Chapter Five: Andrew Tries (and Fails) to Look Badass

Looking back, I was a little rough around the edges, intellectually, in the eighth grade. I actively subscribed to the ideas behind The Anarchist's Cookbook and other random deconstructive anti-state crap. Yet in my infinite wisdom of how much the systems of power sucked, I'm pretty sure I would not have been able to give a ballpark definition of the word 'economy.'

Meanwhile, The Da Vinci Code was shooting to the top of best seller's lists across the world. Angels and Demons and those other two mediocre-at-best books were able to successful ride the coattail of Da Vinci to best-selling status as well. And boy, was I hooked. Dan Brown was my literary God. My taste for literature was a tad underdeveloped, and I thought these books were instant classics of the English language.

If Dan Brown was my God, then Robert Langdon was my Jesus Christ. Langdon's character seemed to embody everything I admired. He used his hyper-intellectual ability to solve grave mysteries and get laid. Specifically, in Angels and Demons, one of the recurring motifs is the power of anagrams as simultaneous art and communication. In the novel, Langdon is a fictional pseudo-expert on anagrams; and I was soon infatuated with these complex blends of beauty, text, and thought.

Clearly, the next logical step was to get a tattoo with one of these tight looking anagrams on my bicep. What better way to demonstrate my suaveness, my chic hipster style. But in the eighth grade I didn't exactly have the social connects, or even the desire, to get an official permanent ink tatoo. So black sharpie would suffice.

Using the book as a guideline, I was able to scrawl a haphazard anagram of 'Fire' on my left arm. I figured, after this, I'd need a stick to keep away the hordes of women madly enamoured with my badass tat.

That night at dinner, some odd far off instinct told me, "Hide this from mom!" The majority of dinner was spent navigating the uncomfortable balance between feeding myself and pulling my left sleeve down over the fresh anagram. Eventually my mom caught on to my painfully awkward fidgeting. She asked to see what my sleeve was covering up. I stuck my arm out and showed her the intricate design.

"Oh my God. You're not in a gang are you!"

"No mom, it's just an anagram."

"You're in a gang aren't you!!! Swear to God you are not in a gang!"

"Mom, I'm not in a gang, I just thought it looked cool."

"So why is it on your arm! That's what gangs do!"

"Because it looks cool, mom. It just says 'Fire.' "

"IS THAT THE NAME OF YOUR GANG?! FIRE?!"

At this point, my mom was inexorably settled on the idea that I was in a violent street gang. My sharpie tattoo was clearly some dedication ritual that the gang was using to initiate me. I started to cry, because my mom would simply not drop the issue. She kept asking the same questions, making me feel like I was doing something wrong. I couldn't figure out what I had done, who I had hurt. But my mom still laid the guilt on me.

I went upstairs, and tried to wash off that former source of pride. I wanted nothing to do with sharpies, anagrams, or tattoos anymore. Even if I could appreciate their beauty, my mom sure as hell couldn't.

For a good eighteen months after that, my mom was especially suspicious of potential gang membership. In her eyes, every public place I went to during that span became a potential recruitment center for MS13. Fairfax Corner, gangs there. The Colonade, gangs there. 7-11, definitely gangs there. I guess my mom never realized that gangs don't target the middle class, un-muscular white boy demographic.