Tattoos are Witchcraft

On Tattoos, Spells, and Undoing Shame

The end of May 2019, one week before I started HRT, I wrapped my fingers around a cellophaned arm rest and braced myself for the pleasant sting of the tattoo gun. My tattoo artist wrote MOONGLOW on my knuckles, and I said a prayer with each letter. May they see me as a woman.

I had spent the year before working with the moon closely, developing a relationship with her, following the now defunct guidebook written by Sarah Faith Gottesdeiner (she’s since pivoted to yearly planners, which are amazing if planners are your thing). Through my rituals with the moon, I discovered my own power, hidden in the satellite’s soft glow. I drew the Empress card once a week for that same year, all by chance. Listening to the moon and my tarot deck, I went underground and dug through the basement of my wants. I found rest and ease in my womanhood, Venusian traits. (Venus rules the Empress.)

I resurfaced at the end of the year, gasping for air and announcing I was a woman.

It has long been said that the sun’s energy is masculine, while the moon is feminine. I don’t like dichotomous statements (see: binaries) and there’s no way the moon has a gender, but I do think I spent too much of my life ignoring the moon, and once I started working with her, my femme-ness rose to the surface quickly. When I made the appointment to see a doctor to obtain hormones (god bless informed consent), I knew I wanted something external to mark the change, and I knew the moon would be there.

MOONGLOW across my knuckles because I didn’t want the world to only see my sun energy.

MOONGLOW because the moon is inside each of us and she glows, oh baby, she glows.

MOONGLOW because I would never ignore her again.

MOONGLOW because I am a woman, goddammit.

MOONGLOW because I thought it sounded cool.

me, moments after casting the spell of MOONGLOW.

I have plenty of tattoos, little bits of art all over my body. I got my first three months after I turned eighteen. Мир. Peace in Russian above my left breast, near my heart. I thought it important to have the idea of peace permanently etched into my skin. I did not know peace for a lot of my time growing up. (Don’t ask me why it’s in Russian. I thought my family was part-Russian. We very much are not.)

Some of my tattoos are serious. A Clarice Lispector quote scrawled across my chest. A world wholly alive has a Hellish power. Others are silly. A stegosaurus sits on my left ass cheek, apropos of nothing. Magic is allowed silliness. With each tattoo, I’ve meditated on what it means to carry the image around with me forever, whatever that image is.

My body is a temple, and I paint her walls.

Last week a friend surprised me with a tattoo gift. She was going to have to miss an appointment she’d put a deposit down on months ago and didn’t want it to go to waste. Did I want it? I did.

I’ve been trying to undo the shame given to me by my family’s religion and our white supremacist culture and media and wherever else shame trickles down from, so I’ve been thinking a lot about shame’s origin story in Christianity, the story of Adam and Eve. God warns Adam and Eve that they shouldn’t eat from the tree of knowledge. The devil shows up as a snake. Eve is tempted. She bites. The first thing she experiences after eating the apple is the shame of her nakedness. In fact, this is what gives her away. God knows she’s eaten the fruit because she’s hiding in the bushes, ashamed of her body. The Christian lesson? Listen to God, and be ashamed, and isn’t this the lesson we learn quickly as children, too? Hide your body, even from yourself, because that’s where the shame lives. I think a lot about how else the story could be told. What if Eve had eaten the apple and didn’t feel shame for her naked body? What if instead she had a threesome with Lilith and the snake? Is shame really the price we pay in exchange for knowledge? It shouldn’t be.

All that to say, I decided on a tattoo of two women embracing, naked, while a snake curls around them. I focused on releasing shame for much of the time I was getting tattooed. I released the notion that my parents will hate the tattoo and that strangers might think it scandalous. Their shame is not mine to carry. I broke out in hives the next day, my shame clogging my pores and sending my immune system into a hissy fit, but that’s magic for you.

Every tattoo is a spell. Every spell is a prayer.

“There are 2 women and they are kissing.”

A Spell for Getting a Tattoo

Turn off all the lights in your house. Light six candles and place them in a circle at your feet in front of a mirror. Strip naked. Stand in front of the mirror if you are able. Sitting is okay too. Admire your body. WOW! Your body is incredible. It carries you. It is you. Your skin is taut in some places and loose in others. Fat stores energy for later. Muscles carry your bones. Everything is perfect. Your body is perfect. Say, “My body is perfect.” But what if there were pictures or words on your body? Pretend they’re already there. What do the words say? What are the images scrawled on your perfect body? It’s okay to cry a little bit. It's hard to look at ourselves and not feel shame, but you’re doing it! The universe is proud of you. Whisper, “I’m proud of you,” while you run your hands along your skin, up and down your arms, along your perfect belly, and down your legs. Decide on one thing you want to get tattooed on you. Just one for now. Blow out the candles. Thank your body. Call your local tattoo shop and make an appointment. Don’t wait. Go as soon as you are able. While you get tattooed, think about how beautiful your body is. The tattoo will be painful but that’s okay. The pain is your body’s nerves telling you a needle is entering your skin over and over again. Your body’s not wrong. Take care of your tattoo. Wash it. Moisturize it. Drink lots of water. Take a moment every time you touch the tattoo to remember that your body picked this one and your body is perfect. The Universe is proud of you.