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I am 67 years old and I will be 68 this coming October. At my age, I was getting my first tattoo. I told myself, it was for the upcoming photo shoot, but I wanted it for myself. I wanted my story on my body. I wanted my version, my reflection of self.
My father was called “Andrew the Leaping Crow” and I was called “Little Crow” growing up. So the images and stories of crows have lived in my blood and in the chambers of my mind from as early as I can remember. It was appropriate that I would pick a crow as my image for the tattoo on my back, on the right side of my body. The crow is in a spread eagle position. I wanted to reflection a story of freedom. It was time to claim my own story before I left this planet.
With the signs of the times inking the truths of our modern day life across my opened heart, I have to stand up and say my name in sincerity. I deserve a life where I feel honor, hope, and health. I have lived through 1960’s, from then up until now and I know the course of history and how it travels in circles.
It appears we as a people, in order to recognize and create change in the society, it seems we have to crash and burn, bottom out. Out of the ashes rises the phoenix. At this point in my life I am ready to spread my wings, rising above all the things that do not serve me.
I have lived long enough to watch and understand the ebb and flow of societal change in action. I have lived long enough to know the fire of anger and rage, how it can be transmuted.
As the first pain of the needle began to erupt upon my back, I calmed my fear of the pain by falling into meditation. I concentrated on slowing the beating of my heart. I began to count my breaths. I began to merge with the pain and stopped resisting it. I felt a sense of warmth all over the area which was receiving a birthing of a new image.
I thought of love and resolution of who I am and what I am. I forgave myself for what I was not. I allowed this tattoo to be my story of who I came to be, when I remembered to be me. I am “Little Crow from the House of Crow.”
I have been fighting, for decades, for a voice I could recognize as an authentic reflection of a real me. I did not want to become my father who had been angry, hurting everyone around him, and spent years working himself back to his authentic self. I watched the journey and viewed the story of an intelligent black man not being heard for his value.
I watched the words of his story fade from paragraphs to simply sentences. His anger of not being heard as a valuable human being made him shoot drugs into his arms, until he learned better, but turned to drinking until he became sober. He found his sense of loving himself and those around him, found his voice in the last 18 years of his life in sobriety.
I liked who he had become. I wanted to be someone like him when I grew up. I felt that as my truth when I had to bury him after I had to pack his belongings. In the midst of his belongings, I found a personal diary. I read his written voice. On my birth certificate in 1949, my father was listed as a negro who was a hat maker. I grew to know he and I were so much more.
As I awaken from my self-induced sleep, I felt a sense of being lighter than a feather. My shoulder felt like a simmering flame calling my name. I felt like I had a mended wing and had grown from being the son of a negro hat maker to being an aware black man in modern America.
My crow tattoo was a living testament to my resolution. I am to be an agent of change, for myself, and a reflection for all around me to see. It was a testimony of my journey from a quiet, loving child to an angry young man, a bitter man and back to a man of resolution and love.
It is the journey of a black man in America. It is the journey of being eldest of six, a mother’s helper, a hair designer of over forty years, a singer who soothes the soul, a teacher of critical thinking skills, a poet, a father and a lover of people, even when they are not being loving to me. I had found peace in the act of compassion and using my ear of compassion.
Along my journey, I learned the art of story, the respect of story, and the truth of story. Each story in life is a voice to be heard, even if you are not in agreement, it is the highest form of the human art of expression to be honored. Every voice should be valued and heard. The words are spoken to be heard. Through the “Art of Listening” we practice the “Art of Living and Loving.” When we can hear another, we unite with another through emotions and sounds. As you listen, you then become one by hearing one another.
Because of my mother’s father, my grandfather, I learned the art of story. I learned the art of listening by listening to his stories and the magic of his words. I felt his passion in his speaking, in his teaching me the truth of his grace of living, the fabric of his heart in between the rests and the countenance of his voice.
I heard his song of freedom. He was a man who believed in living sacred within each breath. I could breathe the story, know the divinity of his masculine mind.
My father’s story was a journey of healing from feeling rejection to finding the love within, to override his feelings of experiencing lack. He learned to make soup from clear water and rough stones. He turned his rage into a quiet song and I spoke my lyrical lines of prose at his funeral, my notes of loving for him being a spiritual happening rising before me.
In order to know myself, I had to know the story of both of my fathers, my grandfather and my own father. I am a reflection of the men before me, but I am here to be myself, in the honor of their histories. It has been a journey to come home to myself, to find my voice caught between my diaphragm and my lips. It was worth the journey, the walk from the water to the well. I was thirsty for the sounds to come from my skin. I wanted to hear vowels and consonants birthing from my pores.
With the image of the crow’s wings spread across the left side of my upper back, I stand in the spirit of love and redemption of the truth that good things come to those who wait while working daily in faith, one day at a time and moment at a time.
So I say with pride,
“ I just got my first tattoo at 67
…I had to soothe my soul
and ink the symbol of my being
I am ‘Little Crow of the House of Crow’
and I am so proud to be
a sacred artist
a man of divine masculinity
a wounded healer…
a modern man
gifted with being
a blackbird set free
to be a man of love
for the unity of our species
for you and
for me.”
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
Very poetic story Terrell; it allowed me to see deeper beauty within tattoos. I wish you the very best in life.
Beautifully written story Terrell! I love the deep symbolism that your words convey in the artistic expression of your first tattoo💖 I’ve been blessed to have wonderful time and deep discussions with you – I am grateful to know you and your deep soul🙏 Abundant Blessings- Angel B