Lemme See the Whole Thing

For the past few weeks I've been thinking about this summer, if I would continue this project, and how I'd manage it if I did. It was one thing to use this as a filter for my interactions, and interesting to see the results. It's completely different to know and anticipate the results. The past two days have made that very clear.

Sunday evening I was on the train after meeting an author I greatly admire. I was laughing at the illustration he drew beside his autograph, when my slightly drunk, but very friendly seatmate initiated a conversation about my sleeve and her fears of getting tattooed. "So it begins. May 23, 1 interaction," I thought as we were talking. Yesterday I was waiting for the train downtown, trying to read a paper when someone yelled from across the platform: “HEY! You work in a tattoo shop?” I kept reading; he repeated the question and walked over. “That tattoo go all the way up your arm? Roll up your sleeve. Lemme see the whole thing.” I tried to be polite, but I was talking through clenched teeth. Less than an hour later, in one of my favorite thrift stores, a woman said she loved my tattoo, but couldn’t get any more because of a heart condition. Then she ran her hand down my arm and said to a little boy “Look at her arm. Isn’t it pretty?” She apologized for touching me while she was still holding my arm. Outside the store she asked who did my work.

From August 4th until September 10th last year I maintained this blog. I spent four days in San Francisco and three days covered because it was cold. So in roughly a month I logged 59 interactions. Guess what kiddies? It’s only the first two days of short sleeve weather, and it’s not even June. If last year’s numbers and my remedial math are accurate, I’m going to talk to nearly 200 strangers this summer.

I like summer. Hell, I live for summer. I make up errands to give myself a destination, so I can get out of my stuffy apartment, walk and feel the sun. I know, most people are polite, most people are friendly, but really, I just want to run my errands in fucking peace and not have to wonder when a stranger will touch me.
It makes me nervous. It makes me feel mean inside. I don't like feeling mean.

Today I went to another thrift store and bought several lightweight long-sleeve shirts. Unbuttoned, with a tank top, only a few of my chest tattoos are visible, and they’re not that impressive. The shirts are fairly loose, and the sleeves will protect the ink. In camo cargo shorts two sizes too big, tank top, shirt, and beat-up Docs, the only comment anyone made to me today was a guy who actually said “Hey sweetheart, how you doing?”

Did I really look like his fucking sweetheart?

9/9/09 0 interactions, Thank you and thoughts on winding down

I really appreciate everyone who's followed this and offered encouragement. Thank you. I'd originally said I'd keep this project going as long as the weather allowed, but I realized with the semester amping up, and a few new committments, I probably won't have much more time to devote to it. So I think I'll wrap it up for now. There will be more to follow; I'm just not entirely sure what.

9/8/09 4 interactions

"That's a really neat tattoo." Caucasian female bank teller, early/mid 20's, downtown, pointing to scarification.
"Thank you."*
"How did you do it? White ink?"
"Yep, and it seems to be holding up pretty well."
"Is it new?"
"No, I've had it for several years."
(she then informs me the bank manager is busy, finishes what she can of my transaction, then encourages me to apply for a different credit card).

I actually started this next exchange by smiling and saying hello to a young woman (African-american, late teens) waiting at a bus stop downtown, who I mistook for a former co-worker (who changes her hairstyle more often then I do) because she was looking at me.
"Oh my god, Wow! Is that real?!" (motioning to tattoo)
"Yes."
"Wow! It's so bright!" She rushes over, grabs my arm and twists it. I hang on to the half-eaten apple I'm holding, with difficulty. She murmers exclamations and asks who did it, did it hurt, etc. and her friend (African-american male, late teens) joins her.
"Damn, I thought that was a real tattoo."
(female) "It IS real!"
"Really, wow! I thought it was like a shirt or something when you was walkin' by! Who did it?"(he then proceeds to ask me the same questions). Another man (Caucasian, 40's?) walks by.
"Hey, is that real?"
(Three of us in unison) "Yes!"**
(Caucasian male walking away) I've got a friend who can do that. He learned it in prison!
(Me) Everyone needs a hobby!
(The three of us laugh)
(African-american male) "Damn, that's something! I ain't never seen anything like that."
"Well, anything's possible, and you're still pretty young."
"I gotta get to California."
"I hope you do, I think you'd like it. I gotta get going, you guys have a good night."

*Usually if people assume the scarification is a tattoo, I let them becuase it's much, much, easier than explaining the difference, especially if I don't have time (or I'm trying to be responsible and make a deposit and cancel a credit card.)

**Seriously, I swear to god this actually happened.

9/7/09 1 interaction

*muffled words and gestures.*

(Removing earbuds) "Excuse me?"

