Memory #1: October, 2002. A basement piano bar in Dublin. I'm sitting in a tall black chair at a polished black marble bar. A man grabs my left arm from behind. "What the fuck?!" I spin around, knocking his hand away. "Relax, I just wanted to read your tattoo," he says in a heavy Russian accent. He is bordering on enormous, with slicked back curly hair. "Well, you don't fucking read with your hands!" I stood up in the chair, balancing on the footrests, uncharacteristically vocal after several vodkas. "What is it with you American women? You're all so sensitive." "Oh, so it's because I'm American I'm pissed off and not because a fucking tree of a man just GRABBED MY ARM FROM BEHIND?!" "Hey, relax, drop it," my Irish companion hissed in my ear. "That's the owner, and if you piss him off, he'll fire Marina" (her friend who we came to hear sing). I can't remember if he kicked me out, or I stormed out, but either way, I left.
Memory #2: July 31. Going home after a large publishing event, I wound up on the same train as a colleague. While discussing cats and Mp3 players, I noticed a middle-aged white man, graying hair, business casual khakis and button-down shirt, holding a cell phone out at arms-length across the aisle. "I hope to god he's not taking a picture of me, he better not be taking my picture," I thought, holding up my end of the conversation while admonishing myself for being so paranoid and narcissistic. As he got off the train, he ran his hand over my shoulder, and down part my left arm. That asshole took my picture, I know it.
I’ve also been thinking of Jacqueline's occasional response to the question: "Does it hurt?"
Depending on the modification, sometimes I respond: "No, it didn't. I was prepared and it was over quickly," which is often met with disbelief. "You're lying, come on, it had to hurt." My relationship to physical sensation is complicated. I recognize my relationship to pain is different than many people's (DISCLAIMER/WARNING: I think this is a beautiful photo, but if you're squeamish about blood and/or hooks, pleeease don't click the link), and I've spent many years examining and trying to understand it. This response makes me wonder why people ask, if they already 'know' the answer, but more importantly, why people are so quick to refute and dismiss my truth of my experience?
A dear friend with a young daughter sent me an email saying this project made her wonder if "tattoos/modifications are the new pregnant belly in terms of strangers forgetting that personal space and "TMI" are still very much alive and well." I responded that I had a similar thought last weekend after watching the scene in "Knocked Up" where the female lead (a television personality) is confronted about her obvious pregnancy by her bosses and told "we think it's great...people love pregnant! But after the baby is born, y'know...tighten." (and yes, in case anyone was wondering, that's how much of a geek I am). I've come to the conclusion that modifications may exist in a similar realm as pregnancy...when a woman's body becomes "different," when the physical body manifests signs of physiological, spiritual or emotional change, people feel entitled to comment and touch. Policing is the consequence of transgression.
I lift weights. I consider weight training to be a form of modification, and it gives me confidence. I like feeling solid, and shiny heavy things are neat in general. Recently I lifted significantly more than my body weight on the leg press, and shared that achievement with a friend who responded: "That's terrific! But just be careful you don't get too bulky." It's this idea, so deeply ingrained in our culture and beautifully illustrated in an well-intentioned, offhand comment by a liberal and egalitarian person who I love dearly, that the female body can be venerated as a source of strength and accomplishment, as long as it doesn't get "too big," as long as it doesn't transgress socially acceptable limits, and that while a woman is undergoing a transformation, she must be reminded of those limits and is ultimately incapable of determining for herself where her personal boundaries and limits lie for (fear?) they lie outside the permissible. People love pregnant, but not after the cub pops. Get that tattoo, but keep it small and in a sexy place. Because people are watching, people are looking, and the repercussion for disobedience is further intrusion, fetishation and marginalization. People will touch you, and it will be your fault.
I'm coming to the conclusion this is about more than skin, more than city. The city and my skin are merely symptoms. It's woman. It's body. It's territory. It's police. It's owning and claiming and none of this is anything new. People have been saying this in different ways for many years, body modification is just a different framework to examine it within. Which is precisely why I find it so profoundly disturbing. Why are these behaviors so deeply ingrained? Why are we so afraid of "big women?" Most importantly; how do we stop policing and violating each other?
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