Dear Readers, I was incredibly proud to have worked on the petition signature campaign for the ballot initiative to decriminalize marijuana in San Marcos, which voters approved with an overwhelming 85% of the vote. When we turned in thousands of signatures at city hall after all our hard work canvassing, it was a day for celebration with tears, hugs, elation, a giant group river plunge, margaritas and a spontaneous stick-and-poke tattoo session by an apprenticing artist.
Although I was very aware that I was the oldest team member, I felt it more acutely when “Let’s all get tattoos!” followed our salted-rimmed cheers. I do love tattoos. I rock a couple of larger pieces by talented artists that I adore. I’ve also always wanted a hand-poke, but when the group decided on a small marijuana leaf design, I couldn’t muster the same level of excitement. No judgment for my fellow justice warriors — it just wasn’t my jam. Especially since I’ve already collected a few spontaneous souvenir inkings in my day.
My first was at 17, in Mexico, on a senior class trip. The entire exchange happened in Spanish, and honestly, I think my AP Spanish teacher would have been proud. It’s still there, on my big toe. No one knows what it is. I love it. Another came after my first year of marriage as an unplanned, post-midnight decision to run out to a random shop to mark our anniversary. That one’s since been covered and transformed, though I’m still healing from the marriage.
Then there was a rainy Friday evening in the fall of 2005, a few months into my life in Philadelphia. I took the trolley to West Philly for a tattoo session in someone’s house. I don’t remember the artist’s name, but I do remember that he and his wife had once appeared on the cover of Guns & Ammo magazine with their toddler son, Uzi, who kept wandering into the non-functioning bathroom where we were drinking wine and being tattooed, asking his dad to come play. I will carry that whole strange and sweet scene with me forever. My friend had hers redone within months, but I’ve sported my janky wrist tattoo for the last 20 years because this is the tattoo I earned.
After one of my comedy shows in Portugal, I sold two of my parenting humor books for a 20 euro bill. On my way to the bar, a tattoo artist offering flash tats in the Mercado Negro stopped me and said he could ink me for exactly what I had in hand. I now have a tiny canoe with a paddle on my rib. People think I got it because of the boats of Aveiro, but really it’s a nod to the Texas Water Safari.
I’ve gotten tattoos in all kinds of places, for all kinds of reasons. I even got one live on the air during my Martian Mommy Radio Show on KZSM during a Friday the 13th flash event.
As luck would have it, I recently met an Argentinian stick-and-poke artist who came to my home and redid that original West Philly ink. It looks amazing, and now I understand how my justice warrior peeps felt as they received their keepsake pokings. I’m also tickled that this particular tattoo carries so many tiny spots and pixels of “home.”
Whether it’s a pot leaf for a political win, a canoe for river racing or a mysterious marking from a teenage trip to Mexico, these tattoos are my personal time capsules. They may be questionable, imperfect or unflattering, but they’re all mine. Maybe you don’t mark your milestones with ink, but I hope you find your own way to savor your memories, wear your joy, and celebrate your feats — from big to little and all the way home.
XOXO,
Kelly Stone is an educator, comedian, mother, and author who loves the heck outta the river. She welcomes e-letters at kellystone.org or kellystonecomedy@gmail. com and adores handwritten notes and postcards via good ol’ snail mail: R dos Combatentes da Gr. Guerra 47, FRAC R, Aveiro, Portugal 3810-087.
