Every Tattoo Tells a Story
It's your truth. Believe it.
I sometimes forget that I have a tattoo.
It’s only when I run my hand across my left shoulder that I’m reminded. Feeling the raised insistence of the ink under my skin, I remember the Helm of Awe.
A Norse symbol of protection and strength, the Helm can be traced back to the Vikings, who wore it stamped or inked on their foreheads when they went to sea. A modern explanation is that it was meant to strike terror in their enemies. But given the nature of Viking conquest, I think such markings would be superfluous.
Does this shock you? I’m of Swedish and Norwegian ancestry, but I only make a fuss about it at Christmas. That is my trifecta birthright: Scandinavian, Minnesotan, Lutheran; aquavit, lefse, krumkake.
I once made the mistake of dressing my daughter in a white gown and a plastic crown wreath with artificial candles. It was December 13, Santa Lucia day. The oldest daughter (she was five) traditionally serves breakfast to the family. I baked Pillsbury cinnamon rolls from a pop-open tube and for some reason expected it to go well.
I don't know what she tells her therapist, but if there’s residual trauma, I am willing to pay for EMDR.
The misuse of mythic and religious imagery in the service of hate is widespread, abhorrent. To avoid misunderstanding, I keep my tattoo covered. That’s easily done, as it’s located on my upper back, on the left shoulder of my shield arm.
For me, the deeper meaning of the Helm of Awe is this: my daughter has an identical one. Hers is on the bicep of her right arm, the sword arm. Together, we’re an army.
If you asked me to describe the Helm of Awe, I might say:
A wheel with eight spokes, each with three crossbars, ending in a trident. A pitchfork. Eight abstract figures raising arms to the sky, summoning. Eight lightning bolts piercing the surface of the coldest, darkest sea. Eight cries of a mother. Of a child. The Helm of Awe.
Or: It looks like a snowflake.
I’m in my sixties. Born and raised in the Midwest. Widowed, after forty-three years of marriage. Both of my adult children live within a few miles of the house they grew up in, where I still reside. I drive a Subaru with all the safety features, and have never had a moving violation or parking ticket. I drink moderately, but draw the line at recreational drugs.
And yet: mother of two, with a tattoo . . . It’s like that song from Sesame Street I couldn’t escape when my kids were small: One of these things just doesn’t belong here. Today’s word, brought to you by the letter A. Anomaly.
When people learn about it, the first response is silence. Then delight, with some disbelief. Mary! You? someone says. What a badass! I pull up a photo, one my husband took.
Now that he’s gone, I’m the only one who sees it. Toweling my hair after a shower, I’ll catch a glimpse in the mirror. Left arm, shield arm. I pat myself, literally, on the back. Then I go out into the world, saying Mary. You are a badass.
There are days I believe it.
A few years ago, as my daughter’s birthday approached, the usual panic set in. Should I give her jewelry? A sweater? Cash? Again? Each category had run its course and collapsed from exhaustion.
“Why don’t you just ask her?” my husband said, when I fretted out loud one too many times.
“You should talk. You’re the one full of surprises.” It was true. His gifts were always unexpected, mostly in a good way.
“Then go do field research. Find out what the cool kids are up to.”
I sat in coffee shops near the most liberal college in the city. Had lunch at a restaurant that served cuisines fused one time too many. Strolled along a path near the river where people took their fancy dogs. Again, too much fusion, too many iterations of the doodle suffix. Piercings seemed less indicative of self-harm than the last time I’d paid attention. Clothing was athleisure, or vintage, or strategically ripped.
What I noticed, mostly, was ink. When had so many bodies become supple canvases for such bright colors and intricate designs?
At the clinic where I went for my annual physical, the nurse had a full sleeve of climbing vines.
“Nice,” I said. “Morning glories?”
“Yes. Couldn’t decide on blue or red, so I got both.”
She released the blood pressure cuff. “Everyone said, At your age? Ha. Fifty-seven. I’m getting another next week.”
The doctor came in. Older than me, she’d already announced her upcoming retirement. Trim, self-assured, her gray hair cut in a precise bob. The sleeves of her white coat fell back as she leaned her elbows on the desk to adjust the computer screen.
Lilies. Both forearms.
My daughter had acquired a number of tattoos over the years, most notably a cherry blossom branch across her back. She had room for more. But was she interested in getting one with her mother? I texted her.
She responded with heart emojis.
When we met for lunch the next day, she had already assembled a folder of designs. We scrolled through the possibilities.
