Dear Teen Me, from Author Kayla Cagan

Dear Teen Me,

Grab some popcorn and sit down. I know you’d prefer Chicken McNuggets and BBQ sauce, but trust me, you don’t want to eat any more of them. Our butt will thank you later.

It’s time you and I had a chat. Don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble and I’m not going to lecture you. I know you can barely sit still right now, unless you’re listening to Catching Up with Depeche Mode or watching MTV’s 120 Minutes, but this is important, and actually kind of fun. You do something awesome soon, and it becomes even more awesome as you get older. I’m trying not to brag, but I’m proud of you. Don’t tell me I’m stupid.

About two weeks before your Senior Prom, you and three of your very good friends, who just happen to be dudes, will decide it is time to get tattoos. You will extensively plan this on D’s patio, over Clove cigarettes and Bartles and James’s Strawberry Daquiri Wine Coolers. (D by the way stands for your friend whose name starts with D, P will stand for P, and S for S. You get it. I can’t write their names here, because there is this weird, sometimes annoying, sometimes fun thing called Facebook in the future and you will actually be in contact with some of these guys again over a computer. You will see pictures of them and realize how much they have changed and how much they never changed and you will be happy and sentimental you knew them then, and you’ll also be glad you only “hang with them” now on Facebook. Another note about the future: as of twenty years after we have graduated, there are still not jet-packs that work and no Rosie the robot-maids, like on The Jetsons.) But let’s get back to what’s important.

Over 20 years and 2 weeks ago, you and D and P and S will decide that it is VERY IMPORTANT that you get meaningful tattoos that express who you are. D is going to get something funny, possibly Woody the Woodpecker, because he is a redhead and plans to be a comedian. P will get something arty and esoteric, because he is nothing if not arty and esoteric. And S will get some kind of quote, because he’s not just the best actor in your school, he believes himself to be the best poet as well. He’s not actually a bad writer, but um, y’know. You my Dear Teen Me, will decide you need something soulful and earnest and true. And you know where the tattoo will land on your body – somewhere discreet but significant.
So, on a humid Saturday evening in Houston, D, P, and S, all tipsy-to-drunk on Bartles and James, will climb into the blue, skateboard-and-surf-shop-sticker-covered Nissan Sentra we share with mom. As the designated driver, you pick your favorite mix tape of The Descendents and Big Audio Dynamite and King Missle and The Judy’s and you drive towards the Westheimer and Montrose drags, where you know you can get inked even if you’re not exactly 18 years old yet, and you pull across the street from Dream Merchant, a pre Hot-Topic like store that has a way better retail selection than HT and you park, and the guys are ready. You jump out of the car with them, walk right up to the counter, and tell the big nice guy who works there you all need tattoos.

He doesn’t ask to check ID. He doesn’t ask if your parents are with you. He doesn’t ask if you’ve been drinking. He points to a wall and says, “Have at it.”

 

You scan the wall of designs you would never choose: a rose, an anchor, a sassy alligator. In an assured, calm voice you tell the guy, “I’m going to need to see your theater masks, you know, like tragedy and comedy masks.” I cringe now, but back then, you and I proudly demand, “I NEED THE MASKS OF THESPIS.”

And so, he pulls out a huge photo album, and points to a small pair of drama masks. We don’t love the colors at the time, but we ask him if he could substitute them, he agrees, and you settle on an expensive $35 ink and coloring. While the guys still pondered the art on the wall, bumping into each other awkwardly around the pin-up options, you tell them you will go first and you climb, 100% trusting, into the chair in front of the nice big man. He tells you to turn around, because if you are going to get this on your back, you have to lie on your stomach. No problem. You stretch face down, raise your shirt halfway up your back for a complete stranger, and hear his needle sizzle to life.

Your drama masks tattoo will be mapped on the lowest part of your spine. You reason that it will always remind you of who you are, a great theater artist, and it will give you power in times of crushing artistic defeat and future successes. It will be poetically engraved into your skin, your spine – where nobody can touch your soul, your bravery, your courage. You have 100% confidence in this decision.

And then the hot needle touches down. You wince. You don’t expect to tear up, you don’t expect to lose your breath, and you don’t know you are capable of hyperventilating. You look at D and P and S’s faces, eyes wide and mouths open, and realize you must look like Munch’s The Scream. You are silent even though you desperately wanted to jabber like crazy. You try to smile at them, and then sarcastically, you give them a thumbs-up. You keep your head still against the paper pillow underneath you, listen to the big nice man mutter under his breath, and smell your cooking flesh. It is a small enough design that it only takes about 30 minutes, but it feels like 3 days. When the big nice man finishes and gives you a small mirror to check out his work against the wall mirror, you gave a genuine smile. You did it. You own a piece of art on your body. You know at that moment that the theater is guaranteed to be a part of your life, always.

