Body Part

Hidden under three layers of skin, buried under hair, sweat, and sunburn, tiny bubbles of black ink stain the inside of my left forearm. Five letters and one symbol, each an inch squared, spell out the word “Wisdom.”

I sat in a chair like the kind you do at the dentist’s office while a rough, goateed man repeatedly plunged a sharp needle into my arm, transmitting the black liquid to a place in my body where it will stay, forever.

Five years and three more regrettable tattoos later, the dark word has faded slightly, but still shows easily enough that I try and hide it in the company of strangers and children. Whatever high-minded thoughts I harbored when I commissioned this enterprise I have forgotten, lost, abandoned, and revoked.

“What does that say?” I used to have no problem answering when some curious person would try and lift my arm up to their eyes and analyze the markings. Now, I just tell them that it doesn’t matter, or that I want to have it removed, or I reluctantly show them and quickly change the subject.

“Well, now you’ll have to get ‘Stupid’ on the other one,” my Dad volunteered when he first saw it. Not a bad idea, but I can just imagine how exhausting it would be to have to explain them both.