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“You know I don’t like that,” my uncle said pulling me aside after church one Sunday morning in the summer of 2003.
“What?” I asked.
“That thing in your mouth.”
“Oh” I said chuckling a little too hard for the stern look on his face as he gave me a speech about how he wasn’t sure why my mama let me pierce my tongue but he definitely did not approve of my having it done or the image I was portraying as a result.
The scolding was more awkward than the ice I had to keep in my mouth for nearly 24 hours after the piercing. Uncle Mitchell was that old head in the family whose look was enough to conjure up memories of the one time you actually tested him to the point he had to not just gesture for his belt but smoothly slide it from the loops of his pants and beat you with it into next week. I didn’t want to be on his bad side and this was the second time in life that he’d questioned my appearance — the first was a few year’s prior when he, again, pulled me aside after service to tell me the slit on my skirt was too high for church. Still, I also knew whatever “image” I was portraying was so far from anything I was actually doing that I didn’t really care if people were judging me. Truth be told, my mouth had only had it’s first tongue in it a few months prior at the ripe old age of 18 so any assumption about male reproductive parts sliding through that orifice — or any other at that time — was completely laughable.
My truth was indeed stranger than the fictional stories some conjured up in their minds about me because, let another older sister in church tell it, I was in need of prayer. When I told one of my friends what my uncle said that day in service she laughed and told me her grandmother had basically asked her if I was out here slobbing on random boys’ knobs because she worked with “troubled youth” who had tongue rings and that’s what they were doing. I could tell you how she now has two grandsons with seven kids between them and just about as many baby mamas while I’m just getting by as an editor of a women’s website but I won’t be petty.
Funny enough, when the topic of tongue rings came up during a recent chat in the office, I got more than a few shocked faces still when I said I had one back in the day. “You got one ‘cuz of that Three Six Mafia Song back in the day didn’t you?” one co-worker asked. I said no (and neglected to mention that was my jam during that time – don’t judge), but I struggled to figure out exactly why I did pierce my tongue all those years ago. But then again, I don’t know why I did a lot of things I did from the span of 18-22 which is about the time I stopped wearing mine. I’m pretty sure it was a mix of suddenly “being grown,” wanting to do something to mark my “being grown” that could be (somewhat) easily hidden and wouldn’t leave a permanent scar, and thinking I was making some sort of fashion statement because, at the end of the day, a tongue ring is just another piece of jewelry and with all the colorful options available, that just meant more opportunities for color-coordinating. This, from a woman who routinely used to switch the rubber bands on her braces to match her outfits. Sure, I was aware of the stereotype that went with such an adornment but I also knew the disappointment that would follow any college dude who remarked “I didn’t know you had a tongue ring” when they caught a glimmer of it under a house party strobe light and soon realized they weren’t ever going to get to know it better. So yeah, maybe people thought I was a thot because of that one tiny element of my being but I know I wasn’t. And, contrary to what people may have thought about how my future would turn out as a result, I’m doing alright. And so is my tongue.
Did people ever make any crazy assumptions about you because of a particular fashion you wore?
