My First Tattoo

It was December 10th, 1988. My 18th birthday. I had just graduated from high school and was in Israel for a few months, taking some time off to work on a kibbutz, as all good Swedish Jews did at that time. It was a way to get away from ones parents, while still being somewhat protected and productive; connect with the "homeland" and Israeli Jews, learn to speak better Hebrew - all while figuring out what to do next in life.

Located near Rechovot, Kibbutz Na'an was where I ended up. I arrived a few days before my Ulpan program was starting. It was a work/study program so you'd spend half of the day learning Hebrew and the other half doing some menial job. The structure of the kibbutz was such that parents felt safe sending you there; you lived in barracks with other Jewish "kids" from all over the world, there was a communal dining hall, you'd get a small credit in the kibbutz store to buy candy and snacks, and last but not least, in true 80's fashion, if you smoked, you got a carton of cigarettes every month.

Jackie in our hotel pretending to make a phone call for the camera...

The ulpan was located in the nice part of the kibbutz and most of the people that came there were somewhat sheltered Jewish teenagers from well-to-do Jewish families of rich, industrialized countries. Jackie Gruber of Winnipeg and I were the exceptions to that rule, both having a bit of a wild streak. Just hours after we'd met, we went to Tel Aviv for the weekend and blew the "emergency" funds we'd both been given by our respective parents on a hotel room and booze.

Last minute, the course I was supposed to be in - kitah gimel (level 3) - was cancelled because there were so few participants. My choices were to go in the lower class (bet or level 2) and be bored, go to another kibbutz for a program at my level, or stay and be a volunteer, which meant just working and not studying. I chose the latter.

So I ended up in the volunteer barrack, which was located in a less pleasant part of the kibbutz. The regular kibbutz folk didn't like the volunteers and preferred that they stuck to their own area, which was fine with them, as they even had their own bar. Most of the volunteers were in their mid-to-late twenties, not Jewish, and not exactly from well-to-do families. But certainly an interesting mix. A gaggle of drunk, loose girls and skinny lads from Manchester & Leeds, a couple of handsome African guys from Ghana, some weird Austrians, a perverted Scot, a tall Dutchman, some fun Aussies, and more.

There was a score board at the volunteer "camp," and it proved to be a great source of entertainment, as well as the catalyst for the end of many relationships, as everyone's sexual escapades were captured on it. There were two lists; one which had everyone's name listed, and one that listed each country represented by the volunteers, and next to it, a number. The number was the points you would get if you slept with someone from that country.

It was a system that was well worked out; for example, English men were worth only 1 point since there were quite a few of them, and they were eager to sleep with anyone who'd have them. Swedish girls were worth 5 points, because there was only three of us, and we tended to be a bit more exclusive. A threesome would give you a 10-point bonus, plus the points of each participant. It didn't matter if you wanted to play or not. Someone always found out your business, and wrote you up before you had a chance to pee or brush your teeth the morning after said incident.

I was the youngest volunteer at 17 and-a-half, and quickly found myself under the "protection" and tutelage of a 28-year-old South African Jew named Stephen. Meaning, he showed me the ropes and became my pseudo-boyfriend. (Three points.) Stephen's job on the kibbutz was to run the bar, so he had access to alcohol and snacks all hours of the day. In other words, a good prospect. I know the age difference sounds creepy now, but it was a cool experience and he was nothing but sweet to me. He left for England a month after I arrived, and I got stuck with his dog, a flea ridden but sweet mix named Picky.

Jackie and I with dreamy Welsh Dave

That's when I took up with Dave, a lovely Welshman in his early twenties, who most of the girls craved. (One point.) He was super fit and had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, full lips and the obligatory Welsh bushy eyebrows. I'd work during the day and hang out with Dave and everyone else at the bar at night. Poor Jackie was left in the ulpan barrack, studying Hebrew, but would come down to "skid row" every night when she was finished, and get loaded.

My "friend" from Gothenburg

The jobs I held included the laundry, (where I sorted soiled sheets) the hospital (where I swept and restocked medical supplies) and last but not least, I worked the night shift in the water sprinkler factory. I'd get to work at midnight and work till 5 or so, and this was the beginning of the end for Dave and I, as the hours between midnight and 5 am was when "it all" happened. I found him naked and hungover in Swedish Helene's bed one morning. Not surprising, as she was from Gothenburg...

But back to the tattoo. Heartbroken and promising myself never to trust another Welshman, I went to Tel Aviv on my 18th birthday, eager to avoid the mass discovery of that additional 5-pointer under Dave's name on the scoreboard, and its subsequent humiliation. Danish Martine had decided to get a tattoo and I had volunteered to accompany her on the adventure.

We found a tattoo parlor, walked in, and some guy quickly turned his desk into a table of sorts, and handed us the photo binders, a staple at every tattoo establishment. It was definitely one of those "spur of the moment" occurrences, I had never thought of getting a tattoo until about a minute before it happened. I decided that it would be best to have it on my ass, because then, depending on what kind of underwear I wore, you could either see it or not. I flipped through a couple of binders and found a butterfly that Martine liked too. I picked some pastel colors and got ready.

I climbed up on the table and the guy started with the outline. Not as painful as I had expected, but not comfortable. Definitely not as bad as the pain I was experiencing in my heart thanks to Dave. More painful than the actual tattoo-ing? The fact that the tattoo "artist" kept on insisting I take my shirt off. This confused me, since the shirt I was wearing wasn't particularly long and was nowhere near where he was doing some of his finest work. At the end, there was the obligatory photo to be taken. Not surprising, he asked me to bend over...said the tattoo would look better from that angle. I declined. Again confused of the purpose.

The only other person in the world who has the same exact tattoo as I do...

Martine was up next and she got the same butterfly I had chosen, but on her ankle. Which turned out to be way more painful. He wasn't as creepy to her as he was to me. He didn't ask her to take her pants off, he said to just roll the one leg up. Probably because this was the eighties and Martine, as any good Danish girl at that time, didn't believe in shaving her legs.

Back at the kibbutz, I showed off my tattoo and boozed it up with my fantastic BFF Jackie for another month, before Dave trashed my room in a drunken jealous rage. Or as he explained it, a romantic gesture of apology and love, to win my heart back after his "mistake." Either way, it was time to check out of kibbutz life and head back to Sweden, which I did. But not before I scribbled a few numbers under my name on the score board, to confuse and puzzle everyone, and of course, to upset Dave.

It took me about two years to tell my mother about the tattoo. If you have a tattoo you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and I was pretty sure that would be upsetting to her. I had worn larger bikinis and full-back underwear around the house but finally opted to tell her.

I chose my timing perfectly, burying the tattoo announcement under a rather devastating piece of news. I had broken up with my boyfriend David, who my mother really adored. David was Jewish and happened to be just about the nicest, smartest, funniest and most handsome guy I'd ever had as a boyfriend. He also happened to be the son of the Chief Rabbi of Stockholm, which was an obvious added bonus to all mothers whose daughters he courted in those days. So there wasn't much of an argument or punishment for the tattoo, just a tired nod.

Unfortunately for me, I've now come to the end of this blog, and accompanying my feeling of "blog completion" comes the realization that I can't really post this without showing the tattoo. The thing about it though is, it's now 22 years old. So it doesn't exactly look fresh and crisp. But I guess neither does my ass, compared to when I was 18. Boy, do I wish I had taken this photo of then. But here it goes. My first (and most likely last) Tattoo.