I got my first and only tattoo in fourth grade. While Ms. Tsang was busy yelling at kids on the playground, my then-best friend Richard and I were wrestling over a tiny yellow Ticonderoga pencil in our classroom for reasons unknown. Eventually, he managed to overpower me and jabbed the pencil into my knee. I yelped in pain, and quickly came to the conclusion that Richard had killed me because the lead would give me cancer. After panicking in the corner, Ms. Tsang assured me I was not going to get cancer. Despite my doubts, I believed her. Luckily enough, my painful first tattoo experience stopped hurting after a day and I quickly forgot the incident. As I progressed into middle school, I eventually forgot Richard too.

However, a few years later I noticed the tiny black dot on my kneecap. Although slightly duller due to the effects of time, I remembered that day in pristine detail. I have forgotten many of my memories and friends over the years, but I will never forget Richard Najar and his impressive pencil stabbing skills.

In eighth grade I became friends with Tomás, a skater kid with an impressive shoe collection and a strong desire to try new things. One of his interests was dirt biking. I drove out to the desert with his family and rode around on an old 110cc Yamaha. I had a blast, up until I lost control of the bike, flew off the track, and fell 10 feet into a ditch. Predictably, I ended up “dusting” my wrist. I had to get surgery to place gargantuan pieces of metal into my wrist in order to repair it. I have a long, dagger-shaped white scar from my first, and last, time dirtbiking. Even years later it has hardly faded, and there remains a metal bump underneath my palm. Everytime I run my fingers over it I’m transported back to that moment of pure  shock and panic, but I’m also reminded how exhilarating it was to try something new. As I progressed through high school, Tomas and I began to speak less and less. But now he’s a cool scar on my arm.

During my junior year of high school I became close with a talkative ginger named Jake. Jake and I both liked to continue talking until everyone else loudly hoped we would stop, so naturally we were a good fit. Whether it was throwing around paper airplanes in APES or complaining about U.S. history, we always had something to talk about. One day, Jake and I made the sweaty walk through the Pasadena heat over to my house. A few other friends joined us, and we roamed the streets yelling until the wee hours of the morning. At one point, popping off caffeine from monster energy drinks, I decided to sprint through the park close to my house. I remember Jake yelling “WOW HE IS MOVING FAST!”. I turned around to smugly grin, only to have a comically hard fall into the grass. I hit my left toe directly on the ledge, and managed to bruise it so bad it has a permanent purple hue. Like many other high school friends, my mutual classes with Jake created our friendship. Once those ended, we were no longer nearly as tight.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I don’t really remember these people. Or worse, I feel sorry for reducing them to a single memory. I see a fragment of who they were and what our friendship was. These markers remind me of times that will never exist again, with people I may never see again. They are a part of a past I have moved on from. 

Yet, I am going to carry them with me forever. They are marked permanently on my skin. If I am lucky enough to live into old age, I will remember them like it was yesterday. Sure, it may be sad that they are in my past and not my future. But that’s okay. Without the markers of my physical memories, I would have lost links to entire stages of my life. What would I think of elementary school without my tattoo? That tattoo IS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL!

Physical marks can be painful. They are links to moments lost in the distant past. But through them I can visit the past and appreciate what once was.