August 11, 2010

• Everyone has a story about their tattoo. Even the guy who had a stick figure fire dragon on his leg who said he didn’t plan it—just went in and got it done. That told me a lot about him. A tattoo can be planned out for certain reasons, and then change. It is all about what you attach to it. Certain stories stick, and others don’t.

  I’ve always loved the star of David. Since I was a little girl, celebrating Purim with a Jewish friend, since I had a Sunday school crush on David—who even the Bible says was cute. The past couple of years have grown my fascination, and consequential study of Judaism and determination to someday visit Israel. After all, I am in love with this Jewish guy. I should know a little about His background, culture, family…I envied my friend who was part Jewish…she must be closer to God somehow. Funny how I am the one mistaken as being Jewish now—I am marked.

  I flirted with the idea of getting a tattoo long before it happened. God and I talked about it. And many times I came close, but didn’t. Would it be worth it if it offended someone who then might be turned off to something important I had to say? I didn’t want it to be a rebellious thing—I talked with my parents, godly counsel…

  But part of me did it for selfish reasons. I felt that many people I knew only cared about me because I fit in their plan, their system. I didn’t rock the boat; I was the “good girl” who didn’t cause controversy. I wanted to see if they would still care, even if I didn’t fit or agree with them: could they see past the outside to the inside?

  Just about to turn 26, walking down the hot Brazilian streets of Recife, my friend got a butterfly on her back. Since my mom’s request was to NOT get a tattoo on a side street, I paid a bit extra and got a very sanitary place in the mall. Ten minutes and voila! A star of David, with a cross outside it if you look, just behind my left ear.

  But that is not the story I tell when people ask about my tattoo, or if I am Jewish. Because that is not the story that stuck.

  One month earlier in Indianapolis, I drove from the youth center to Daisy’s house (name changed for privacy). I had just learned that Daisy, 15, was pregnant. Stories of preggos come fast and furious at the center, so I went to ask myself. I knew the father, and I heard there was a catch: Daisy was telling everyone that it was rape.

  I knocked at Daisy’s door, the big Doberman barking me away. Daisy came out. Yes, it was true, she was pregnant. Her mom came out to talk as well, spitting threats about the boy and how this was a demon child. Daisy said she was getting an abortion. “Please,” I said, “please let me adopt the baby.”

  The words surprised us both, and tears came to our eyes, but only Daisy let them spill.” I don’t know, Ms. Rachel,” she said,” I don’t know.“

  I left her my phone number and left, awkwardly. There was nothing romantic or wonderful about it, TV blaring in the background. I was single and about to leave the country, but the moment the words left my mouth I knew they were true. I wanted that baby. And in that time, that baby had become my baby. Explain that however you want to in your head.

  Daisy went back and forth in the next visits I made. I made different suggestions, different ideas—letting her know there were other options. I had an unbelievable amount of love and support by everyone who knew what was going on. She was not alone—I was not alone.

  Daisy’s mother insisted this baby was going to be aborted. I broke down and cried that this baby get a chance to live. “No, no no. Ms. Rachel! You can talk and beg here all day, but my daughter is not having that baby.”

  Daisy didn’t want to be 15, pregnant, in school. She said she wasn’t ready to be a mother. I agreed…which is why I would adopt the baby. But if she had the baby, then she would want to keep it. Why? I asked. “Because I made it.” She said as she wiped her tears. We talked about God and love and hope and forgiveness, while her little brother popped his face through the screen door, telling me about his superpowers.

  She decided against the abortion. She decided for it. In Brazil, my English class prayed for her. Hugo said “Ms. Rachel, I prayed that God would be with this baby. That He would save it and let it be with us, or that He would hold it in His arms.” Two days later I found out she had decided not to get the abortion, giving me hope—and then, a couple days after I got my tattoo, she decided to get the abortion.

  Today a star was born

  And left us here on earth

  To wander in the small light

  Of silver mornings

  And golden nights

  The beauty with a sword

  That kills us willingly

  I had learned to love someone I could not see. Someone I did not know the gender, the intelligence of, the athletic ability. Someone that meant leaving the place I loved and being “tied down,” future unknown, with visions of long nights and drool. It wasn’t just any baby—it was my baby. Now I had a star in heaven, and every time I catch a glimpse of my tattoo, I remember my baby. But stars in heaven don’t mend holes in your heart.

  Daisy is now 17 with a beautiful baby girl. Her mother answered the door when I picked her up, to celebrate Daisy’s birthday. We smiled shyly at each other and said little of the past. Daisy and I keep the conversation light and laugh as much as we can. I wonder if she will ask me about my tattoo. I wonder what I will say.

  • 11:42 pm
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