The American schools tattooed their students because the dog tags didn’t work. We lost them, we broke them, we pretended to choke ourselves with their flimsy chains. God forbid. When the tags didn’t work, we handed our parents the permission slips our teachers didn’t expect us to read. The Walking Blood Bank, our parents read to themselves and America made them sign.
They called us by our last names, alphabetically. Adams, Brook, Clark. We waited, anticipating the series of pokes, the stabs breaking the skin for the ink to stay. We worked ourselves up for our turn. Finally, we asked the teacher, Teacher, how much will it hurt? It’s no different than getting a shot, she said. Over and over, we said. Enough now, the teacher said, Be like Bert the Turtle and crawl under your desk. We must be ready every day, the narrator told dopey-eyed-Bert, All the time. Franklin, Garrison, Hurts.
At recess we didn’t move our feet on the playground. What was the point? Some of us rubbed the tattoo under our arms like chimps, or rubbed the spot just above the belt line, scratched the back of our shoulders where wings would grow. Some looked to the sky, ready to duck and cover, some pulled up their dresses and shirts. Their new tattoos read: A, B, AB, O. A for ass, B for bunghole, Knock said, looking at Long’s tattooed O. McConnell, one of Knock’s cronies, yelled, Duck and Cover! We screamed, we fell, and ran ourselves over, clawing rock beneath the playground sets, and the merry-go-round. Knock and McConnell. Their laughter stopped.
The only sound we heard at Lunch was the chewing of plastic grilled cheese sandwiches. No one touched their tomato soup or their canned vegetables. Lord knew there would be plenty of the canned stuff down in the bunkers.
In science class we learned America’s depleted blood supply went to the soldiers. That’s why you’re getting the tattoos, our teacher said. We asked, What about the teachers? When will their names be called over the intercom? Some kids stabbed their hands with pencils. Others carved bombs onto their desks. Pass this, our teacher said, and sent around a bag with her husband’s gallstones. We all dreaded the ring of the bell. Smith, Wilson, Young.
Waiting outside the health room, Smith went in, screamed, came out, fell-down ragdoll. Wilson went in, screamed, stopped in the doorway and threw up on the adjacent wall. They drew back the curtain, looked down at Young, Howabout an eagle on my chest? he asked.
How about Momma with a heart? The public health official jabbed back. She used a sharpened paper clip.
That night in our tubs we wiped over the blue mark. The skin around the B- reddened while the tattoo stayed. We checked if our arms and legs were still there. If we lost a limb, then our blood could still be used. They could use us.
Harrison Cook is the Deputy Managing Editor at Guesthouse and a contributing writer at Hi-Fructose. His work has appeared in Gay Mag, Essay Daily, Foglifter Journal, Slate and as a notable essay in the Best American Essays of 2021. He's currently working on an essay collection about queer football players. Twitter: @CookHarrisom Instagram: @harrimcook
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