People ask why I have a phoenix tattooed on one arm and a dragon on the other. They mark the two halves of my life, the one I survived and the one I chose. The long answer is this.
I wasn’t a happy child. I spent most of my early years trying to be small, to stay hidden, hoping my father wouldn’t take out his belt, or worse, and that neither parent would take out their anger on me. Few of my childhood memories are free of relatives violently arguing. School was worse. I was beaten regularly by bullies looking for lunch money and tolerated, at best, by teachers who didn’t care.
I learned to pretend I was stupid, to fail tests on purpose and hide what I could do, because being noticed meant being hurt.
According to my parents, I was supposed to become a doctor, someone with a degree who could support them in their old age. I was a disappointment when I left college to take a position as vice president of a computer company. My parents disowned me when I was twenty-four, telling me a special place in hell was reserved for me. My father said he wished I’d never been born, that he had no son, and that neither of them wanted to speak to me again.
At thirty-three I finally found my soul mate and married her, hoping to find happiness at last. She became chronically and horribly sick soon after. For years I also worked for a boss who was, by his own proud certificate from a psychiatrist, clinically insane. And my parents, in their wisdom, believed that people of other colors, races, and religions were somehow wrong, that they had their place as long as they stayed in it.
To all of that, I eventually said: no more.
Skull Rock
When Claudia died, a large part of me died with her. My soul mate was gone. I had no friends, no parents, no love. I had no one but myself and no reason to go on.
Three days after she took her last breath while I watched, I drove to Joshua Tree National Park and climbed to the top of a place called Skull Rock. For most of that cloudy, stormy day I sat there and thought about my past, my present, and whatever future I’d left. And on that rock I made a series of decisions that changed everything.
I decided I’m strong. I decided I’m ethical.
I decided I’m intelligent. I decided I can be right, I can have friends, and I can be happy. I decided I don’t need to put up with anyone putting me down or trying to ruin my life. Most of all, I decided I was going to be me, to chart my own future and make my own decisions. I came alive again.
I learned that people are people, regardless of color, race, religion, gender, or anything else, and that we should judge them on their actions and nothing else.
I learned that I make my own life, and that others only shape it if I let them. The good job I have came from working hard, taking hundreds of courses, reading, and having many generous people mentor me. In spite of what my parents said, I didn’t get here through luck.
What the tattoos mean
The phoenix marks the change, the rebirth from death, rising out of the worst years. The dragon is what I decided I am: intelligent, powerful, and above all an individual. The fire in both tattoos means the path hasn’t been easy, and that it’s not over.
My phoenix, fresh out of the chair at Zulu Tattoo in Beverly Hills, August 4, 2013, by Roni Zulu. Copyright © Richard Lowe.
Both are large and full color, one on each upper arm. There are also a couple of coral snakes and a black widow spider. The spider happened because I still had 30 minutes left in a session, and the artist asked what I wanted. Everybody comments on the spider, because it looks 3D.
Not long ago I sat down after a performance, stared into space, and realized how far I’ve come. I have a good job, wonderful friends, hobbies I love, and a level of health and happiness I couldn’t have imagined as that frightened child. To all the friends who helped me get here, the dancers, the artists, the performers, the fellow computer people, more of you than I can count, thank you. I wouldn’t have risen without you.