My Secret Tattoo

The southern California sunshine washed the February afternoon with the warmth of early summer.


My kids were at their father’s for the weekend, and I looked forward to a very rare day of “me” time.


I decided to step way outside of my comfort zone and drive down to the Orange County Fairgrounds for the bird mart being held there that day


I pulled into the fairgrounds’ parking lot and followed the path that the parking attendants indicated, waving their orange cones. When I parked the car, I followed the signs until I could hear sound of birds of all types singing – both indoors and out. I breathed in deeply and let myself relax, eager to enjoy a leisurely afternoon.



Once inside, I strolled slowly up and down each aisle, taking in the sights. Macaws, parakeets, lovebirds, finches, cockatoos, even kookaburras from Australia. Bird cages, bird seed, bird books, bird t-shirts.


A kaleidoscope of colors and sounds pulled me in and fed my soul. I eventually even splurged and allowed myself to buy one single twenty-dollar lovebird to add to my flight at home. Quite a bargain for an Australian Cinnamon male!

I stayed almost until the last, just relishing the independence and the circus of sights and sounds. But eventually, I reluctantly headed toward the door. The bored young man at the door sporadically offered to stamp the departers hands so they could re-enter the building should they want to.


When he asked if I wanted my hand stamped, I was about to decline but then figured, what the heck! It will be a piece of the adventure I could take with me the rest of the afternoon. I held out my right hand and let him stamp a purple ink bird on the back of my hand.


I smiled at the stamp and headed out to my car and the drive home. At the car, I placed the new bird in his tiny carrier cage on the floor of the front passenger seat. 


That way I could keep an eye on him, but he’d be out of the way of the cool breeze coming through the open windows as I drove home.


All the way home, I stole glances at the little guy on the floor, excited to be able to add some Australian Cinnamon genes to my flock.A mile from home, I headed northward on Rosemead Blvd. 


As I crossed the intersection at Mission and Rosemead, I heard a loud chip from the floorboards and glanced quickly down to be sure he was okay.



In that split second, a car pulled out of the parking lot at Rosemead High School, cutting me off. I tried desperately to swerve to the left, but there was no time, and I crashed into their left rear fender.


Fortunately I wasn’t going all that fast, so damage to their car was minor, but the front of my big, old Chevy Caprice buckled in, smashing the radiator and engine.

I quickly got out to be sure the people in the other car were okay and then remembered my poor little bird in the front seat. His tiny carrier cage had rolled over a few times, but he seemed okay. 


I got back in the car and pulled it to the curb in front of theirs. Out of traffic’s way, I waited for the police to come file a report.


The afternoon sun hung low in the winter sky and suddenly the lightweight silk top I had donned earlier that day seemed a bad choice. 


I shivered as the early evening breeze cut through to the bone. So I quickly rolled up the window to block the chill, not sure if the shivering was from the cool air or the pumping of adrenalin that didn’t stop once I realized no one was hurt.


A few minutes later I saw the sheriff’s car pull in behind the others’ car and waited in the relative warmth of my car while he talked to them. 


I reached down to put the bird’s cage up onto the seat next to me where I could keep distracted, trying desperately not to worry about what might happen to my insurance rates.


Suddenly, the sheriff knocked on my window with his baton, making me jump. I quickly rolled down my window just 6 or 7 inches and said hello before handing him my license, registration and insurance papers.


“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled and I watched him in my rear view window as he returned to his cruiser. I began to tremble again and quickly rolled up the window, even though I knew that wouldn’t make the trembling stop. 

I reached down and turned on the radio, hoping the music would calm my rattled nerves. The soothing voice of Vince Gill calmed me a little, at least giving me something to think about. I hummed along.


Suddenly a knock on the side of my car made me jump. I turned to the window but couldn’t see the officer. I craned my neck to see him, but still couldn’t. Glancing in my side mirror, I saw him standing close to my car, well behind my field of vision, baton in hand.

I rolled the window down half way, shivering at the cold air that rushed in and heard him gruffly say, “Get out of the car!”


I’d never been in a car accident before, so I didn’t know if this was standard procedure, but thought he sounded unnecessarily rude.