"Wow girl, that's some sweet ink!" Caucasian male, early 20's, Red Line El platform.

"Oh, thank you."

"Yeah, I just started outlining my ribs yesterday. It's going allll the way down the side." (makes sweeping motion along torso) I've got one more sitting for the outline, then I'm filling it in."

"What re you getting? Something tribal?"

"Oh no, It's Pink Floyd's The Wall logo."

"Reeealy?" (trying not to laugh)

"Yeah! But I'm getting all the bricks in the background too!" (leaves to board train on opposite platform) "But yeah! rock that ink!"

"Thanks man, you too!"

9/6/09 4 interactions

"Mornin.'" Caucasian male, 60's? walking dog near my house.

"Mornin,'" (smiling at man and dog.)

"Nice tattoo."

"Thank you."

It was chilly out, so I wore a sweatshirt for the rest of the day. The following interaction I'd initially considered to be one of the dumbest and most confusing questions ever, but the interaction later in the day actually clarified what the inquiry may have referred to.

"Excuse me, miss, your ears--did they have to start out smaller to get to that size?" African-american male, 20's?, library elevator.*

"Excuse me? I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking."

"Did your ears have to start out smaller before they got that big?"

"Yes." I exited the elevator thinking "What the hell? Of course they had to start small. Doesn't everything that gets bigger have to first be smaller? That's like, Sesame Street 101..."

"Did you have to stretch your ears to get them that big, or did you pierce them that size?" Asian female, late teens/early 20's, video store (friend of clerk from 8/9 post)

"Oh no, I stretched them out from a regular earring," (thinking "Oh shit! That must've been what that guy earlier was trying to ask!")

"Did it hurt?"

"No, it doesn't hurt if you stretch slowly and gently."

"How long did it take?" Hispanic female, 20s? 30s? customer joining in conversation.

"About five years to get to this size."

"Wow...to each their own. (to clerk) Hey, do you have this in?"

"Thanks again guys, have a good night."

*A few posts ago, I offhandedly commented that nobody asks me about my ears when I wear long sleeves. Since that post, it's happened five times.

9/5/09 3 interactions

(All taking place in the same coffee shop within an hour)

"Wow, that's beautiful! Can I see the rest of it?" Caucasian male barrista, 20's (pointing to sleeve)

"Ok" (roll up sleeve)

"Oh my god, it's Sandman!"

"Yeah! From Issue 50!"

"That's incredible!"

"Thanks! I had a bunch of jeweled microdermals implanted in it, but I removed them a few months ago*"

"Well, it's still beautiful."

"Thank you."

"Wow, can I get a better look at your arm?" Middle Eastern Man, 30's. (interrupting my work)

"Yeah, ok." (roll up sleeve)

"How long did that take?"

"Several years off and on, but most of it was done in a year and half."

"Did it hurt?"

"Parts of it. The wrist, inner and outer elbow hurt most."

"Well it's unbelievable."

"Thank you. I'm very proud of it. You have a nice day." (return to what I was working on.)

"Can I see your arm?" Caucasian female, 50's. (interrupting my work)

"Ok."

"How long did that take?"

(see answer above)

"Did it hurt?"

(see answer above)

"Wow, I've always wanted a tattoo, but I don't think I could. I've always been curious about what it takes to get to that point." (motioning to sleeve).

"It's a journey." (laugh) "You have a nice day now" (return to work)

*A few people have asked why I took the derms out (see picture). The ones I installed for eyes never fully healed, and I suspect it was because they were set too close together (2mm jewelry 2mm apart). The other four I removed because they'd occasionally get 'weepy', and honestly, I was tired of just having to be so careful and protective of my arm all the time. Only after I removed them did I realize how much I favored it. In retrospect, I'm glad I took them out; I honestly don't think I'd have the patience to handle the attention they generate. I may get them installed again, but after I leave Chicago.

