Making My Macmark

There is an arm, sheathed in medieval battle gear and resting on what looks like a crown, and the hand at the end of that arm is clutching a red cross, all of which is encircled by a belt bearing a cryptic inscription. It's my family "badge," along the lines of a crest or coat of arms, and now it's a part of me. My first tattoo, compliments of my midlife crisis, and already I'm having second thoughts.

At issue, that mysterious slogan. BUAIDH NO BAS. I'm pretty sure the tattooer didn't misspell it, nor is it something now deemed politically incorrect, like old Celtic for "chick magnet," as one friend suggested. In truth, the words carry more of a "Braveheart" quality to them, the rough translation being "Victory or death."

But as a nonpracticing Scotsman, ethnic pride is new ground for me. Up until now I've been one of those "group hug" sorts of guys, softly reciting the words to "Imagine" while wondering, like Rodney King, why we all can't just get along. If you ask me, there's already way too much that divides us in this world, and, although it's a stretch, it could be argued that cultural delineation serves as the first step down the slippery slope to the concentration camps.

I've never really felt a strong connection to my ancestors. In fact, none whatsoever. That's because I live in Michigan, as have several generations of my family. For me, the "homeland" is nothing more than a small ranch in suburbia. Maybe I'd feel differently if King Edward's men were ransacking the village and dragging off the womenfolk, but there hasn't been much of that going on lately.

Then why did I mark myself in this manner? Good question. To me, being Scottish has meant little more than having a last name forever butchered by unwitting telemarketers. Besides, considering the procreation free-for-all that's taken place since the first MacDougalls washed up on the shores of Nova Scotia a couple of centuries ago, my pedigree is somewhat suspect.

Yet there it is, high on my left arm, a Gaelic rendering that identifies me as a son of Scotland. I'll admit, they sucked me in with all those shows where people are getting "inked." It looked almost … fun. So I'd actually been thinking about it for a while, trying to decide what I could get that would outlast the relevance of, say, barbed wire or a naked fairy with gossamer hair and freakishly large breasts riding a unicorn over a rainbow.