Being in New York was a little bit like being at a tattoo appreciation party. Everywhere I went, people came up to me and remarked on my typewriter, asked to take photos of it: strangers at restaurants, the guy who sold me tickets at the Guggenheim (if you're there, go, go, go see the Doris Salcedo exhibition, and be stunned, floored, by how she represents trauma) on the Highline, at BlogHer – fitting, since I got it a year ago immediately following BlogHer14.
I admit that I started to develop a bit of an ego around the whole thing: if real New Yorkers were impressed, then how cool was I to have an impressive tattoo? “Are you a writer? Are you a writer? You must be a journalist. You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
Thank you! Yes, yes, and thank you. Sure, take a picture. I’ll flex for you.
“It should have its own hashtag,” I only half joked to my roomie the Palinode.
And then, out for dinner last evening in Thunder Bay, a woman came up to me as I sat with a fellow writer friend. “I love your tattoo,” she began, and I smiled and nodded because I am JUST SO USED to this by now.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“Well,” I began, “it’s—”
“Are you a secretary?” she asked.
And now, I am thinking about class.