I'm Not Having a Mid-life Crisis; My Lens on the Midlife Tattoo

I got a few new tattoos last week. I’ve been slowly adding to my arms over the past decade, building up to what is now my largest tattoo, a 1cm wide, rope-like snake inspired by my maiden name. As I plan to double barrel come the BIG DAY (date still tbc, looking like October ‘24), it feels a fitting tribute to the by-line which has seen me through the best part of four decades. Ormerod, is Viking for snake or dragon and like many in fashion, I’ve always had a soft spot for the serpentine. I’m thrilled, though tattoo 7, 8 and 9 have been divisive, especially Vesper, as I’ve named my forearm dæmon. To all of those expressing concern in my DMs, I can assure you I’m not having a mid-life crisis. Worry if you see me wearing trainers outside of the gym. Or a tracksuit. Those will be the harbingers of a breakdown.

So back to tattoos. I first became invested after taking a third-year Uni course in 19th century Australian convict history (and yes, I know this is a random topic and that I’m the only person that still refers to their lectures. Indulge me, promise there is a point). During those gloomy, atmospheric afternoons in the shadow of Arthur’s Seat, I became absolutely gripped by the stories of convicts, 20% of whom were under 20, some as young as 9. Banished from everything and everyone they had ever known for years of hard labour in Australia (that is, if they avoided a watery grave), most were petty criminals. Of particular note to this piece, of the 160,000 British convicts transported to Australia, 37% percent of men and 15% of women were tattooed, making them the most inked English-speaking community of the time.

As chattals of the state and to better identify them as flight risks, their physical appearance was recorded in granular detail, so we have a remarkable insight into their tat taste. Many chose to tattoo similar things: the date of their departure from the homeland, the name of the ship that took them from their lives and liberty; mermaids, symbolising love and beauty as well as the jeopardy at sea ahead. Or the names of their loved ones never again to behold. Some were more outlandish—cock fights, pipes and jugs, flowerpots and clusters of dots to name but a few. On some ships, whole crews would get matching designs. More than a dozen arrived in Hobart in the bowels of the Equestrian II with the same tattoo of the crucifixion, seven stars and four candlesticks, bound together in a graphic tribe by their journey. Rather than just an indelible badge of criminality, tattooing for convicts was their only opportunity to reflect their humanity, enabling them to immortalise true rebellion. They had been stripped of their identities in every possible way, but no lawman could take their skin from them. Tattoos were their only way of showing the world who they were, a way to keep a kernel of their sense of self as a keepsake which couldn’t be confiscated. More than just a prisoner, tattoos reminded everyone that a convict was a man or woman with an internal life and story of their own.

While tattoos obviously continue their association with lawlessness, both through prison culture and gangsterism, it’s the idea of the body stripped bare of all but your intentional markings that no one can take away, which appealed so much to me at the time. I was going through the most intense whirlwind of finding myself over those years. I tried on lots of different identities, but they were all costumes; I was incredibly lost. The idea that I would ever know myself enough to get a tattoo felt decidedly unlikely. Nothing had happened to me yet, I was a sapling without any roots, just flailing in the winds of change. I would have been terrified of the regret, indeed, I wondered if I would ever be that sure of anything.

Britain’s most famous convict of all, was of course Dickens’ Magwitch, from Great Expectations, who holds particular significance in my family, because both my parents lived on the north Kent marshes where our tragic hero first encounters Pip.  This is entirely by the by, but speaking of family, there were lots of tattoos in mine. I remember the blue scrawl of my grandad Bill’s wartime tattoos – well-hidden as he was a copper and there were all manner of biro blue markings on my uncles. That’s the thing about tattoos, they are living history permeating through so many different cultures. Through the forces, through pub culture, the emergency services, working class culture, through literally countless tribes of peoples throughout our world. Whether it is a sense of belonging or pride, they so often come with meaning so much more layered than a drunken night in Faliraki.

Some may believe that it’s unhinged for a nice white, middle class mother, swiftly approaching 40 to be getting tattoos. Others will believe it represents the co-option of sub-culture, a fashionification of an authentic community bound by their preference for a non-normative lifestyle. Anyone living outside of upscale enclaves or under 30 will simply shrug their shoulders. A tattoo, ground-breaking. Whatever grandma cliché. Yet others will think it’s just common, cheap and ugly; that it shows I’m trash. This particular lady has always been a tramp, so no new news there. The point is that our perception of what it means to permanently mark your skin varies wildly and is skewed dramatically by age, class, race, gender and background. While it can be hard to wind your neck in, I absolutely understand that what is means to me, might mean the exact opposite to you. It is one of those elements of culture which from both an aesthetic and symbolic perspective inspires wildly diverse judgement far beyond the regular binaries.

In lots of ways, I’ve lived vanilla life. Not with my work or the incredible things I’ve seen, but more I’ve never been a freak or a weirdo. I wasn’t a goth or involved in a biker gang. I’ve never been to prison. I wasn’t even a grunger when you could be; I listened to Britney. I never sat in detention, instead I was secretary of the history society. And while there have been some ahem, hiccups, I’m now a parent of two kids and engaged to be married to my long-term partner living in a verdant West London neighbourhood. But there has always been an edge (certainly not of cool) of seeking a layered and complex identity which made me feel like I could breathe easy. Outside of the smoking and drinking basics and 20+ piercings over the years, I’ve never been involved in anything dangerous, but I’ve always had a horror of succumbing to predictable stereotypes or living a suburban nightmare à la Revolutionary Road. While my life has been softcore, before I was a parent, it didn’t fit into a pigeon-hole and neither did I.

But becoming a mother has flattened that identity in so many ways. I often feel trapped in that box I dreaded, its corners hermetically sealed. It sometimes makes me want burn 15 Breton T-shirts (I won’t as I need them to avoid arrest for public nudity). Yes, of course your life keeps on going and you can still have definitive experiences outside of mothering, but if you are the primary care giver, you can’t escape long stretches where your entire existence feels tied to a never-emptying laundry basket. It’s a feeling that your personality has been blanded into ubiquity, that what came before has been wiped clean from the slate. Your inner life is subsumed by your new identity badge and the predictable rhythm of the day, a rhythm which beats through so many of our lives during this era, can make you feel predictable as a person.

One of my tattoos is a palm tree (as mentioned before, groundbreaking) and I got it just before I started trying to conceive. It was to always remind me of the life I’d built brick by brick, word by word, press day by press day. I have zero regrets about having kids (well maybe not zeeeeeero everydaaaaaay 🤣), they are my blood and heart. But you’d have to be lobotomised not to miss parts of yourself you just no longer have access to. The barefoot, naughty side, yes. But also, the side that has the bandwidth to explore your own soul, purpose and meaning, outside of course, your role as a parent. 

Which brings me back to tattoos as a vehicle for individual self-expression. Now, I’m not comparing parenthood to seven years of indentured servitude on Van Diemen’s Land. I’m really not. But I do understand the drive to assert your worth as an individual outside of a homogenised, faceless demographic category. Outside of the lens that everyone else appears to view and judge you through. As for what to get tattooed, that is no longer an issue for me. I have about 74 ideas. The idea of regret isn’t something that ever occurs to me any more, simply because I have no shame about any of my previous incarnations— they are all part of the person I will become tomorrow. I’ve got to know myself, I’m sure of many things. I’m aware my current moment of frustration and yearning to escape a social blueprint without nuance is temporary. But I won’t forget how it felt, it is a part of me. My tattoos are like the rings of tree, an indelible mark of experience, an inky primal scream of my humanity. Fortunately, considering the inner turmoil of late, I’ve got plenty of blank space left.