Biehl - My tattoo

My Tattoo

By Thomas Biehl

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Copyright 2014 Thomas Biehl

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My name, it is unimportant. My storywhile unique enough in the details is sadly like so many others outthere. I teach English at a program for those in high school whofor one reason or another need a second chance, a place to startover. Naturally, my students are curious about my personal life andpast, what makes me for lack of a better word me. They ask a lot ofquestions, and for the most part I try to be an open book. Theanswers I give are honest, at least as honest as I can be and stillkeep my job as a teacher. The working theory is that most of thesestudents have already seen the many gray areas between the blackand the white of life, so I dont try to be the best version ofmyself possible, a role model image that I shed when I walk out thedoor at the end of the day.

Instead, I attempt to show them that Iam not perfect, not all knowing, and especially not better thanthem. Despite all of this, there is still one question I dontanswer. It usually only comes in the early fall or late spring, butsometimes there will be a student or two who even in the wintermonths knows that beneath my shirt sleeve artfully curved andpointed ink is wrapped around the upper portion of my left arm.Perhaps they heard about it from a classmate or they are a studentIve already had who thought they would try their luck, today wouldbe different; so they ask, What does your tattoo mean.

Generally before I can even answer, aveteran of my classroom with questionable manners will say, Heaint gonna tell you. He dont tell anybody. There have beenmultiple theories posed of course, that I was a UFC fighter or eventhat I had gotten the tattoo in prison. Once, I even put on my bestserious face and told them it was a tattoo that a friend of minehad and that nobody would ever find the body. The truth behind it Ihave always told them was personal. Recently though, it has beenbrought to my attention that it might be just the kind of storythat some of my students need to hear. After some consideration, Ihave come to agree with this. It is actually a long story thatneeds all of its points, sub plots, and accompanying smallerstories to be understood, so I have decided to write it down.Before I begin, let me remind you dear reader of something I tellmy students sometimes; I wasnt always a teacher.

Twelve

Memory is a funny thing sometimes. Forinstance, its odd how a person can remember a singular eventclearly, as if it happened only moments ago, and yet be unable toplace it nicely in a time line between what happened before andafter. I can see the little twelve year old boy that I was lyingthere on the couch in the back room, his head buried in thecushions, tears falling uncontrollably as for the first time I canremember he cries himself to sleep. I know that I was there in thatemotionally overloaded state because I had realized something. Theactual event that caused this scene remains a mystery to me. Isuppose in the broad scheme of things it had many causes, and had Inot been enclosed in the ignorant bliss that was childhood, I mighthave noticed some warning signs.

I might have realized when I was twoyears old that my family lived in a house which was so poorlyconstructed it would later be condemned. The second floor waslittle more than an attic made into a room. It was under insulatedand unfortunately where my brother and I slept. One winter, I amtold I caught pneumonia, which must have been severe because I lostfeeling in my legs and almost died. I dont actually remember anyof this, but it explains why every time I get a cold or flu theresmuscle pain in my legs much worse than anywhere else.

Although I do remember sitting outsideof our new house at five years old waiting for the bus to take meto Head Start, how could I have understood then that it was aprogram for underprivileged kids who hadnt learned the things theyneeded to know to start school from their parents? All I knew wasthat I got to ride a bus into the city, and there was a littleblond girl that chased me around the plastic play room equipment atrecess. When we graduated from the program, she met me at themiddle of the stage and gave me my first kiss on the lips. What Ididnt comprehend then was that why despite this program I stillhad to repeat kindergarten.

Not that I was always an unobservantchild, sometimes it was quite the opposite. Like the time I learnedthat despite the fact when you throw a fit your parents cave, theworld doesnt always turn out the way you want it to and there isnothing you can do about it. Every summer of my youth my brother,well call him Sam, my sister, lets say Janette, and I went tovisit my grandparents in Colorado for a few weeks. During thatvisit for a week or two we would attend day camp. One summer, Idiscovered capture the flag. I thought it was the greatest thingever invented. The whole year that followed I dreamt of playing thegame again.

Finally summer returned, and we went tocamp. Capture the flag was on the schedule my group of campers gotfor the week; I could barely contain my excitement. The day came,and I patiently waited until after lunch when the game was supposedto start. Then it was decided that some of the campers didnt wantto hike the little way to the field we were supposed to play at.There was a vote, and it was decided we would not be playingcapture the flag. My world collapsed; I couldnt believe it. At thetime, the idea that I would not get to play capture the flag wasincomprehensible. How could such a future exist? I wailed and criedin the hopes that someone, anyone would right this horribleinjustice. Instead I got looks of scorn and disdain. I evenoverheard one of the counselors even remarked to another, What abrat. I stopped crying.

The relationship I had with my parentshad never been exactly perfect. Many times in my youth, I tried tobond with my father. When he watched wrestling I would sit next tohim and attempt to share the experience with him. This ultimatelyfailed because of the inquisitive nature I had then. Inevitably Iasked too many questions, which resulted in my father angrilytelling me to shut up. Then there were the times I would attempt toassist my dad when he worked on the car. Silently I would observehim, and the only time he acknowledged my existence was when heneeded a different tool. He would tell me what it was, what itlooked like. I would race inside to the tool box and search everydrawer. Unable to find it, the panic would set in. If I couldntfind the tool he wouldnt praise me, thank me, care if I existed atall. Then he would come stomping in, find the tool in a matter ofseconds, and comment on how useless I was.

My mother on the other hand had a habitof coming home from work in a bad mood, so when I got home fromschool often times I would try to clean the house, do the dishes,or some other chore. All in the vain hope that she wouldnt yell atme when she got home, she would be in a good mood, be happy. A fewtimes that worked, but mostly it failed.

Normally, having an older brother wouldbe a benefit in these types of situations, someone who has beenthrough it before and can give guidance and support. Not in mycase. Sam seemed to be maturing at half the speed of what anyonecould normally expect. So much so that when we kids were left aloneI, the middle child, was left in charge over my two siblings. Nohelp there either.

All of these things put dents in thewall which held in my innocence and that naive sense thateverything somehow was going to be alright. The wall did not comecrashing down until that night when I was twelve years old. Whensomehow I knew that my parents would no longer be able to guide meemotionally or at all; I was alone. The event that finally did itstill remains a mystery to me now. In all likelihood it wasprobably one of my parents fights. Those were pretty regular bythat point. Perhaps it was the one where it got so bad my motherwas going to leave, but my father removed the distributer from hercar so she couldnt go.