The Tattooed Poets Project: Patricia Carragon

Our second tattooed poet this month is Patricia Carragon , a New York City poet who was instrumental in helping send several other poets our way for the Tattooed Poets Project this year.

I was fortunate enough to meet Patricia back in February, where I shot this photo of her ink, at my local Borders store:

Patricia sent along this narrative about her Rose-Tattoo Bracelet:

It was a Saturday afternoon in October, 1997. I was finally going to get a sexy rose bracelet tattooed above my right ankle. I’ve already had a referral from my hairdresser to do it at New York Adorned on Second Avenue. I recalled having a henna design painted on my right wrist by a street artist in SoHo earlier that summer – and loved it. I was tired of wearing ankle bracelets that would snap off without notice. Since I didn’t have a picture with me, I searched for possibilities in the tattoo parlor’s books. Not one rose drawing fit the image engraved in my head. A tattoo artist would have the honor of fulfilling my request. Unfortunately, it was Saturday and it was busy. I knew I would not be home until after eight, and supper would have to be much later. I had no choice, but to call home. I wanted to surprise my mother without dealing with her pre-ink drama. But that was not meant to be.

“Oh… a rose-tattoo bracelet? Can lasers remove it?”

“Yes, Mom, but I’m not going to do that. I’ll be home in a few hours. Bye…"

My time arrived. I had coffee sweetened with sugar about an hour ago. Although I was warned that my body needed solid food and sugar to prevent passing out during the procedure, I still didn’t want to overeat because of supper. My artist drew on paper the bracelet that would be outlined above my ankle. I adored the rose-chain stencil on my body. I was ready for baptism by ink – peachy pink for the roses and yellow-green for the leaves.

Once propped up on the cot, the needle pierced my skin and began its journey along the artist’s outline. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel any pain. As minutes passed, the needle worked along the design’s path. About halfway through, the needle must have sent some negative signals to my brain. A sudden feeling of dizziness overcame me. The needle immediately stopped. My slender tattooist and his colleague, who resembled a burly motorcyclist, carried me to another room where I was fed Halloween candy. An ice pack was placed in back of my head. I rested for approximately twenty minutes. I recovered and was ready for the needle and my rose bracelet’s completion. I apologized for what had happened, knowing that, with low blood pressure, I should have been more careful. The heavy-set tattooist told me not to feel bad. Even the toughest-looking customers pass out under the needle.

Feeling better, I sat up on the cot and watched the needle complete the outline. Then came the application of the colors. My roses became part of my skin and self-expression.

Wrapped in Bacitracin and Saran Wrap, I got dressed. It was worth charging this bracelet on one of my plastic cards. I wish that I had saved the receipt. I think it probably cost me one-hundred-eighty dollars.

Later that night, Mom made a comment when I undid the Saran Wrap.

“Oh… you got a large tattoo. I thought you were going for one rose? Can lasers still remove it?”

“Yes, Mom, but I’m not going to do that. I spent money on this tattoo and I’m keeping it for life.”

What was a novelty back in the late ’90s is now the norm today. The roses above my right ankle, sadly, look faded after fourteen years. I wish I had the money to bring back their color. At least Mom stopped giving me prickly advice about getting laser treatment.

Patricia Carragon February 2011