St. Patrick's Day and How I Got My Tattoo

St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, the Archdiocese of New York and engineers.

Most people think of St. Patrick's Day as a day when people drink green beer, wear green, and claim Irish ancestry -- whether or not they have it. It is often seen as an excuse to party and act a little crazy. I'll admit, that it is fun to have a party on St. Patrick's Day, but the day is more than that. Like St. Valentine's Day, it began as a Catholic feast day to honour a saint -- in this case, St. Patrick. A feast day, in this sense, has to do with a special day set aside by the Catholic Church to celebrate a particular saint. Of course, many Catholics do feast in the common sense of the word and eat special foods that are associated with that saint or have a party with friends and family on the day as a part of their celebrations, but the reason they celebrate in the first place is because of the saint whose feast day it happens to be. Just so with St. Patrick.

St. Patrick lived in the 5th century and was born in Britain. When he was about 16, he was kidnapped by Irish pirates and taken as a slave to Ireland. He lived there for about six years before escaping and returning to his family. During his captivity, he converted to Christianity and was ordained to the priesthood some years after his return home. What brought him back to Ireland is debated among various scholars with some saying he was sent by his bishop and some saying he had a vision that he was to go back there, but whatever the reason, we do know that he returned to the land of his captivity, was eventually made a bishop, and is one of the ones responsible for preaching the Gospel to the Druids and converting a great many of them to Christianity. One of the legends told about St. Patrick is that he used a three-leaf clover to explain the Holy Trinity to the native people of Ireland. As such, the shamrock (which is properly a three leaf clover, not a four leaf one), became one of the symbols associated with the saint and later on, his feast day.

The Irish have a particular gift for gab. Some people might even call it blarney...

Something that may not be readily apparent by reading my blog is that I have Irish ancestry and as such, have always felt a deep affection for St. Patrick, even as a Protestant Christian. My husband Gray also has Irish ancestry, so our three girls are doubly-blessed. I apparently have enough Irish blood that I actually look Irish. I was told that several times when I was visiting there in college. I even had a lady in a shop mistake me for a "native daughter." She was gobsmacked when I opened my mouth and an American accent fell out. I'd always thought that my Irish genes were a bit hidden since I didn't quite fit the stereotypical Irish look. Apparently though, there are people who look a lot like me who are referred to as Black Irish who have darker hair and fair skin. My naturally curly hair seems to add to the perception too. What do you think?

Me on my 39th birthday, about to meet up with my bestie, Sif for dinner.

So with the love of St. Patrick, Irish ancestry, and the fact that I absolutely fell in love with Ireland when I visited so many years ago, I have come to really embrace this part of me. Every year for St. Patrick's Day, I try to plan a meal that involves some traditional Irish foods, listen to some Irish music, and ask St. Patrick to pray for me and those I love. I'd love to make it to Mass on his feast day too, but that's not always possible.

Throughout the rest of the year, I am reminded of my ancestry and my love for Ireland and St. Patrick by something that is with me 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It's kinda special and something that I never, ever, ever thought I'd get.....

It's a tattoo.

This was a pretty common reaction from various folks I know upon learning I had gotten one.

I grew up hearing my parents preach to me about how tattoos were really not a good idea. They argued that it was ruining your skin, would be permanent (or really difficult to remove), and that God had given people perfectly decent looking skin and they just didn't understand why anyone would do that. I bought into their arguments as a kid, but even then, I was kinda intrigued with tattoos. As I got older, I was still intrigued with tattoos, but knew that I never wanted one because of the permanency factor. What if I got one and regretted it later? I got to a point where I understood why someone might get one, but I was very adamant that I never would because I just couldn't get past the idea that I might decide to get one and then have buyer's remorse.

This was the feeling I wanted to avoid because tattoo fails are often forever!

This began to change after I had my first two children. I was still adamant that I'd never get one, but the thought that a tattoo is permanent didn't quite scare me as it once did. Even with that fear dissipating, I was still opposed to the idea for myself because, as I told Pendragon one day, I had enough marks on my body from my days of self-injuring without adding to them. Not long after having that thought, I looked down at my legs one day when I was drying off from a shower and saw the biggest of my self-injury scars. As usual, the sight of that scar evoked feelings of shame, guilt, and sadness that I had ever engaged in such a destructive coping mechanism. The reason I bring this up is that those scars are one of the things that changed my mind eventually.

Even when you've won a victory over self-injury, the scars remain as reminders and often remind you of a past you'd like to forget. They do fade over time, but I think they always look more prominent to the me than others.

