If my Tattoo Could Talk…
The scandalous memoir of Hazel, who survived a honeymoon brush with marital disaster, years of cruel name-calling, and finally got the facelift she deserved.
I was a true vision. The kind of thing that lived only in her imagination until now — I had legs that went on for days and eyes bright and red as the sun as it sets on a hot, summer day. I knew when she saw me, she was truly captivated. Enthralled. She couldn’t believe I was real — I’d lived in her dreams for so many years. But here I was staring back at her as she looked down at skin that was laid out before her, clean and shiny as my color began to populate her pores. I infiltrated her very essence.
She named me Hazel.
The spot she chose for my amphibian landing was her lower right limb, facing outward. She positioned me in motion, climbing toward her, forever in a stance of upward mobility and anchored by a branch. This wooden form held not only my frame but a code only she knew. Symbols indelibly linked to both of us — a K, an L, and an M. I might have thought she randomly plucked these letters from the middle of the alphabet to etch them into the tree. Until I overheard her describe the people she loved most one day — Keenan, Laura, and Madison. I thought, “Aha!” as I began to cobble together the elements of my surroundings and their meaning.
My youth was not easy, though. I could see who she intended for me to be, but my first days were mired in controversy, pain, and muck. The other woman in this story — the Laura she represented with a lettered engraving in the branch upon her skin — had thoughts about me. Laura was not a fan of such permanence in imagery upon the flesh. The timing of my conception was the honeymoon of their wedding, and legend has it that my birth was not a welcome addition to this family. She whose landscape I traversed long pined for an opportunity to have me adorn her appendage. I was a design of 20 years in thought and desire who needed only an opportunity to come to fruition. But her new wife was less than thrilled at my arrival and the time it took away from their honeymoon for my genesis — nearly six hours one day while Laura was alone on the island of Maui. This was too much for Laura — she had not joined the group that day for a similar experience of colorful creations to be made upon their persons.
I was lightheartedly said to have nearly caused a divorce so early in this young marriage.
Onward and upward only for me it was, though. After apologies, Laura recovered. But I took a turn.
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My creator was a young artist. She had previously been a scratcher and was trying to legitimize her work in this inking industry. But her skills were not well honed as yet, and she drove her needle too deep. My colors bled out terribly beneath the second skin that was applied to help me heal. When my person removed this sheath, I scabbed and did not mend the way I should have, masking my caecilian beauty, and ultimately resulting in much of my color and appearance falling away within a short time.
Then began the name calling. Laura hadn’t liked me from the start. As a result, she could not bring herself to refer to me by what I was named so appropriately, after both the greenish brown of my frog outline and tree form — using my beautiful name Hazel (which translates to “God has seen”). Rather, I was called other names like “Big Bertha” to belittle and poke fun at my mess of a form as I deteriorated on the leg from which I climbed. I protested — I was not an unusually heavy object! I begged to be seen as the unfortunately deeply mis-drawn artifact I was, lying beneath a detritus of pooled color and ambled lines.
Thusly I remained until a message through the ether led to a knowing from my original fledgling artist. My lady of the leg wrote and told the artist my story and how pained I was as I now lay upon her, more blob-like than frog-like. My lady asked nothing in return but wanted the artist to understand that I was not well so that others like me might not suffer my fate. And the artist was kind. She was mortified to know I was misshapen — the artist instantly refunded all dollars spent to create me. It was unexpected but welcome and helped my lady of the leg form a new plan. Maybe frogs can undergo facelifts, she pondered…
Now back home in Denver, similar artists came with such things as recommendations. My lady of the leg sought these out for me and found a gentleman who said he could rebuild me, much like the Six Million Dollar Man, but at a fraction of that cost. A date was set and we traveled for my re-sculpting. Unlike the first painting that made my form, this time the act felt gentle, loving, and easy. And no second skin adorned me when we left the establishment — I would have only air and nature (and some moisturizing) to heal. I felt like a new frog entirely! Even the branches I climbed were crisp and clear! And the middle alphabet could be seen in those wooden limbs (if one looked hard) once more.
My lady of the leg was excited for me again! I was how she imagined all along. My long legs adorned hers, wrapping around her right one as if my life depended upon it. In a way, it did. I had finally lept out of the crust and shadows to be born anew. I was moving ahead. I had found my path into the light.
Onward, upward, and forward. As only one of my kind is engineered to leap. Now with clean lines and colors that distinguished me for proper gazing. “God has seen” indeed.
I finally embraced my authentic self, and forever will now remain, Hazel.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this piece — if you did, I would be grateful for a clap and a follow.
A bit about the author…
Vicki Aycock is a creative nonfiction writer exploring the high-stakes geography of choosing oneself. Her work centers on the intersections of familial trauma, family estrangement, and mid-life queer unmasking. She is currently working on a memoir mapping these pivots — from navigating a childhood with a malignant narcissist and bipolar father, to shattering a long-locked box of identity to embrace a life of vivid authenticity. Vicki documents this journey of radical transparency weekly on Vividly Speaking where she writes about the messy catharsis of turning deep-seated secrets into a foundation of strength.
