The Birth of My Resistance

Two weeks ago today, I embarked on an adventure to Berkeley to get a new tattoo. Although I had ten tattoos already, I still felt that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I woke up that morning anxious but ready. I got on my knees and said some prayers. The night before, I had read a few passages in my Bible, which I don’t do very often. Now, while my one on one relationship with God is good, I have definitely had my ups and downs in regards to church and religion over the years. (I will save that for another day) Anyways, I happened to come across a passage that talked about God not being cool with people tattooing their flesh. That had me feeling a little funny since that is exactly what I was going to do the next morning. I had this vision in my mind of how I wanted this adventure to play out for me and I wanted to talk to God about it and explain my reasons to Him and ask for His blessing. I did not know at that time that God would not only hear my prayers, but bless me beyond what I imagined and hoped for.

Now, I have never been super big on politics. I mean, I have always paid attention around election time of course and exercised my right to vote. But once the elections were over, I would just go on about my daily life. I didn’t classify myself as a Republican or a Democrat, although I always seemed to lean to the left. I suppose I have always had this opinion about politics; one that is not so positive. I have always looked at politicians as “liars” and “shady” and just saying anything to get a vote. But when President Obama ran for office in 2008, it was my first time feeling like we had someone who was REAL. Someone who was “one of us”. He had that gift that I rarely saw coming out of Washington; he had the ability to touch the hearts and souls of the American people and make us feel secure with his words and his interactions with people. He was GENUINE. He was a gem. When he won, my heart was bursting with joy and my eyes filled with tears. Our first black President! History was being made! But not only that, we had a President that I felt like I could be proud of; a President who I felt would represent us to the world in a way that America had never before represented itself, at least during my lifetime thus far. We had a GOOD man leading our country. I was a PROUD American. Until about three months ago.

I woke up on November 9, 2016 with a weird feeling in my gut. What had happened while I was asleep? As I came to the realization that THAT man got elected as our new leader, my stomach flipped, my heart sank and my spirit was crushed into a million teeny tiny pieces. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED? I didn’t understand. That day I went through a wave of emotions. Disappointment, frustration, anger, sadness… The disappointment I felt in my country and it’s people was overwhelming. I was CERTAIN we as a nation were smarter than that. I was CERTAIN that we as a nation wanted to continue to progress, not move backwards. I was CERTAIN that we as a nation knew the difference between voting for someone who has made mistakes and someone who is just downright disrespectful, cruel, greedy, petty, psychotic, racist, intolerant, evil and lacked in morals. I was frustrated with people I knew who had voted for “Batman” and “Spider-Man” and other ridiculous fictional characters. I was angry that people did not take this election seriously. I was angry that some people who I have known for years, voted for that man. That BELIEVED and TRUSTED in that man after all of the countless situations where he proved, time and time again, to be unfit for such an honor. I burst in to tears a few times that day, although I hid it from my loved ones because I did not want them to see me so upset. I wanted so badly to be that bright, positive ray of hope that the country, and world needed that day.

The weeks following were a bit rough. Although I knew it was not just me taking this election so hard, I found that I didn’t know who else WAS. Everyone I crossed paths with whether it was in the grocery store, the nail salon, the bank, the dog park, at work, in the streets, driving down the highway; I couldn’t help but wonder “Did HE vote for him?” “Did SHE vote for him?” Absolutely EVERYONE I came in contact with, I asked that question in my head. I looked for obvious signs but of course couldn’t find any. One afternoon, two days after the election was over, I noticed that several houses on the next street over from mine had American flags hanging outside their homes. I instantly became angry. “Surely they voted for that man. You fly a flag when you are proud of your country. I can’t imagine anyone who didn’t vote for him being proud of their country right now,” I thought to myself. Then sadness hit me like a ton of bricks. I realized that the American flag no longer represented what it had always represented to me; freedom, opportunity, love, unity, strength, diversity, dreams come true…. To me, it was now a sign of support for “him” and  his greed, bullying, sexual abuse, intolerance, lack of respect for women, cruelty, racism, division and walls. In that moment, I suddenly felt like this land was no longer “for you and me”. I suddenly felt like this country was no longer my country.

I found solace in my family, my few close friends and Instagram. Before bed each night, I found myself clicking on certain hashtags like #hopeforthefuture #notmypresident and #strongertogether and that is where I found people who were feeling like I was. They were posting pictures and quotes that left me feeling a little more hopeful and not so alone. I had begun to hate Facebook, as quite a few people that I never would have thought would believe in “him” in fact did. The ones who were posting things like “Haha we won” type shit and making fun of people who were devastated by the election results were deleted off my page. I had no time for that. If you wanted to be respectful of those mourning even though you in fact were happy with the results, then okay. But I did not want any of that “rubbing it in your face” bullshit around me. It wasn’t about “us losing” and “them winning”. It was deeper than that silly game. So much deeper. It was that, no matter who you voted for, we all were losing.

