“Tattoo lang e. Buti nga hindi ako nabuntis nang maaga, nag-drugs o napariwara,” was what I thought I would say to my dad when he asked me “Ano yan?” after noticing my tattoo and gave me a stern look -– that look he gives when he is about to get angry. There was disappointment in his eyes, and so that thought crossed my mind, swiftly, unexpectedly. I love my dad and it’s not my nature to answer back, so I just said “Secret,” and hurriedly walked away.
Just thinking about it made me feel guilty. I caused him displeasure, just like the old times, when he would whack my butt with his belt every time I do silly kid stuff (i.e., bullying my younger sister, wrecking my brother’s pencil case during a fight, being stubbornly lazy). Among us siblings, I hold the record for having encountered his belt the most number of times. I was labelled the black sheep and since then I have been trying to prove them wrong. I think I’ve been successful but now I’m not so sure. Having a tattoo probably matters more than trying to obtain a law degree while working my a** off.
There goes my unresolved childhood issue #1.