Blue Electric Storm

In my dream last night, against all of the rising action and turbulence which comes with a dream, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was shirtless. There, across my torso and neck, were three tattoos. I lingered in the mirror as I explored these not-so-fresh markings on my body. On my lower neck, emanating up from my collarbone, were three block glyphs. Across my breastplate were four words in script in a foreign language. Traversing my rib was another set of letters, encoded in yet a third language.

I palpated my neck, turning my head side to side, wondering if this tattoo was visible in a collared shirt. I rotated slightly in a mirror, letting the letters catch light. They weren’t raised. They weren’t fresh wounds. They were an indelible part of my body.

I was immediately curious. Clearly, I made this decision a long time ago. They were woven into my being so casually. I was not stunned, but fervent with wonder. Because they were part of me, so deeply ingrained in me, I must have considered it carefully. I must have incorporated these glyphs mindfully.

The symbols didn’t mean anything to me — I couldn’t decipher the language. But I accepted them. I accepted my past actions as good.

These tattoos were not a problem to be fixed. They were a part of me. And I was OK holding them with and within me.

I thought, briefly, about my career prospects. I thought about the stereotypes associated with the tattooed skin of Black people. I jumped to the stereotypical interpretation of who I was, what I stood for, and where I belonged.

Those thoughts didn’t linger as I looked in the mirror, preening, glowing as my blue scars caught the light. They weren’t to be interpreted. They weren’t to be understood. They were markings of celebration.

With these blue scars, I move forward. I carry them on my body. I chose to make what was invisible visible. Words came to life on a living canvas.

There was no going back. There was no tattoo removal needed. I caught sight of my blue light.