My Second Tattoo: Burning and Flying

The story of my second tattoo (pictured here) is just that: a story. Each part doesn’t just symbolize one static thing, but rather it symbolizes an evolution.

I got the tattoo in Xinjiang in September 2017, just a few weeks before I was scheduled to leave China for the last time. The political situation was tightening everyday--my Uyghur friends were disappearing, Hong Kong was heating up, and foreigners were getting kicked out--and I knew I wouldn’t be back for a long time, if ever. I wanted to get the tattoo as a symbolic marker of my time—and struggles—in Xinjiang as a life changing experience that was now coming to an end. 

Xinjiang was life changing for me in that it was a time (2014-2017) of coming to learn firsthand about authoritarian oppression and Indigenous suffering at the hands of settler colonialism; living in two cultures simultaneously (Han and Uyghur) so different from each other and so different from my own; being so far from my home and family; and finally, coming out and into my own sexuality and independence as a bi person and geography scholar. 

I also wanted to get the tattoo in memory of my late grandmother who had recently passed away. Finally, the end of 2016 and beginning of 2017 was when I suffered from the concussion, and I intended the tattoo as a “scar” of this time to serve as a reminder of the pain of my concussion and the liberation I experienced after I healed from it. 

The original idea for the design

My friend from jiujitsu recommended a Han Chinese tattoo artist (Uyghurs don’t tattoo as this is against Muslim faith) and I made an appointment to see him at his studio in late August 2017. I went to his studio with the intention to tell him my story--my time in XJ, my grandmother, and my concussion--and my reasons for getting the tattoo, and ask him to design something from there. 

I told the tattoo artist that I wanted something to symbolize two phrases. 

First, the phrase “this too shall pass.” This phrase symbolized the suffering of my concussion and the passing of my grandmother (as every life must come to an end). I told him that I felt very strongly connected to the image of birds flying away as a symbol of this philosophy and mindset that everything is temporary

Second, the Chinese proverb that goes, 野火烧不尽，春风吹又生 (yehuo shao bu jin, chunfeng chui you sheng), which translated literally means, “A wildfire does not burn it all completely, there is life again when the spring winds blow.” Another more literary translation, which I got from the dictionary, says: “Even a prairie fire cannot destroy the grass, it grows again when the spring breeze comes.” 

The beautiful thing about proverbs is that you can interpret them differently according to your own life experiences and apply them to how you see it fit your own life. For me, the proverb symbolizes this sentiment: Like a phoenix burned to death and rising from the ashes, it is only through hardship, suffering and even death that can provide the space and room for growth and re-birth. Even extreme suffering does not kill your spirit or your soul, you can find a second coming or a second wind, a re-birth and new growth with the spring breeze--the breath of life--that can only happen on the fields where the fire had occurred.

For me, these two proverbs spoke to the experience of temporality of life and the rebirth and freedom I experienced after a year of hardship, trauma, and loss, namely struggling with my PhD comprehensive exams while living in Xinjiang, a bad concussion, and the death of my grandmother. 

I explained all of the above to the tattoo artist and he nodded, saying he would design a tattoo for me. 

Before I left the office, he asked me if there were any plants that were special to me growing up in my hometown. I told him about the maple trees in Frick Park and Schenley Park where I spent so much time growing up.

When I was younger, my sister and I often went to Frick Park with my dad, a huge park in the middle of urban Pittsburgh with steel tycoon Henry Clay Frick as its benefactor and namesake. We often went to the portion of Frick Park that we called “The Hallow,” its key distinguishing feature a large grassy field situated in the valley of two forested hills. We would often go running there on Saturday mornings, or take our greyhound-lab mix Wyatt to play fetch in the creek. Our cross-country courses, as well as the Run Around the Square 5K course, went through that part of the park, and we (my Dad, sister, and I) would often run those courses and try to improve on our times. Dad and Wyatt would tag along and we would throw the tennis ball for Wyatt in the grassy fields. I have very fond memories of that park. In addition to running there, I often went biking and spent time with my high school sweetheart there (we did a whole cutesy photo shoot with my digital camera there on our own before selfies were even a thing). It’s one of my favorite parts of Pittsburgh, and when the oak and maple leaves change in the fall, the park lights up in a symphony of color. 

