SHAMING THE FAMILY
It
was the first tattoo in our family.
Dad
rang me first."Do you know what he's done now?' he demanded.
Who?"
I asked cautiously.
'Your
brother.'There was no need to ask which brother. I've only got two. 'He's got
himself tattooed!'
'Where?'
I asked, curiously"
'What
does it matter where!' yelled my father. "You do realise" he added
bitterly "That this is the first tattoo in our family.'
My
sister rang next. "Do you know what he's done now?' she demanded.
''Yes"
I said "He's got a tattoo. Dad rang half an hour ago. What does it say?'
'I
haven't looked at it" said my sister. "I'm not going to encourage
him. I told him there were places you could get them removed but he wouldn't
listen. It's the first tattoo in our family.'
'I
know.'I said.
My
other brother rang to reassure me. The last time he'd rung had been three years
ago when my son was born, but
after all this was a family crisis."It's not terribly noticable" he
said ' At least if he keeps his sleeve rolled down. But it was an awful blow to
Dad. After all, it is the first tattoo in the family.'
I
wondered if I should send my
youngest brother a telegram of congratulation and tell him his example
gave me the courage to get the small rose tattoo on my left buttock I've always
wanted. But I didn't. There's no fun in shaming the family if someone joins
you.
My
mother rang the next morning. She was still giggling. 'It says 'mother' she
snickered."Can you think of anything less appropriate?'
'Where
is it?'
'On
his arm. He wore long sleeves for a week but he had to go back to tee shirts
some time.'
'How
does it look?'
'The
tattoo's all right. I just wish he'd get his hair cut.'
My
mother is more phlegmatic about shaming the family than most of her relatives. She's been at it most of her
life.
It started back in the thirties when she came second in a 'girl with the most attractive ankles" competition (You do realise, said my grandmother, tearful over the breakfast sausages and fried tomato, that there has never been anything like this in our family before?)
She
progressed through the first
divorce in the family too, the family's first (successful) defamation case
against a cabinet minister and a series of other battles from prison reform to
mental health that would have shamed the family except they were used to them, and anyway
crusading achieved
respectability in the sixties and seventies and still hasn't quite lost it.
She
was also the first woman in Queensland to insist on having her own Christian
name printed in the newspaper
instead of her husbands, Mrs Val instead of Mrs Barrie, which bought
disgusted cries from mothers of five and assorted budgie lovers throughout the
state "Her own husband's name isn't good enough for her!"
I
suppose I've shamed the family too, though at least I've done it at a distance,
except for a few items like dancing
wildly with the priest at my brother's wedding when I was seven months
pregnant and parking my bum in the middle of Brisbane's Queen Street during a
60's Moratorium, right under the office window of one of my father's business
associates. My father speaks of me
tactfully as his 'daughter
in Canberra', which makes me sound like an MP instead of a wombat watcher a
couple of hours away. He once told me he'd hoped I'd become a weather girl on
TV- that was in the days when
announcing the weather was the preserve of girls with large breasts,
long legs and ten layers of makeup. Weather girls were guaranteed virgins, the
layers of makeup acting as a
modern chasitity belt. Only brazen
femminists went without makeup. Dad felt my lack of lipstick keenly.
My
friend Jenny shamed her family
only last week. Or tried to. She put on a skirt for summer.
Her
daughter looked at her in horror.
"Mum!'
You're not going up the street in that?'
'Why
not?'
'Your
legs!"
Jenny
looked at her legs. They seemed all right.
'What's
wrong with them?'
Her
daughter looked at incredulously. 'Mum! They're hairy!"
This
presented a problem. Jenny's hairy legs were the final remnant of her 1960's
rebellions. She was attached to her hairy legs. On the other hand she could see
the shame she'd bring to the family walking up the main street of Braidwood
with fuzzy ankles.
They
compromised. She wore stockings.
At
least I haven't shamed my son yet, except by trying to do his hair in public.
It'll come. Most parents I know
get long lists of what NOT to do from their kids every time they go out-
they're not to laugh too loudly, dance too vigorously, wear anything that at least seven other
parents aren't wearing too or mention anything AT ALL about the private lives
of their children, especially something funny they did when they were four.
As
for the tattoo- the family's got used to it. My sister did point out to him
last week that girls don't really go for men with tattoos.
My
brother looked at her smugly. "The ones I know do." he said.
ps March 2003.
There is now a second tattoo in the
family. Actually it looks rather good!