on my first tattoo.
I finally got my first tattoo. A few weeks after turning 41, I did what I’ve threatened my parents I’d do since I was a teenager. I didn’t expect it to happen for the reasons it finally did.
The tattoo’s design wasn’t random. The concept is based on cinetico Carlos Cruz-Diez’s chromatic patterns — specifically the ones the Venezuelan artist used at Maiquetía, the Caracas airport my family would travel through twice a year. As soon as we passed through the automatic glass doors into the international arrivals area, those bright geometric lines of color done in intricate tilework stretching from the walls to the floor welcomed us. Even years after our family relocated to the United States, seeing that mosaic meant we were home.
The idea of getting the tattoo wasn’t random, either. I talked a big game for years. I got closest to going through with it when I turned 40. My friends spent that entire birthday night trying to convince me it was time. I almost gave in.
That’s around the same time I came across an academic article about Carlos Cruz-Diez’s piece “Ambientación de Color Aditivo,” which he installed at the airport in 1974. Foot traffic and suitcase wheels have worn down those tiny tiles through the decades. The author thoughtfully explores Venezuelans’ emotional connection with the installation, even if the individual might not understand its historical or artistic context when they pick up broken pieces to keep for themselves. “Their nostalgic attachment to the airport tiles is really a nostalgic attachment to Venezuelan democracy,” Dr. Natalia Sassu Suarez Ferri writes. “We will never know where all these tiles ended up and what people are doing with them.”
What we do know, however, is how Venezuelans began arriving in the United States over the last five or so years following decades of national decline. We know how Venezuelans of all professional backgrounds have saved up and spent thousands of dollars to risk their lives crossing the Darian Gap. We know how the American government struggled under the Biden administration to provide asylum to individuals seeking safety and how the second Trump administration wantonly disrupted entire communities to own the libs.
But I didn’t start reaching out to tattoo shops until I started reading headline after headline about Venezuelans getting deported and the Trump administration justifying their deportation because of their ink. The government began using random photos from the internet to create gang identification guides, ascribing certain tattoos to the Tren de Aragua gang. Clocks. Crowns. Stars. The Nike Jumpman logo. (Most of gentrified Bushwick is deportable based on these criteria.) But in practice, it meant Luis Carlos José Marcano Silva was deported partly because of a crown tattoo he got with an ex-girlfriend eight years ago. Andry José Hernández Romero, a makeup artist, ended up in a Salvadoran prison because of two crown tattoos that say “Mama” and “Papa.” Frizgeralth de Jesus Cornejo Pulgar left Venezuela to escape harassment and extortion by the government, but his 20 or so tattoos resulted in the United States rendering him to a hostile detention center in El Salvador.
The irony shouldn’t be lost on us that this same administration includes a Defense Secretary with Crusader-themed tattoos tied to Christian violence and extremism. Apparently, some tattoos are more problematic than others, depending on your country of origin.
Reading these stories of fellow Venezuelans, I kept thinking about how absurd it was. And yet, despite the absurdity, the consequences are gravely serious. I felt helpless, seeing people have their lives ripped away from them, but intentionally put in harm’s way by the government I’m supposed to trust. Because of their tattoos.
It was a somewhat warm, sunny Saturday morning when I put on my black-on-black denim uniform. The only pop of color on me was the Chapulín Colorado logo on my otherwise black T-shirt. If I’m going to be the Latino guy getting his first tattoo at 41, I might as well lean into it. Hopping onto the B44 heading north, I made my way to East Williamsburg.
I had connected with the staff at 1983 Art Studio a few weeks earlier and decided to schedule an appointment with Nyah. Every conversation ended up being in Spanish — Nyah is Colombian, and the studio owner, as it turns out, is also from Venezuela. My T-shirt broke the ice, and we ended up talking about the new Chespirito bio series for a few minutes before getting started.
Funny enough, I wasn’t nervous about the tattoo itself. I knew it would hurt, but I didn’t balk; Nyah showed me the final design, and we agreed on size and location before she pulled out the stencil. It suddenly became more real when she started mixing the colors. I sheepishly approached her, apologizing but asking her to tweak the orange to be redder and the green to be slightly more yellow, punctuating the request with another apology.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she said, squeezing drops of red into the orange before a few drops of yellow into the green. “It’s going to be your tattoo.”
It didn’t hurt any more than I’d prepared myself for across the three hours I was there. The weirdest part wasn’t the fresh ink embedded within my raw skin when we finished — it was seeing that section of my forearm shaved smooth. But there it was now: my tattoo.
No strangers will know what these streaks of color on my body mean unless they ask, upon which I will launch into my rehearsed, pretentious monologue about kinetic art and airports. But this tattoo is how I carry Venezuela with me now.
While people are getting deported over crowns and roses, I wanted to exert control over my own body when so many are being shoved into shackles, even if it’s just my forearm. After all, there’s no real risk for me, at least until someone decides to overturn birthright citizenship.
In my case, the only thing that ended up being threatened was my parents’ patience with me. Even at 41, you don’t outgrow certain things, certainly not if you were raised in a very immigrant, very Catholic house. My dad still thinks the whole thing is ridiculous. My mom tells me she doesn’t need a tattoo to remember Venezuela. And she’s right — I don’t need one either.
But at a time when so much feels uncertain, when policies shift overnight, and belonging feels precarious, I wanted one. I wanted a daily reminder about who I am and where I come from — both for myself and the world that surrounds me.