The manifestation of my ideas into the artist's sketchpad:

When I came back a week later, he showed me the design on his sketchpad: 

The artist unconsciously brought to life something unexpected. The burning of the maple leaf, which he had designed based on the Chinese proverb about rising from the ashes, I realized in that moment also symbolizes for me a burning of my original image of myself and dreams for myself that I had as a child in Pittsburgh: as a straight woman who would be married and successful (maybe even famous), rich, and smart. 

The tattoo symbolizes the burning of old expectations of myself as rich and successful; the burning of old expectations of myself as perfect; the burning of old expectations of myself as straight. It’s about the burning and letting go of the plans, expectations and beliefs about myself.

Those dreams and images of myself are gone now, and as they burn and fly away, I realize that those expectations and societal norms that I put on myself are no longer something that I want. The rainbow color of the birds—something also unplanned—symbolizes my coming out as queer/bi that year. I like to think of the birds as me flying away into the wind as a bisexual and trans writer, which is what I really want for my life.

The details on the components of the dreamcatcher portion of the tattoo:

The dreamcatcher design on the bottom as a whole symbolizes both my commitment to Indigenous politics and writing about the injustices of settler colonialism and the nation-state system (in both Xinjiang and elsewhere), as well as a reminder and a symbol that Pittsburgh was built on top of the genocide, colonization, and displacement of Native Americans—that will always be a scar that we hold as a people and nation. 

The separate parts of the dream catcher symbolize more specific things:

• The design in the middle of the dream catcher is the Chinese character for “human” (人) to symbolize that all humans come across struggles in life, and in the end, can and will overcome them (i.e. the fire that cannot destroy the grass).
• The thorns on the rim of the dreamcatcher represent the suffering in life that we will encounter and must accept.
• The green buds growing from the thorns symbolize the re-birth that we experience after struggle, and the ways that even from thorns new life will spring.
• The feathers below the dream catcher symbolize my three main struggles this year: the death of my grandmother, my concussion, and living in Xinjiang during authoritarian oppression of Indigenous people. While at the time these three things seemed like huge burdens that could not be overcome, with time they floated away with the lightness of a single feather, and I now see each of them as a kind of scar, but also a gift, and not a burden (as they are as light as a feather now).  

I recognize that the dreamcatcher portion of my tattoo can be interpreted as an appropriation of Native American culture and for this I apologize if I have offended anyone. 

After the tattoo:

After I got the tattoo, I said goodbye to my friends and life in Xinjiang, and returned to the States in early October. That month, I had a dream:

I was riding on a hang-glider, enjoying the blue sky with the breeze on my face and wind in my ears, the sun on my face, and my heart beating in my chest. When I had landed, my mom and grandpa wanted to ride on the hang-glider too. “No!” I screamed. “We're late for our flight!” We rushed to the airport, but we missed our flight anyway. 

Reflecting on this dream, I wrote in my journal: 

“Remember that flight on the hang glider. Remember how you cut it short because of time; because of a deadline. Remember your pain and fear of the upcoming deadline. But remember how you missed the flight anyway? So what if you could recognize earlier that you were going to need more time? You could arrange to delay the flight one more day and spend the extra time enjoying the adventure, inviting others to come along with you on the hang glider, and they could share in your joyful presence. Then you would have time for self-care and relaxation and rest during most of that extra time. 

What if I could invite others to join me on the ride? Can I make room for them on my hang-glider? Can I share my joy with them? Can I go on journeys with them? Can I take them with me and let them take me with them? Can I accept their generosity without guilt? Can I share my laughter with them? 

How can we be mindful of what we are doing? Rather than using work and time and schedules as a strategy to avoid the pain and pleasure of life, how can we enjoy what we’re doing while inviting others into our life? 

It’s true that time is limited. So can we use our time in joyful presence rather than checklists and time cards and schedules?

Can you imagine a different world? Not one built around deadlines but built around flying free and present?” 

My tattoo is now a reminder to me of the dream I had and the way I would like to re-create that dream into a more beautiful and present life in companionship with others.