A light crunch echoed my ears as I looked down to see my shoelace wasn’t tied. I had stepped on the string carelessly and knew I should tie it. When I bent down, I noticed the strap of my tank top fell against my bicep. I quickly push it back up, but not before I look behind me to see a woman staring.

“What’s that?” She asked, pointing to the ink-stained on my shoulder blade. I smiled, and responded, “A tattoo. I got it for my aunt and-”

It didn’t take long for her cut me off. It didn’t take long for this elder woman to shudder. “Did your aunt worship the devil? Was she a satanist?” She spat. I gawked, my mouth slack as I glared at the woman. That’s the first question this woman can ask me about my tattoo? That’s the first thing this woman can ask me about my choice?

Instead of saying something my mother wouldn’t approve of, I just shook my head. “She loved bats, and she really loved the night. She loved to live. It meant a lot to her, and it means a lot to me.”

The woman stared at it a moment longer and let a laugh escape her red lips. “Well, they’re not really my thing.”

I hadn’t asked her if they were. I hadn’t asked her to judge me. I hadn’t asked her to inquire about what I put on my body.

Waving the woman goodbye, I got up from tying my shoe, and walked on.

For the rest of that day, I questioned that woman. I questioned that comment, that mere thought. I questioned why something so minor felt like a disgrace to someone else.

I choose what I do to my body, and I choose how I want to feel about it.

I get it. Back in the 60’s, tattoos were adorned by the oddity of groups, the people that did it to stand out. I get it. People used them to identify class. I get it. I hear it enough.

I hear it from my mother, I hear it from my father. I hear it from my brother who has three, I hear it from my cousin who has one. I get it.

I even heard it from my aunt who had a plethora of those beautiful things inked across her body.

I heard it.

I hear all the bad things, I hear the comments, I hear the same sentence over and over again. “Watch where you put tattoos, you don’t want them showing when you want to get a job.”

But I don’t listen. I don’t want to listen. We live in the 21st century, we live in the now. We live in a time where unique is good, and differences are accepted. At the ripe age of 18, it is common to see others sporting tattoos, sporting symbols. It is common to see piercings scattered across his or her face.

That is normal.

Tattoos are not weird, tattoos are not voodoo. Tattoos are not haunting and will not wake up to kill you in the middle of the night. So why do people think that way? Still?

Why is it that when I walk out in public and someone sees the eye on my arm that they immediately think I’m a part of a cult?

I don’t believe that all people think that way, and I’m starting to see that more and more.

I’m starting to see that the people who look at me oddly are the people that are older. They’re the people that grew up believing it wasn’t normal. They’re not used to what normal is.

And I’m starting to see that the people who look at me with pure adulation are the people that are my age. My generation, my peers. The people who accept me are the people who will be my bosses, who will be my co workers, who will be my husband.

Tattoos express identity. They express unique individuality, and in the 21st century, they are common.

And even if they weren’t, even if they were weird, even if they were voodoo and wake up to kill me in the middle of the night, I’ll still get five more.