden away in the bowels of our house.  In popular culture turtles are portrayed as easy going, patient, and wise.  Also, due to their long life span, slow movement, sturdiness, and wrinkles many cultures see them as symbols of longevity and stability.  Sounded good to me . . . all things that I strive for and lots of people think I need.

When the day comes the above image is the tattoo I will get.  It will be on the inside of my right wrist—yeah, I know, for a guy who hates needles and pain that is about the stupidest place for a tattoo.  Ignorance is bliss and I am pretty blissful.  But that is the design I want.  Not only does it represent the turtle, but it also represents the mountains.  I love the mountains.  The youngest son found this design a couple of years ago and thought about getting it as a tattoo but never did.  I even offered to pay for everyone in the family that I hiked with to get it at one point (in a braver or drunk moment, I think).  Told them we would call ourselves the “turtle club”.  Remember the “turtle club”?  If you do then you will understand my answer to that question: You bet your sweet ass I do! 

Now begins the process of convincing myself that I need to get the tattoo.  Convincing myself that it won’t hurt.  Convincing myself that it does not matter what the congregation thinks.  Convincing myself that I am not a hoodlum or unsavory character.  Convincing myself that it is okay . . . even at my age.  It is better late than never . . . besides I have also been thinking a lot about black leather and Harley Davison motorcycles.  

  I’m getting old and I have a lot of catching up to do!  Stay tuned . . .