 

And you turn to the guys, and casually asked, “Whose next?” You look at them as you always look at them, as your comrades in fun times, and wait. D pushes P forward, S moves to the back of them, and P trips over to the big nice man, explaining he probably doesn’t have enough money now. I look at D, who shrugs, and tells me that it looks too painful. And S decides that he didn’t like the sound of the needle.

Now your eyes are wide and your mouth hangs open. They are wussing out, in front of you and in front of each other. You joke with them for couple of seconds, lie and tell them it isn’t that bad, that you were playing it up. If you could do it sober, surely they could do it drunk.

And they can’t. And they won’t.

You load back into the car, and you are unable to lean all the way back in the driver’s chair, as anything that touches you back sets it on fire. You gently tease them, telling them it isn’t too late, but we all know the fate. They won’t do it.
You turn on Siouxsie and the Banshees, a little too loudly, and drive to the Transco Tower fountains to hang out and skateboard. While the guys talk about everything but tattoos, you can’t stop thinking about what had just happened.
The guys wimped out. You didn’t. They were scared. You weren’t. And as much as you have had the inevitable crush on each of the guys at least once through high school, you had just lost a lot of respect for them. They didn’t follow through. They didn’t do what they said they were going to do. They let their fears get the best of them. At the time, you found them weak, embarrassing, and disgraceful. Where was their passion? Where was their bravery? Where was their drunk?
Would they give up on everything in life that mattered to them? And would you be one of them? The answer was obvious.

From that point on, you stood up stronger and straighter with your tattoo. There was only one point where you hid it, and that was two weeks later at Prom, when your dress dipped low in the back, and you couldn’t let mom see it. You swore to her, even though it was 90 degrees out, that you needed “a shawl.” You wrapped it around our lower back, and as soon as you hopped into the rented limo that picked you up, the shawl was lost. And as a respectable Prom Queen, you made sure that your tattoo was not photographed. You had a reputation to protect and a secret to keep. Nobody could know the source of your power, except for the three guards who had accompanied you, and they weren’t talking.

So, time has passed – twenty years- and though you thought you were supremely original in getting your tattoo on your lower back at the time, you will realize many women and girls got similarly placed tattoos – maybe a little higher or lower, a little smaller or bigger. This phenomenon will be called the “TRAMP STAMP” and in the beginning it will piss you off, because you will think you started this incredible trend and because the name is pretty awful- though funny-, but then you will realize, like other girls, you wanted something you could hide and show off at your own will. (Let’s face it, you can’t always do that will your boobs or bottom.)

You will reclaim the Tramp Stamp label and make it your own. You will sincerely believe it unites us with women all over the world. There will be a bunch of us at aged 60 with a tiny mark from when we were 18 or 28 or even 38, and we will know where we were, who we were with, and why we did it. There are some women who didn’t put as much thought into it as you did, but that’s fine. We’re not going to tell anyone what to do or not do with her body. That’s their history. And we’ll share our stories.

Lastly, you should know this. When the time is right, you’re going to meet J, a man unlike most of your boy-friends and boyfriends from high school and college, who is going to do what he says, stay true to his passions, and lovingly tease you about the Mötley Crüe tattoo on your back. You are going to secretly adore this joke, because even if he isn’t crazy about that tattoo, he has heard you tell the story of it a million times, and he is still crazy about you. You are going to find your equal in J, the man who is willing to get lost on a train in Italy with you and sit next to you during the American Idol finals. He will be the man without a tattoo who will hold your hand through times much tougher than getting your tat. J will decorate your life more than any other piercing or ink you could imagine, and you will always look your best and feel your most confident standing next to him. When he’s not next to you, you’ll wear his ring and your own tattoo, and you won’t be scared of anything.

Okay, so, Teen Me, I know you’re tired of this story now. But I think you get it. You were a literal driving force in the Tramp Stamp Revolution. You’re made of strong stock. You’re going to keep being strong. You’re going to be strong for others. And you’re going to learn how to let others be strong for you. You’ve got this, trust me.

Yours in Ink,

Adult Me

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Kayla Cagan lives in LA across the street from a famous tattoo parlor. She is a playwright, dramaturg, and novelist, and is married to the insanely funny and lovable screenwriter Josh A. Cagan. Say hi to @kaylacagan on twitter.

 

Tags: Many Mountains Moving Literary Journal, Seal Press