A tattoo is an object. A permanent object, in an increasingly disposable society. It cannot be thrown away, destroyed, stolen, lost, or sold. True, it is not tangible. You cannot pick a tattoo up, throw it from hand to hand, crumple it, or stuff it in a bag. But tattoos are objects permanently imbedded in your skin—rub your fingers over a tattoo and most likely you will be able to feel the raised ink.

Tattoo artists create it by injecting ink into a persons skin. They use an electronically powered tattoo machine that looks, sounds, and feels like a drill. The machine moves a needle up and down, penetrating the skin by depositing a drop of insoluble ink into the skin with each puncture. When you see a tattoo on a person’s body, you are seeing the ink through the epidermis (the outer layer of the skin).

The ink is actually in the dermis, the second layer of the skin, which allows it to not disparate. Unlike other objects, such as works of art, family heirlooms, and hand-me-down knick-knacks, a tattoo is not disposable. Minor fading and dispersion occur as the tattoo gets older, but the ink remains in place for a person’s entire life.

I have 9 tattoos. Most of my tattoos I like, at least one of them I regret. Two of them were slightly painful, one was the worst pain I've ever felt, and the other five barely made me feel anything. Some of them mean something, some of them mean nothing. But they are all a part of me.

I've gotten tired of explaining all of them; I've even made up a fake "reason,” once or twice, just to shake the guaranteed looks of shock, curiosity, & surprise off people’s faces.

I have a friend who claims she will never get a tattoo, ever. Whenever we get on the subject of tattoos she tells me that she doesn’t like the way they look, before quickly backtracking and claiming, “OH, but I love your tattoos, your tattoos are great.” Uh-huh. I get it; tattoos have a bad stigma. The tattoo in America has long-been considered a symbol of defiance, and of freak shows, criminals, and prostitutes. People with anchors on their wrists and "c'est la via" on their ankle don't do anything to help.

Certain religions claim that tattoo’s are marks of sin against the body, which is a temple that should not be disgraced by such defacement. God forbid anyone has a say over another person’s body. But in recent decades, tattooing has undergone a drastic redefinition. Tattoos persist in American culture and are on the rise, increasingly practiced by mainstream, middle-class individuals, as they are a mark of liberation and rebellion.

At their core, tattoos serve as identification. I am identified by my willingness to have tattoos just as much as I am identified by my eye color and voice. For some, tattoos are just a form of aesthetic gratification, but for others they are tools of self-completion and permanent reminders of one’s true identity in an ever-changing world.

There is no inherent value in a tattoo; I can’t sell the side of my body for a large chunk of change. The meaning is attached to each person’s own beliefs and values. But the marking of the body, from a change in hair color, ear piercing, and a drastic shade of eye shadow, to a tattoo, has always been used to form awareness of individuality or group identity.

Sometimes tattoos symbolize permanent commitments or contracts to a society. There are gang tattoos, dedication tattoos, simple/small tattoos, and big/artistic tattoos. Tattoos can be intimate, public, serious, funny, dumb, meaningful, and meaningless.

I value my tattoos beyond any expensive piece of jewelry I own, and I wear them with as much pride as one might wear his or her grandma’s hand-me-down jacket. My tattoos separate me from others; they give me an identity. It gives me a sense of stability and meaning, and in a rapidly changing society, my tattoo is proof that some things do not change.

I hate it when people ask me what my tattoos mean. Why did I get it? What do my parents thinks? Did it hurt? It means what I want it to mean, I got it because I had a damn good reason at the time, my parents don’t know about most of them so please don’t tell, and of course it hurt it’s a fucking drill. Stop asking questions about tattoos and just let them remain a part of a person’s body, a person’s accessory that they have chosen to wear for the rest of their life.

I am not a criminal because I have a tattoo. I am not a slut. I am not a deviant. I am not a misfit. Maybe I’m addicted to the pain. Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe it’s the post-tattoo adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s because I know it’s seen as an act of rebellion, and it’s the only way I feel I can express myself without killing myself.

People get tattoos for a variety of reasons—they are reminders to themselves, they are symbols of loved ones, representations of cultures and societies, a religious quote that one always abides by, or maybe just something that looks really pretty. Maybe it’s something their beloved, dead grandfather used to say.

Maybe it’s a tally of how many years they’re been sober. Maybe it’s random and has no meaning at all. Who cares? You shouldn’t.