A lot of stories of accidental injuries or poor decisions can be traced back to alcohol (at least the ones I’ve heard in my lifetime). However, being someone that drank very little and now chooses not to drink, my accidental injuries are all due to me being silly, dumb, clumsy or a genuine unpredictable, unavoidable accident.
My accidental tattoo took place when I was around 6 years old. Keep reading, it’s probably not what you think.
Let me take you back to a carefree time; a time where I was young and overseas on holiday. I was around 6 years old and had returned to Taiwan with my Mother for about a month.
I loved going back to Taiwan, I was born there, I felt at home there. Whenever we were back, I felt like I was constantly surrounded by family. In NZ, where we lived, it was just me and my parents. It was great, I like hanging out with my parents, but there is just something nice about the feeling of a large family. P.S. Our multiple cats played a vital role in my childhood as substitute siblings.
So, how did I, a 6 year old accidently get a tattoo? It’s not a tattoo in the tradition sense, it’s just my nickname for the ‘ink’ I received in my skin.
I was at my aunties house and playing with my cousin, let’s call him Bo for the sakes of this story. He is only four months younger than me, so as children we would play and occasionally fight over our toys. He has two older sisters and we rarely fought, probably because they treated me like a little sister (i.e., a child) and they were very well behaved daughters and genuinely nice people.
So, Bo and I were sitting on the floor of the living room, they lived in an apartment in Taipei and had white tiled floors which provided a nice cool surface in the scorching summer months. We were playing with our toy cars and rolled them back and forth between us , they were tiny and fit neatly in your 6 year old hands
For some reason we started arguing, and in my anger I threw a toy car on the floor towards him. It must have been one of his toys as he got really angry and grabbed a black pen on the table and stabbed me in my left palm. I don’t think he intended on actually hurting me, we were after all only 6, and still could not grasp real world consequences. I think I must have raised my arms and he managed to get me in hand. I don’t remember it being painful, but I’m sure it was. Recalling the story as an adult just makes me feel so dumb, what were we arguing about? Why did I throw stuff at him? Why did he attack me with a pen? It sounds really rough, but alas, we were only small and didn’t know how to control ourselves properly yet.
From that day forward, I’ve have had a black dot in my left palm. My little accidental tattoo. It’s not has dark as it used to be, but is still very prominent once I point it out.
A few years ago, this topic came up in a family gathering and he was asked if he remembered how I got this black dot and he said he couldn’t remember.
I sometimes look at my little dot and am flooded with the feeling of warmth. It’s actually quite a nice memory and a funny memory to look back on.