Owls. Cats. Loons. Gingko leaves. After nodding yes to most, tilting my head Maybe to some, and rolling my eyes NO to only a few, I was overwhelmed.
“So many great ones. I might as well turn myself into wallpaper,” I said. “You know me too well.”
She laughed.
“Okay. Just one more.”
It was mesmerizing. Perfect. But my reply was reflexively obtuse.
“I love it. But — a snowflake?”
She pulled back. Looked at me. How many times had I seen that look before?
“Mom.” She took a deep breath. “We’re not snowflakes.”
“It’s called the Helm of Awe. I’ll send you some links.” After she left, I read the origin story. Here’s my loose summary, based on the Icelandic sagas.
The hero, Sigurd, kills the dragon, Fenrir, who’d sitting on a huge trove of stolen treasure. Trickery’s involved, of course. Fenrir has managed to hold onto the gold because he possesses a magic talisman that protects him. It’s called the Helm of Awe. Sigurd grabs it, and this gives him power to reclaim the gold. Not for himself alone, but for those it legitimately belongs to. Meaning all of us.
Protecting the gold within.
Let’s do it, I texted. Heart emojis in return.
If I was going to have anything imprinted on my body, I needed to be clear about its meaning.
In Old Norse, “Aegishalmr” is a compound word. Aegis means “shield,“ and hjalmr is a cognate of the English “helm.” There’s an easy connection between the words helm and helmet. In fact, they overlap.1
Helm (noun)
The steering gear of a ship, especially the tiller or wheel.
A position of leadership or control.
"at the helm of the government."
A helmet.
Protected from harm. In control of one’s fate.
There is a fourth definition. I read it, and set it aside as irrelevant.
A heavy cloud lying on the brow of a mountain.
We went to one of the newest restaurants — Malaysian, not fusion — and though we shouldn’t have, we drank wine. It was against their policy to tattoo people under the influence of anything but joie de vivre.
Uptown is sketchy at any hour, but that only added to the thrill of doing something a tiny bit subversive. The closest parking space was four blocks away, in a shadowy place off of the main street. The sidewalks were deep in slush.
“I didn’t tell your dad,” I said.
She laughed. “Well, at this point he can’t say no!”
The parlor, or “studio” as it was now called, was in the same location where I’d once taken her to buy a pair of red Doc Martens. It was an eye-opener back then. What had I been thinking? Stunned by her entry into adolescence, buffeted by the uncertainty of trying to be a mother to someone whose skirts were shorter than mine were at that age. Whose hair, at her grandmother’s funeral, was purple.
What would my mother say if she knew we were getting tattoos? The thought made me smile.
The tattooist looked, hard, at the design, then at us. He raised his eyebrows.
“You know what this is, right?”
“Of course.” My daughter’s smile was radiant.
“You must really want this.”
“We do.” Spoken together, like a vow. Followed by laughter.
She’d given him the image in advance, but he needed certainty. A bad Yelp review could hurt his business. And if the daughter was happy, but not the mother, it could be the kiss of death. Not as dicey as with a couple who later broke up, perhaps. But still. An artist had to be careful when choosing a client.
He’d made two stencils. They weren’t at all like the stencils I decorated her walls with when she was a baby. No rainbows. Instead, the stern raging force that comes before, that creates rainbows.
He inked my shoulder first. Then, her strong bicep.
“I’m surprised it didn’t hurt,” I said, as the car warmed and we pulled onto the freeway. “It wasn’t like the dentist, when ‘A little pinch’ means your jaw aches for a week.”
My skin was pink as a newborn’s for a few days. Then it returned to normal, accepting the tattoo as if it had always been there. My husband was more than accepting.
“You should get one, too,” I said. “Kidding.” He was terrified of needles.
Four years ago I drove my daughter to her oncologist’s office for a biopsy. The warm light of that September morning formed a halo around her as she walked towards what was ahead.
No heavy clouds. Just a mountain to be climbed.
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Many thanks to
, whose recent post Tattoo You? provided me the inspiration to think about my tattoo and what it means to me. The article contains links to others on the same subject from some excellent writers on Substack.The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 5th Edition
Gah! That final line. This is a beautiful piece, Mary.
My daughter and I have matching tattoos as well. We got them for her 18th birthday.
To all of us badass women.
You’re back! I’ve missed your truth-telling voice here. And I love your tattoo—fierce as a trident, delicate as a snowflake.