the winks of blue and black from my first ever tattoo. Reagan had drawn a hand flashing a middle finger on the side of my head. It had been a stupid tattoo, a young me trying to shout “fuck you” to the world. Reagan had known and convinced me to put it in a place I could hide it if I needed to. Now my black hair covered it, the curls softening the anger I’d let drive me all those years ago.
“Damn!” Andrew said it out loud, a gift just for me. His smile was infectious.
Soon, Andrew and I were laughing hard enough my ribs ached. He would pause between fits of laughter to sign some truly awful tattoo ideas. The kind that would land a person in internet infamy for “best of the worst.”
After a while, I dragged over some blank paper and markers and encouraged Andrew to start drawing some of his ideas, as I settled in to do the same. I liked working on drawing with the kids in the center. Being able to articulate emotions into lines, into colors, into something tangible and real? That was my outlet. It kept my frustration at my stagnation at bay.
Sure, I’d managed to make a name for myself as a go-to tattooer. My art even popped up in frequent Instagram feeds where the comments were universally good. It meant I never hurt for clients and I could easily support myself. But was that all there was to me? Being a reformed juvenile offender and a good artist? Was that enough for me? Because whenever I looked around the youth center as just a volunteer, it stung.
I didn’t want to just volunteer a few days a week for these kids. When I saw the ones with disabilities, like Andrew, I felt like I should be doing so much more.
I knew from experience that a tall, tattooed man had difficulty convincing people to donate money. My being Latino didn’t help, either, because like I told Andrew, some people were assholes. But if I could create a fundraiser that would force people to look beyond my image and into their hearts, I was certain that we could raise enough money to fund resources to help kids like Andrew. Give him the kind of help that had saved me from ending up as a permanent resident in the county jail.
Fond memories of my mentor, Jack, rushed over me. He’d worked in a center like this one and had been the one to teach me how to sign. My foster family at the time had been on their last leg with me, ready to kick me out despite the money the state gave them to keep me.
Jack had realized I wasn’t going to get the speech therapy I needed. I was too old for it to be easy, and I didn’t have the kind of insurance that would pay for it. So he’d taught me how to sign himself. His lessons kept me out of trouble, and they gave me the gift of communication, freeing me from the constant humiliation I experienced with my stutter.
But Jack had been a paid social worker, able to put in consistent, long-term time with me.
This center didn’t have that. It had me, and there was only so much time I could afford to put in. What they needed was funding and paid, experienced full-time staff.
After Andrew showed me a truly ridiculous but completed drawing, I grabbed a blue marker from the jar on our table and waved it at Andrew as a reward. I pointed to his arm, and he placed it on the table, palm side up, knowing the game.
For months I’d been giving him temporary tattoos, a compromise to help encourage him not to rush into the real thing and get some Bic pen stick-and-poke disaster rather than a piece of art. Wielding the marker with flair, I popped the cap off and started mapping a design in my head. Andrew was going to want something cocky, cool but unusual. Like him.
Smiling to myself, I settled in to work, creating the outline first. Andrew sat still as a statue, allowing me to move quickly, building the lines that would provide the foundation for his “tattoo.”
Slowly, a rooster began to come to life on Andrew’s skin, all puffed feathers and swagger. I was so invested in my drawing that I missed the door to the art room opening. What I didn’t miss was the sound of a