What do your tattoos mean?”
When I first started getting tattoos, I enthusiastically jumped to answer this question. I loved to talk about my chest tattoo in particular. It looked like an ecstatic yin yang, swirling inward and exploding outward simultaneously. I would explain to others how it was an “ancient” Maya symbol that stood for their highest god, Hunab Ku, who was associated with the supermassive blackhole at the center of our galaxy. I loved how it looked and how others praised me for my “cultured” aesthetic.
Incontrast to my enthusiasm, I knew nothing of Maya cultures, knew no one who was Maya, and lived on the west coast of Canada, on Coast Salish Territory, thousands of miles away from Maya territory. What I did know was the symbol made me feel assured in my attempted rebellion against my own whiteness and privilege. Despite my intentions, this tattoo put my ignorance and privilege on full display.
Over the years, I began to feel there was something wrong with a white person sporting an Indigenous symbol as a tattoo and developed a quiet, passive shame. Suddenly the question, “What do your tattoos mean?” didn’t bring about the same enthusiasm as before. Instead, I’d sullenly reply, “You know, I mostly just like how they look. Why do they need meaning?”
Despite my shame, I did nothing to address my appropriation. I intended to get the tattoo removed or covered, but it was never a high priority. I never learned more about Maya people and cultures. I never learned more about the symbol. I just let my ignorance fester.
When my topless photos from the “Do I have boobs now?” project went viral, I was finally forced to address my ignorance and appropriation. On social media, Indigenous people began commenting:Is that a hunab ku tattooed on their chest?? like what?
Shocked, but not shocked actually. White folks appropriating Indigenous imagery is nothing new. Still, the myth of solidarity was first to enter my mind. How could this TRANS persyn, someone who is supposedly marginalized, be so Anti-Native?Colonization nearly erased our people, we don't need to be nice about our reactions to people who are so far removed from it that they can comfortably flaunt it as fashion.
My intention for the project was to challenge systems of oppression and our complicity in them. In the process, I exposed my own unchallenged complicity in oppression and colonialism. By widely sharing these photos, I was engaging in and normalizing cultural appropriation.
Many people rallied to defend me from these Indigenous commenters, saying things like, “You shouldn’t be so offended;” “She’s doing something great, calm down;” and “But she didn’t know any better.” These comments continued even after I made posts supporting and agreeing with the Indigenous critiques, showing that my supposed defenders were truly more interested in silencing Indigenous people. Those who weren’t defending me praised me. While a white person was being praised for trying to combat racism, Indigenous people were being silenced for the same reason.
Many people rallied to defend me from these Indigenous commenters, saying things like, “You shouldn’t be so offended;” “She’s doing something great, calm down;” and “But she didn’t know any better.” These comments continued even after I made posts supporting and agreeing with the Indigenous critiques, showing that my supposed defenders were truly more interested in silencing Indigenous people. Those who weren’t defending me praised me. While a white person was being praised for trying to combat racism, Indigenous people were being silenced for the same reason.
I’ve been silenced in similar ways, though the oppression white transgender people and Indigenous people of all genders face is very different. A few months ago, I went out with friends and was misgendered throughout the night. Worn down and afraid of someone turning a request to use proper pronouns into an argument about the validity of my gender, I said nothing. When I got home, I sat on my bed and cried. After some thought, I wrote a Facebook post explaining how much it sucks to be misgendered and requested that people try harder to use the correct pronouns. When I woke up the next morning, I had received multiple messages that amounted to “You shouldn’t be so offended;” “We’re trying, calm down;” and “I didn’t know any better.”
Regardless of our intentions, our actions can hurt people. Explaining our intentions or our ignorance does not change that hurting, and it does not absolve us of responsibility for those people’s pain. When people tell us our actions have hurt them, we should not discredit their pain or explain it away; we should instead examine our intentions, work to relieve our ignorance and complicity, and engage in a conversation with those people about how to move forward constructively.
With this tattoo, that meant learning about the symbol and the people it came from, and seeking guidance from Indigenous people of Central America and of the land I live on about how to address my appropriation.
With this tattoo, that meant learning about the symbol and the people it came from, and seeking guidance from Indigenous people of Central America and of the land I live on about how to address my appropriation.
I learned that this symbol was not Maya, but instead a Mexica symbol from a ritual cloak that had been slightly altered and given a whole new meaning by new-age authors in the 20th century. Though these authors took “Hunab Ku” as a great Maya god, “Hunab Ku,” which means “The only god,” is actually the name given in Yucatec Maya, one of more than two dozen Mayan languages, for the Christian god that many Maya were forced into worshipping. This was the same god in whose name colonization and massacres were committed against Indigenous people of the Americas, and in whose name Europeans attempted to wipe out their religion and culture.
I learned that, before colonization, Maya and Mexica civilizations had developed large cities, created vast political systems, and were particularly noted for their architecture, art, mathematics and astronomy. Far from being an ancient, “dead” culture, there are currently an estimated 7 million Maya people (comprised of many groups that share linguistic and cultural histories) and 2.5 million Nahua people (also comprised of many groups, including the Mexica), many fighting to gain civil rights and reclaim their land and culture. These numbers are very rough estimates, and there are many people who are denied their indigeneity and are struggling to reclaim it, especially the descendants of Indigenous women who were raped by Spanish men and those whose ancestors took up European languages and names.
I’m still only starting to learn and explore Indigenous histories, and their depth can barely begin to be covered here. Thanks to these Indigenous critiques, I’m beginning to engage with my own complicity in colonialism and racism instead of ignoring its existence.
Trying to listen to Indigenous voices and deciding how to proceed has been a difficult, messy process littered with missteps. I’m only beginning to learn how to be an ally, and those missteps will likely continue. Not everyone has been satisfied with my decisions, and that’s completely fair. The harm has already been done, and no amount of work can fully heal that wound. So it goes with decolonizing work done by white allies. Colonialism nearly destroyed the peoples and cultures indigenous to the Americas and continues to oppress them. No amount of work we do can fully heal that wound. But the work we can do to support decolonization and dismantle racism must be done.
We must support and follow the lead of Indigenous people in their continual resistance against colonialism, which is as old as colonialism itself.
We must work to relieve our ignorance while acknowledging our inability to fully understand the experiences of Indigenous people.
We must recognize and call out racism and colonialism when we see it.
We must resist congratulation for allyship and accept that despite our best intentions, we may make mistakes, cause harm and deserve to be criticized for those mistakes.
For now, I’m getting my tattoo covered and have blurred it in the photos that were already taken. Now when someone asks “What do your tattoos mean?” I can tell them about my chest tattoo. I can tell them it means our ignorance is not an excuse and our intentions mean shit. I can challenge them to examine their own complicity with colonialism and reexamine their allyship. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
rnández (Nawat) for their guidance and feedback addressing this issue and writing this article.
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