I got my first tattoo at the lowest point of my freshman fall.
After a hard adjustment period and spending my first major holiday in the States alone, I needed a change. So, the day after Thanksgiving, I strolled up M Street and got the first of a few aesthetic changes I would make during my college career.
I had been mulling over the decision for a few weeks, but I had some hesitations tied to lingering lessons from my upbringing.
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I always hated the notion that my appearance, just one facet of myself, could make or break my chances in life. Although a large part of me resented her,“professional etiquette,” and the way conformity made me feel—especially as a young queer person raised in a very patriarchal society—deep down I understood where she was coming from. The world is very unforgiving of Black bodies, even more so to those that are deviant or otherwise expressive.
In a world that seems largely hard-wired with white supremacist ideals, Blackness and non-white identities and experiences are often at odds with the vision of conformity being pushed. Across the board, Western culture tends to overvalue a certain brand of “heightened minimalism.” Every few months, a repackaged version of the “clean girl” aesthetic––whose practitioners are overwhelmingly white––pops up, encouraging you to relinquish individualism and adopt an “elevated” style that just so happens to tick all the right boxes: pure, symmetrical, “elegant.”
Muted and subtle are the names of the game. Monochrome suits and subdued blazers are the standard in most workplaces. For me, coming from a culture that flourished in bright colors and eccentric patterns, this drastic aesthetic shift was jarring. Nowhere is this more present than in the workplace, where we spend a significant portion of our lives. College graduates entering the workforce are typically encouraged to abandon the eccentricities of their youth to fit into the expectations of their industry. Although some degree of variety exists between workplaces, at the end of the day, professionalism is (often) just white supremacy repackaged in a socially acceptable fashion. Standards of dress and behavior in professional culture push the idea that you must look, act, and think a certain way, not only to be accepted, but to thrive. Deviation is not just frowned upon but shunned.
This puts professionalism at odds with practices, like body modification, that elevate and encourage deviance and self-expression. Hair, tattoos, and piercings are some of the most popular ways for people to use their own bodies as a canvas for expression. While not every new body modification must have meaning to have inherent value, there is undeniably a story behind every creative choice a person makes, even if it simply boils down to “it was funny.”
While my first tattoo was not an immediate salve for my struggles, it still allowed me to feel newly whole at a time when I needed it most. But in the workplace, these crucial acts of self-expression directly contradict a culture that prioritizes conformity over all else.
The stigma surrounding body modification in all its forms was, however, not originally rooted in professional culture’s emphasis on conformity and minimalism. Body modification stigma has a far more sinister origin, rooted in colonial practices to stamp out resistance. Various forms of expression with direct ties to Indigenous, African, and other racial minority cultures were systemically limited or outright banned.
These restrictions gave rise to the sentiment that piercings, tattoos, and other forms of body modification—which, at the time, were most associated with both Black and Indigenous groups—were signs of lower social capital and looked down upon. This attitude gradually ingrained itself within the collective cultural consciousness, leaving behind the subtle impression, even centuries later, that body modifications are, to some degree, objectionable.
While the stigma against body modification affects everyone, there is an acute stigma against non-white bodies. Under a presidential administration that allegedly used tattoos to justify the deportation of roughly 200 Venezuelan men, it is clear that the racial biases behind body modification stigma continue to persist in dangerous ways.
As more cases of wrongful arrests and seemingly baseless deportations accumulate by the day, the fear stewing in BIPOC communities is palpable. Even as someone critical of conformity for about as long as I can remember, I find myself at an impasse: Do I lean into counterculture and risk putting an even larger target on myself? Do I cave to the growing pressure around me and conform, even though that doesn’t guarantee myself, or anybody that looks like me, safety?
We are at a precarious time where physical appearance, both in and outside the workplace, is a dual weapon of dissent and control. As the world around me continues to spiral, I find myself thinking back to that crisp autumn evening. Walking out of the tattoo parlor, my side was sore but my spirits were high, higher than they had been that entire semester. Although it was spur of the moment, I will never regret getting that first tattoo. For me, it’s a reminder that I am here, that my body is my own, and that tomorrow, regardless of how far away it seems, will be brighter.
