Chastising the audacity of me

She stood in line in front of me at the bank. She wore ragged jeans, inappropriate shoes, and a scoop neck shirt that proudly displayed her black bra straps as well as the tattoo emblazoned between her shoulder blades. If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you probably know that I am not a big fan of tattoos. I don’t like them on guys, and I especially don’t like them on girls. I have never been able to wrap my head around what a guy (or girl) would want permanently inked on their body. It is the equivalent of someone telling me I have to wear the same pair of earrings for the rest of my life (to which I would reply, “No, thank you”). Sometimes when I see a girl with a tattoo—especially a tattoo as large as this one—I just want to tap that child on the shoulder and ask, “Honey, what were you thinking?”

While this girl in front of me wasn’t a runway model, this tattoo did nothing to make her anymore attractive. And why would she have this tattoo emblazoned between her shoulder blades where she would never be able to see it? I didn’t ask that question either. I suppose the point of the tattoo and the scoop neck blouse was for others to get some enjoyment from it—lucky me, huh? I mean, you couldn’t miss it. Inked between her shoulder blades, in gothic letters, was ARMY, and dangling from the Y in ARMY was something else....oh, a chain and dog tags. Classy! The top dog tag read RDR, and the dog tag peeking out underneath had dates on it, “05/05/1985 – 08/20/2008.” I hadn’t noticed the dog tags at first because I had been too distracted by the tattoo, but now that I saw the words, the chain, and the dog tags, I realized that I was looking at a memorial.

Thank goodness she couldn’t see me staring. The line moved, and she stepped up to the next teller. She set down her keys and purse, and I heard the metal of dog tags hit the counter. I know that sound. My dad wore dog tags. I know what they sound like when they hit a dresser. I know the sound of that metal. It’s a distinctive clattering sound. When I looked at the counter, this girl's key chain had a set of dog tags attached. While the teller completed her transaction, the girl stroked the dog tags—almost subconsciously. She looked down at them once, and then back up. I couldn’t see her face, only her hands, the dog tags, and the tattoo.

And I chided myself. How dare I be so self-absorbed and pompous in my personal opinions as to pass judgment on this girl. Who am I to tell anyone how properly to grieve? Suddenly, my opinions didn't seem as important as they had five minutes beforehand. No, I don’t understand tattoos, but I do understand grief, and it appeared that this young girl—young enough to be my daughter—was grieving the best way that she knew how. This tattoo was her memorial. This was part of her healing, remembering, and processing the pain. And I rebuked my condescending audacity to stand there and pass judgment on this child for grieving the only way she knew how. God forgive me, and God bless her. Wherever you are, little girl, I like your tattoo.