9/4/09 0 interactions

9/3/09-2 interactions

"Hey--wow--can I see your tattoo?" African-american male, 30's vestibule of public library, who very kindly held the door for me.
"Ok," (roll up sleeve--this is the first day since I've been back from SF that's been warm enough to just wear a a t-shirt)
"Wow...what's that?" (points to figure on upper arm)
"It's from a comic book."
"Which one? Who is it?"
"Morpheus from Sandman."
"Oh. Morpheus. Like the guy in the Matrix?"
"Not quite. Same name, similar archetype..."(proceed to explain difference between two Morpheuses).
"Wow, that's really neat." (leans in to examine closely, almost touching, but not quite.) "I wanna get something like that--hey, can I take your picture?"
"I'd actually prefer if you didn't. I hope you understand."
"Oh. ok." (slightly dejected.)
"Why not? Why won't you let him take your picture?!" Middle eastern man, 40's walking by and overhearing.
"Because this is very personal to me, and I wouldn't feel comfortable if he did."
(Middle eastern man) "Who did that?"
"A friend of mine did most of it."
(African-ameircan man) "How much did it cost?"
"Since my friend did it, it was free, but it would've been several thousand dollars."
(Middle eastern man, walking around the other man to get a view of my other side) "What'd you say? Fifteen thousand dollars?"
"Several thousand."
(African-american man) "I really wanna get something like that. Some tropical colors, like."
(Middle eastern man) "It wouldn't work for you; you're too dark." (exits library)
African-american man. "Can I ask you one more question?"
"Ok, but then I have a few more errands to run."
"What're those things in the circles?" (touching my arm to point to one)
"Those're hobo symbols."
"What?"
(Proceed to explain meaning of hobo code)
"So are any of them bad?"
"No. They're all good signs. It doesn't make sense to me to mark a body with anything bad; it'll stay with you forever."
"Right on--that's art!" (walks away).


The whole thing was pretty intense...
Yeah. So I'm bundled up to the eyes half the year, interrogated and chastized for not letting strangers take my picture the other half. If I wasn't loving school and some of the people I've met out here, and my rent wasn't so cheap this would probably be the point where I said "Fuck it" and started packing my hobo ass.

9/2/09-2 interactions

"Are those jade?" Caucasian female, early 20's, beside me in health food store, referring to ear plugs.
"No, I don't know what they are. They're probably plastic for what I paid for them."
"How big are they?"
"Three-quarters."
"Oh, mine are an inch and a half." (pulls back knit cap to reveal stretched lobes) "I'm not wearing jewelry because I'm trying to shrink them to look for a job."
"Well, good luck finding a job, but honestly they might not shrink that much from an inch and a half."
"Yeah, I know, but I gotta try."
"I understand, good luck."


"What size are your ears?" Caucasian female, late teens, elevator at work.
"3/4"
"Really cool, I like your plugs."
"Thanks."

8/31/09-9/1/09 0 interactions--covered all day

8/30/09 0 interactions (see WTF? Hoodie?! on 8/24)

8/25-29/09 Interlude in the Land of Fruits and Nuts (2 interactions)

Before I left for San Francisco, I asked my ex-husband if I should continue the experiment on the Left Coast as sort of a ‘control’ city (yeah, this is the first time I’ve ever thought of San Francisco as ‘controlled’) or just take a few days off and have a vacation from everything. He suggested the continuing, which was what I was leaning towards. It made packing easy. Black jeans, black t-shirts, black pullovers, a sweatshirt and denim jacket. Black boots. Done.

For the eight years I lived in SF, I mostly wore the unisex uniform above, which is a simple way of adapting to microclimates in a relatively temperate region. When I moved back down to New Orleans last year, I took a large back pack, abandoning most of my clothes on the back porch of my last apartment. It quickly grew too warm for the ‘uniform’ and I realized skirts and tank tops breathed easily, and I could bike in them. My superpower of ‘Find cool shit on the street’ was turned up to 11, and I’d often discover unexpected vintage treasures on yard sale excursions with my favorite transvestite. An 80 year-old fortune teller gave me some flamenco skirts and crimson lipstick. I quickly amassed a surreal, eclectic wardrobe, which I viewed as reflective of my environment. I truly felt like I was part of the landscape, and was just beginning to learn to live like I was art, every day was theater, and the city was my stage, when I got the letter that brought me to Chicago. I wasn’t ready. When I returned to SF to retrieve my remaining belongings, I left a whiny message with my transvestite southern belle: “My glittery girl drag doesn’t work anymore!” But I was determined to hang on to some of that vibrancy, that freedom I’d tapped into, and came to Chicago in the midst of a heat wave with a wardrobe cobbled together from two different worlds, neither of them working in a world where winter is cold and comes early, where lawns and nails are neatly manicured, and very few houses are purple.

