I'm neither an Army brat nor the child of wandering biker parents. Neither my mother or father went to Woodstock though they both protested the Vietnam War. I come from a fairly conservative, predominantly all white, childhood where picnics and halftime oranges at soccer games were the norm. So how in the hell did I end up putting tattoo art all over my body? Simple, my tattoos are beautiful daily reminders and expressions of what has made me human in my 30 years and more importantly has given me strength in my most vulnerable of hours. Here’s my story of each tattoo…

Tattoo #1 (Lion head; left upper arm)

I was 21 when I decided to get my first tattoo. It was a very methodical process for me. I researched four or five tattoo parlors here in DC before I settled on Jinx Proof in Georgetown. I chose them on a very simple basis. A main street store must have meant they used clean needles while also making first timers like myself feel at ease. What I got was a very different feel.

While all professional, I felt as if I were in a check-out line being booked and processed rather than massaged and courted. Neither myself nor the artist spent a lot of time discussing anything of relevance. It was a simple act of consumerism. I was the buyer he was the vendor, we did a transaction and off I was an hour later with my Vitamin D ointment in hand and a nice little directions packet of how to take care of my new tattoo.

Now the art was fine. I chose a abstract picture of a lion head that I had pulled off a Bob Marley poster from college. So right off the bat I failed miserably in creative expressionism. I failed to come up with something new, but was proud of the work. I was always called “Brian the Lion” by both my parents for a variety of reasons growing up. I had a main of curly blond locks and more importantly the heart and inner strength of a lion.

You see, I was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis when I was 3 months old for ‘failure to thrive.’ In less medical terms I was simply failing to gain weight and was having trouble breathing on my own. The average life of someone with CF when I was born in 1977 was a little over four years old. I simply could not just be normal anymore, my parents had to make sure I was a survivor. Out of the gate I held my own, repeatedly fighting nose to nose with my disease and my struggle to be a normal little child who was only into sports. Soccer for the most part kept me out of the hospital growing up.