Rainbow Dash. Pinkie Pie. Applejack.

Horses with multicolored manes and exaggerated eyes stare back at me from the entirety of my niece’s arm. How she had managed to fit every one of the My Little Pony gang, pink hearts, and tiny purple stars onto her skin with spacing only found in traditional American tattoo patchwork sleeves, was unknown and yet, I had to admit I was impressed. However, from looking at my brother’s face who looked on at the scene— unkempt brows pulled together behind wire-framed glasses and eyes narrowed—it was clear that this showcase of Lorelai’s sense of self was, somehow, my fault.

The images were faded and scaly from days of wear and one, if not a My Little Pony expert, could hardly make them out. It would’ve been easy to mistake Twilight Dash for the creature from the Black Lagoon and the hearts for a case of chickenpox. Thankfully, due to several nights of babysitting, I was up to speed on my cartoon horse knowledge.

She twisted her arm, lips spreading to reveal a gap where her two front teeth should’ve been.

“Look Aunt Audge, I’m just like you.” Cue the disappointed sigh from my brother.  

I was eighteen when I got my first tattoo. A scribbled quote that ran down the length of my back that read, “she is the queen with warrior in her blood.” In the moment, the meaning, that I had spent two hours beforehand convincing myself related to me enough to get it permanently carved into my skin, inspired me to take the leap into the deep end of what most of America still considered taboo.

Growing up in a small Floridian town, tattoos were still considered a symbol of one’s rebellion against societal expectations and their unavoidable lack of employment. Warnings were shared over casseroles— “don’t even think about it, can you pass the salt?”—and when I showed up on my parent’s front porch step, Aquaphor and gold Dial soap in hand, the only words I could manage to utter were “I did something crazy.” And for someone who had never stepped outside of her high school persona of 4.0 GPA student, prudish, and someone who was terrified of the aftereffects of drinking, these words of warning held more weight than the beefy hand of the man who tattooed me.

The question of why was written in my mom’s eyes as spied the sheen of plastic wrap peeking out from beneath a self-made crop top and reflected in my own, because why did I? The quote didn’t hold a distinctive meaning like I originally convinced myself it did standing in the cerulean-colored walls of that tattoo shop. Instead, the answer to why was about the act itself and what it represented.

Throughout history, tattooing has played a symbolic role. In Ancient Egypt, women tattooed permanent amulets on their bodies to act as a source of protection during a period in which pregnancy and birth were difficult. Scythians and Thracians adorned their body with marks of nobility and in the 18th century, Native American women were tattooed to alleviate ailments such as toothaches and arthritis. Tattooing up until the early 20th century allowed society to signify superstitions, showcase the New York City elite who opted for butterflies, dragons, and flowers, and even offer women a rare opportunity to gain economic independence by allowing them to capitalize on the fascination with tattoos.

Simply put, tattoos are a way to take control of a situation and your body.  

After years of forcing myself to fit into a mold predetermined for me, I wanted to break away. The nature of tattoos with their intricate line work and bold colors rang with the same cautionary tune as poisonous insects who warned of impending doom—and I had accepted my fate. To be an individual. To be independent and why wouldn’t I want the same for my niece?

Lorelai waited for my response. Arm still stretched out in front of her with unkempt hair that had slowly fallen out of the neon green hair-tie that was struggling to hold it together. I take her arm, leaning over to get a closer look at the fading temporary tattoos and like she had done so many times before, I ran a finger along the outlines.

“I’m proud of you. What does this one mean?”