Fast forward about four years to the beginning of 2013. In the years between when I finally conquered self-injury and that year, I had become more and more interested in not only the tattoo artistry itself, but also the many stories that were behind the tattoos. Some people, I found, were more into tattoos for the art and self-expression, while others were interested in them as a means of remembering something or someone significant or expressing something deeply personal about themselves. I decided at some point a couple of years before GB was conceived that although I would never get one, if I ever was going to get one, it would have to mean something and not just be something cute or pretty or funny or trendy or something I'd likely lose interest in years down the road. For a long time, that was what I told myself every time I heard the story behind someone else's tattoo or saw a tattoo I admired on someone.

In February of 2013, I began to experience symptoms of a major depressive episode. A couple of months into it, I finally realized I was symptomatic and began the work of trying to manage it. Rather than going into all the gory details, I'll suffice to say that it just got worse. In June, we went to the beach with my family and as we were driving into the town where we were staying, we passed one of the several tattoo shops that are around down near the beach highway. I had a very sudden and intense urge to actually go get a tattoo. I didn't get one while we were there, but the idea stuck in my head. I talked to both Gray and Pendragon about it at length. I talked to Sif about it. And then I started looking at designs. I had an idea of what I wanted and I scoured the internet. Then I started investigating local tattoo shops in my area and asking around for recommendations from friends.

This is a pretty good representation of how many tattoo designs are out there when you start looking. Just multiply what you see here by something close to infinity and you'll have it about right. I got a little overwhelmed initially.

Finally, I told Gray that I was pretty positive that I wanted a tattoo. My reasons for getting it were quite a few. One of the biggest reasons was because of the shame and guilt I felt every time I looked at my self-injury scars. Sif suggested that I get my tattoo placed on my left thigh, just high enough to be easily covered but also easily seen by me. She reasoned that if I put it there, my eye would be naturally drawn to it, rather than the scars and it would make me smile and feel good. Along with that, I had the idea that the tattoo itself could be a celebration piece. I celebrated 4 years free of self-injury in 2013, which I thought worth celebrating. I also decided that I wanted to get it as a way to say to myself that I am an adult because until this point in my life, I had struggled to feel as though my parents respected me or even saw me as an adult. Getting a tattoo was, in a way, saying that I am an adult and do not need anyone's approval or permission to live my life. It may sound childish or like I was thumbing my nose at my parents (because I knew that if they could keep me from doing it, they likely would have done), but it was in many ways, a huge step for me to admit to myself that I didn't need their approval. Gray, Pendragon, and Sif were all very supportive of the decision and after much looking, I finally settled on an idea for the tattoo. It took some time to find a design that reflected that idea in just the way I wanted, but I finally found it in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

We drove north to Pennsylvania to visit my in-laws for Christmas and New Year's and it was a fantastic two weeks for many reasons but not the least of which was that I finally got my tattoo. I hadn't exactly planned to do it up there, but Gray's little sister Sarah heard that I thought I really wanted one and she said, "Alright, let's go get one after Christmas! Let's see if Olivia wants to come too. We'll all get tattoos!" So we planned to go the Friday after Christmas with my other sister-in-law Olivia (Gray's little brother Andrew's wife) and make it a fun sister-in-law bonding experience. Olivia and Sarah went first to get their tattoos because I was a bit nervous and then finally it was my turn. The guy who did it was really nice and very patient with me, telling me what he was going to do at each step. It was a fantastic experience. Olivia took pictures at each stage (he used 6 different colours) and then one of the finished piece:

Isn't it pretty? I love all the different shades of green and the white highlights too.

It's coming up on a year and a half and I still absolutely LOVE it. I think the reason I still love it is because I stayed true to my desire to have something that means something to me. To that end, here's the meaning:

1. It's a shamrock, obviously, which stands for my Irish heritage and ancestry.
2. St. Patrick used the three leaves to explain the mystery of the Holy Trinity, so in that vein, it's symbolic of my Catholic faith.
3. It is also a symbol of my family -- one leaf for Gray, one leaf for me, and one for our girls.
4. It's a celebration of my victory over self-injury -- 6 years this coming August.
5. Of course, the colour green is symbolic of new life and growth which is something that this episode of depression has forced me to think about a lot.
6. It is also a symbol of strength in adversity. Clovers are ridiculously sturdy little plants. You mow them down and they come right back. They also multiply like crazy and will easily dominate a patch of grass, garden, or flower bed. So, every time I look at it, I try to remember that I've gotten through a lot of very hard stuff and like the clover, I'm still standing.

So there you have it. A little about St. Patrick and my shamrock tattoo. And as it is St. Patrick's Day there is but one thing left to do and that is to wish you and yours...

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh! 

(St. Patrick's Day blessings to you!)

Sláinte is the Irish Gaelic word you say when toasting someone. It is pronounced "slawn-cheh" and means "health" in English. The above plaque is a traditional blessing that goes with this sentiment.