Black jeans and t-shirts feel like a costume in Chicago. I like the simplicity and consistency, but when I wear it, I know it’s for this project. When I left S.F. it was after a financially and emotionally draining year and a half, and I was convinced the city and I got all we could from each other. So I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into the uniform, how quickly I reassimilated to San Francisco, how...natural it felt. The weather was sunny and warm the entire time I was there (even in the Haight!), and in four days of walking around in just jeans and a t-shirt, I only got two comments, both by cashiers (one Caucasian female, early 20’s and one Middle Eastern male, mid/late 20’s, both who just said “Nice tattoo.”) I got cruised by a mohawked babydyke and a couple of aging hipsters, but for the most part, I was anonymous, which I wasn’t in New Orleans and aren’t in Chicago. I realized that anonymity is one of many things I took for granted about San Francisco; along with the prevalence of extreme body mods to the openness and visibility of various communities. In San Francisco, I can identify as a gender-neutral, polyamorous, queer and be surrounded by people who understand and accept what that means (as well as the fluidity of those designations). Conversely, I’m recognizing that permissiveness can be restrictive. In San Francisco, I was free to just be; I never had to examine what being meant socially, politically, or interpersonally, or how those identifiers function outside insular communities. Now, you bet your ass I am.

There's more I've been thinking of on these topics, but I gotta clock out and meet my old roommate for coffee.

8/24/09 0 interactions...(i.e. it's AUGUST! WHY AM I WEARING A HOODIE!?)

8/22-23 0 interactions:

It might've just been a slow weekend, or due to the weather being unseasonably cool I wore a pullover much of the time I was out...I notice even why the tattoos/scarifications aren't visible, I don't get many questions about my ears.

8/21/09 2 interactions

These took place while standing between a Hispanic male, mid 30's, and a Caucasian female, early 40's, at a concert after an argument behind me nearly escalated to a fistfight (fortunately security broke it up before anyone could throw a punch, but I'm adding "I'm placing you under citizen's arrest, motherfucker!" at a B-52's show, to the list of things it never occured to me I might hear.) So I was a bit overstimulated and can't remember who said what, but I had "tell me about your tattoos/how long did it take/that must've hurt/what will you tell your kids when they want one?" flying at me like a tennis balls. If I wasn't trying to catch up on posts and email etc. before work the assumption that I either have kids, or I will someday, would be the subject of an entirely sepearate diatribe.

8/20/09 1 interaction

"Nice ink." African-American male, late teens, outside Red Line stop.
"Thanks"

8/19/09 0 interactions

8/18/09 0 Interactions

8/17/09 1 interaction

"Nice tattoo." Caucasian female, early 20's, downtown hardware store.
"Thanks."
"Wanna see mine?" (Rolls up sleeve to reveal rub-on tattoo).
"Is that...Chuck E. Cheese?"
"Yep." F. then boasts about the phenomenal Skee-Ball skills that earned her the tattoo, an invisible ink pen and set of twisty straws.

8/16/09 7 interactions

"Are you Straight Edge?" Caucasian male, early/mid 20's, coffee shop near home, noticing 'SOBER' tattoo on right wrist.
"No, this is after years of trial and error-mostly error."
We both laugh.

"Hey girl!" African-American male, early 20's, street outside my building,
"This is the girl I was talkin' about!" (Male to companion, another African-American male, same age.)
(companion) "Damn! That's a sleeve! Who did it?"
"A friend of mine in California."
"You know anyone out here? I need some work."
"Y'know, EVERYONE'S been asking me that this summer, and I honestly don't."
(They look at me)
"No, seriously, I've had no time or money to get any work done out here, so I've had no reason to find an artist."
"Still girl, I like your style. What's your name?"
"Izzy."
"Izzy. I'm Rob."
"And I'm Country."
"Rob and Country. Nice to officially neet you both" (I shake their hands.)
"Where you off to?"
"Meeting up with some friends. You guys?"
"Same."
"Well, you take care, I'll see you around."


"Damn, that's some bright ink." African-American male, 40's, downtown drugstore.
"Yep."
"Does it go all the way up your arm?" (I was wearing a pullover shirt with the sleeves partly rolled up)
"Yep."
"What's that say on your wrist...sober?" Hm." African-American female, late 20's, drugstore cashier.
"Yep, sober. What does your wrist say?" (I peer over the counter to read). "Ron?"
(She laughs and covers her wrist.)
"Ok, we won't talk about Ron!" (laughing)
"Yes, let's not talk about him!"
"Ok, thanks, have a good one"
(M. says something to F. as I leave.)

"Did that hurt?" Caucasian male, 40's/50's, Logan Sq. bus.
"Parts of it did, but not all."
"Did you have to get drunk?"
"No, drinking makes it worse. Thins the blood so you bleed more." (I take a seat and put my earphones in).

"Need a ride, girl?" African-American male cab driver, 30's, outside Red Line station.
"No thanks, I live here."
"Alright. Hey, nice tattoos. I love your ink."
"Thanks, you have a good night, be safe."
"You too."