Kalah Allen

I was a stupid kid once. Some of the very few friends and family I still have would maybe say that I still am. You were friendly in the very long line at the store, and began asking me questions about my tattoos. I responded as nicely as I could. Then you asked me about the large tattoo on the front of my neck. I didn’t want to talk about it. You snarked that I shouldn’t get tattoos if I don’t want to share. First, I’m not obligated to answer your questions. I will if you’re friendly and I’m feeling nice, but I certainly don’t have any obligation to discuss the meaning behind my tattoos. Second, and like I said, I was a stupid kid. I didn’t want to admit to a real nice African American lady that I once had “88” tattooed on the front of my neck, and that the cover-up was to erase that part of my life. This goes out to anyone else who feels inclined to ask a lot of questions. If someone doesn’t want to talk about something, there’s something, there’s probably a reason. Don’t pry.—Anonymous