One afternoon I came across an article about “The Safety Pin Movement”. It was a movement in fact started in Britain over the previous summer, when 52% of the country  voted to remove themselves from the European Union. Many people were left feeling angry, sad, disappointed, afraid… Suddenly folks were seeing a surge in xenophobia, expressed in taunts and worse, much like we were seeing here in the States after the election of “him”. Intolerance was surfacing. And so the Safety Pin Movement began. People started wearing safety pins on their shirts to show solidarity for those who felt in danger because of race, gender, sexuality, religion etc. It was a sign that you are an ally, that you will stand with them against bullying and intolerance. And so here in America, after the election, this movement started as well. I said to myself “I am going to get it tattooed on me!” And so my quest for the perfect tattoo design, the perfect tattoo parlor and the perfect tattoo artist began.

I wanted to get my tattoo done somewhere in the city, where I knew there was such a diverse culture. I chose Berkeley for a couple of reasons. First, the obvious was that it wasn’t terribly far from my town. Second, I have many childhood memories going to Berkeley for family gatherings. My grandma grew up in Berkeley. My grandfather and great uncle went to Cal and loved it so much, it’s safe to say the blood that ran through their veins was blue and gold. Third, I knew that Berkeley has an amazing artistic community and I knew I would find a super groovy shop that was just right for me. And so I found it and made an appointment for January 19, 2017; President Obama’s last day in office.

As I turned on to University Ave. that cloudy morning, my adrenaline began to rush. This was it! As I pulled in to a parking spot right in front of the shop, I glanced around. The street screamed with diversity and urban flair. There was an Indian saree shop across the street, a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich restaurant, an old liquor store, a business with a bright, beautiful mural painted on the side of the building. People of all races were walking up and down the street, cars both new and old were zooming on by… It was wonderful. And the shop was just as perfect. I stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a young Asian man who was setting up his tattooing area. “Is this my artist?” I wondered. I was bursting with excitement. Another young man of Hispanic descent silently set up the rest of the shop, bobbing his head to the music that was filling the air. I was told that my artist would be there soon and for me to just have a seat and relax while I waited. As I sat down, I started looking around the shop and taking in the décor. The walls were black with gold trimming. Bold, but softened by the sparkly crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and the natural light pouring through the windows. And then there was artwork. Everywhere. The wide variety of cultural art adorning the walls was breathtaking. Framed drawings and paintings and two decked out bicycles hanging on the wall. I was in art heaven and the vibes in the shop were warming my soul. And then my artist came around the corner and greeted me, clearly out of breath. He was a very young African American man who’s energy instantly floored me. We shook hands as he said “I’m sorry I’m late, I hit a bunch of traffic coming from Oakland.” “No worries! I got here a few minutes late myself, hitting traffic coming the other way,” I said in response. He instantly got down to business. He asked what I was having done and I explained to him my idea and showed him three different pictures that I wanted to have combined somehow. He listened to every word of mine, told me to sit back down and then went and hid in his corner for a bit as he brought my vision to life. I started feeling nervous again. What if he forgot something I said? What if I’m being too difficult? What if this, what if that? About fifteen minutes later, he walked over to me and showed me his creation. It was absolutely perfect. He listened to EVERYTHING I had said and paid attention to every last detail that I desired right down to the teeny scar that I wanted to incorporate in to the tattoo. I laid down on my stomach and he started tattooing away. My nerves calmed down with each second that passed and I suddenly began to feel an amazing feeling that I don’t really know how to describe. As Outkast and Tupac and Biggie blasted through the speakers, I couldn’t help but think “This is so perfect. Everything is perfect. This is exactly how I wanted this to go.” An hour later, my artist was done and I left feeling high. Something had happened to me in the last hour.

As I sped up the highway heading back home, I felt a rush of emotions. This experience was every bit what I had hoped and prayed for. This tattoo, that stood for something so powerful to me, was done in a shop that, to me, represented my tattoo. The shop was full of cultural art, it’s employees were all from different ethnic backgrounds and the music was EVERYTHING that I believed our country’s new leader would NEVER listen to or like. My mind started racing on the way home. I suddenly was feeling an overwhelming sense of inspiration. I suddenly was feeling an overwhelming sense of hope for the future. I wanted to get home and write. And paint. And write some more. I suddenly was feeling an overwhelming amount of inner strength. Like my body ran on a battery and it had just been fully recharged. The warrior inside of me was awake. The fight inside of me was activated. Suddenly the hopelessness that I had been feeling for the past two months was replaced with hope. Instead of allowing this anger, sadness and disappointment get the best of me, I was going to use it to help get me to be my best. With every prick of the tattoo gun needle, my artist didn’t just permanently tattoo my skin; he permanently tattooed my heart and spirit with inspiration. He had unknowingly lit a fire in my soul. I saw eight rainbows on my thirty minute drive home. I knew as I crossed over the last bridge before getting home, that they were Gods way of letting me know that he had heard my prayers, knew my heart and loved my new tattoo.