me. I resented them because I felt nothing but animosity toward them. For the first time I was communicating, and people heard me. My black demon stalked the halls of education. “Fag” turned into “freak,” and I embraced my new label.
My gymnastics coach was not happy about the change. Gymnastics had a certain look to it—preppy, clean-cut, and muscular—and I looked like I had been dancing all night in a mosh pit. Body piercing was a deduction in competition, but I wasn’t willing to change myself for a score. I felt we should be judged on our movement and skill, not on what we looked like. I wanted this rule changed and felt responsible as a role model for the next army of alternative gymnasts.
I believed in my heart that my coach knew I was suffering. I believed he wanted to take me in, but didn’t know how to confront my parents. Again, he pulled me into his office, trying to talk some sense into me. One-on-one without gymnastics to hide behind made it brutally uncomfortable. He told me that I had more talent in my little pinky than most of the other guys on the team, and I was letting it all go. I had no idea how to keep my spirit alive with everything that was happening at school. I was angry and wanted to spill my guts on his office floor, but couldn’t bear telling him the truth about what I was truly feeling and what the kids were calling me. I was a warrior for the art of gymnastics, and that meant I had to be strong. I left his office wishing I could still find a shred of innocence in me, but it was too late. I had made the deal and crossed over. And new flesh was already growing over the good boy I used to be.
Next I wanted a tattoo, but I was still underage. I heard it was possible to create your own tattoo with a needle, India ink, and desire. I thought if I created something on my own skin, I would cherish it for life. I had to choose a place on my body where my parents wouldn’t be able to appreciate my artwork. I decided my foot would be best, since I could cover it with my socks. My artistic symbol was a black widow, which represented my emotions—dark, angry, and lethal. It was also something I could draw without making too many mistakes.
I cleaned my foot with rubbing alcohol and drew the spider with a pen. I sterilized the needle by burning it with my lighter, dunked it into the India ink, and started to slowly carve the design into my foot. The idea was to remove the skin and let the ink absorb into the flesh. After seven days the wound would heal and the ink would become part of my body as newly designed skin. I slowly dragged the needle through my skin, tearing, ripping, and pulling the pieces of flesh out that blocked my design. As with all my new hobbies, it bled a lot and I could no longer see the pattern. I had to take breaks along the way because of the intensity of the pain, but after a few hours, I finally finished. I couldn’t show it to anyone since my artistic creation would no doubt get back to my mother, but I had to show someone my accomplishment. I thought Michael would appreciate the lengths I had gone to in scarring my body, but when he saw my foot he looked nauseated. I was still bleeding, and he just asked, “What the fuck is that?” He seemed angry with me and looked at me as if I had become a stranger.
Two days later my mother called home from work. She was outraged and cursing, saying, “If you have a tattoo on your foot I will murder you. When I get home from work there better not be anything there! I’ve had enough . . . with your clothes, nose ring, and that hair! You’re a disgrace!” I told her it was fake and that I didn’t have anything on my foot.
I hung up the phone and looked down at the sore wound of my prison tattoo, thinking of ways to remove it. It had been only a few days, so I thought maybe it was possible to scrub off the inky scab. I knew my mother would kick me out of the house if she saw the tattoo. I scrubbed intensely for twenty minutes, but after I rinsed the suds away a horribly drawn black widow spider stared back at me; it wasn’t coming out. I ran to the kitchen and got a Brillo pad. The bleeding increased as I scrubbed it raw with the steel wool, scratching the design out of my skin. As the sanguine-colored suds drained away, I saw that the ink was gone, along with my skin. The wound bled more than during the making of the tattoo, but I was thankful I’d somehow managed to kill the spider. I applied some Neosporin and wrapped my foot in bandages. When my mother came home I unraveled the bandages, exposing a raw, bloody wound, and said, “See! There’s no tattoo!” She looked disgusted, didn’t say a word, and stormed off. I was relieved there was no argument, but her silence always cut deeper than her rants.
I could no longer work at the restaurant with my new look; the only job for freaks like me was at a music store. I worked at Sam Goody Music Land in the local mall, which gave me listening access to all the music I dreamed of. This was the perfect job, and my boss even had connections to a great piercing place in Providence, Rhode Island. My friend Randi—a daffodil holding a machine gun, with bleached-blonde hair and a hoop through her nose—and I drove there with no thought of the consequences, and decided to get our tongues pierced.
My mother had a new rule: If I were to get my tongue pierced, she would kick me out and I would have to live with my father. I didn’t think she was serious, and knew she would never see the piercing unless I deliberately showed her. Randi and I shared the same anger with the world and saw the piercing as a necessary solidification of our identities. Still, we were both nervous to get it done.
I went first. Trance music played in the background and beautiful, stainless-steel body jewelry was on display in glass cases all around. This was nirvana. I picked a long barbell for my tongue and headed into another room. The piercer looked exactly like the entity I wanted to become—covered in piercings and tattoos that blurred the boundaries of his skin. I couldn’t see where his flesh started or ended, and the line dividing his art and life’s creation became one unified body of work, transforming him into something new through ink and steel—becoming his own God and creator. He looked beautiful and mean. Those weren’t just decorations, they were tribal scars, and I was eager for my next initiation.
The room looked like a doctor’s office, immaculately sterile and clean. Small gargoyle statues hovered on shelves above the piercing chair. Would those little silent demons watching my baptism allow me to pass? The piercer clamped my tongue with something that looked like hotdog tongs and said calmly, “Don’t move it and take a deep breath out.” Then a quick, sharp pain shot through the center of my tongue. He removed the huge needle and inserted the precious metal through the center. I was instantly high and filled with euphoria. I knew I would be back for more.
Randi and I were thrilled on the drive home. Sucking on ice cubes to keep the swelling down, we kept sticking our tongues out in the rearview mirror, making sure they were still there. I knew when I arrived home I wanted more, and I returned a week later for my septum, a bullring through the center of my nose. This was much more painful, but easier to hide since I could wear a curved barbell and just flip it up into my nose. Nobody would know it was there unless they did a nasal inspection—angel by day, demon by night.
The tension between my mother and me grew to monstrous proportions. It was constant screaming, and during one of our shouting matches my mouth opened wide and she saw the steel ball on my tongue—a precious silver pearl resting on the belly of an oyster. She looked mortified and betrayed. It was either take it out or move out. With perfect teenage conviction, I told her, “Over my dead body!” and started packing. We had driven each other to the point of rancor and she was angry with the results, unable to look at me—her homemade suburban Frankenstein.
Enraged, I threw all of my stuff into the trunk of my car and left my mother’s house, thinking, I’ll never come back here. I hate you. This is all your fault. I sped away in pure hatred. I thought of how I had sat by her side as she cried over my father, and now she kicked me out for a pierced tongue. I had the perfect justification for even deeper self-destruction.
My father didn’t know what to do with me. He could tell I was a ticking bomb, but had no clue as to what wires to cut