“Put your hands on the wheel,” he said. “Then reach over with your left hand and open the door from the outside!” he barked. 


I tried to process what he had said, and at the same time wondered why he stood by the back door and didn’t come talk to me face to face. 


Why do policemen always have to be so rude? I thought, but reached out and opened the door from the outside as I was told.

I stepped out of the car and turned to face him, concern- ed about the traffic rushing by so closely and wanting to get over to the sidewalk.

But then I noticed that he had his baton in one hand and his other hand on his gun handle in its unfastened holster.


“Stay where you are!” he snapped angrily and I noticed beads of sweat on his upper lip despite the cool air.


“Okay! Okay! I’m not going anywhere!” I answered, not recognizing my own, high pitched voice.

"Show me your hands!” he barked, and I quickly thrust out my hands, palms up.


“Palms down!” he growled and I quickly complied, turning my hands over. But this only kicked the stress level up a notch. 


He pulled his gun from its already opened holster and pointed it at me as he took a small step backward.



Suddenly I forgot the busy end-of-the-weekend traffic whizzing by just feet from me. 


All I could see was his not-quite-steady hand on his gun, feeling like I’d stepped out of my comfortable old car into the Twilight Zone.


"Tell me about your tattoo!”


I looked at him quizzically, as though he had spoken in a foreign language. What tattoo?!

“Don’t look at me like I’m stupid. I see the tattoo right there on your hand in plain sight! An eagle tattoo!”


I looked again at my extended hands and finally realized that he was referring to my pretty, purple bird mart stamp. 


Without thinking what a sudden move might cause him to do, I quickly reached up and licked the fingers of my left hand and used them to wipe at the purple bird stamp on my right.


“It’s not a tattoo…!” I babbled nervously. “Look!” I wet my fingers again and continued to rub at the now smeared bird stamp, as unexpected tears began to fill my eyes.


The sheriff nervously glanced from my hand to my face and back to my hand, trying to keep up with my frantic movements. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to relax some.

“It’s not a tattoo…” I continued, less frantically now. “See…? It’s a bird stamp…” I continued to rub my hand, keeping my eyes on his, trying to read his next move.


He slowly lowered, and then reholstered his gun, and asked me again for my name and address. He looked again at my license. 


And now he smiled a bit sheepishly as he reached out to hand me back my license, registration and proof of insurance.


“Sorry about that,” he said, wiping his sweating hands on his pants. 

“When I ran your license they kicked back an arrest warrant for an Elizabeth Rosas in Rosemead who is armed and dangerous and has an eagle tattoo on her right forearm…. 


She was shorter than you and has brown eyes and black hair… But with the eagle tattoo….”


This time it was my turn to breathe a sigh of, but now my legs began to shake noticeably.


“That’s not me. I don’t have any tattoos…. And I’ve never held a gun in my life!”


He apologized again and then called for a tow truck to come tow away my now inoperable car. Then he got back in his cruiser and pulled out into traffic and drove off.

For some odd reason I pictured the Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset. And in some odd way, I felt violated.




***********************************************************************


And that’s the end of the story. Sort of…


This true story has proven to be a funny one to trot out when the topic of mistaken identity comes up. But even more, it has served as an object lesson for me as well as my children and students.


So often in life, we take on burdens and unnecessary problems that are not ours; undeserved labels and misidentified tattoos that incorrectly define who we are.


Instead of standing up with confidence and assuredness and declaring (for all the world to hear) exactly who we are, we stand, shell-shocked in the rushing traffic of life unable to move or defend ourselves. 


We try desperately to say who we are not. To defend ourselves from tattoos that aren’t ours.


We stand before them, psychologically distraught and anxiously wiping away at a ‘stamp’ to prove our identity.


I can’t help but think that the only reason we have to frantically dampen our fingers and anxiously wipe away at the tattoos others may want to put on us is because we don’t really know who we are. I mean, really are.



Who among us hasn’t heard someone say something about us that isn’t true and wonder – even for a fleeting moment – if there is some truth to it. 


Or fear that others will think we are defined by these figurative tattoo. 


Or worse, travelled through life without proclaiming any stamps or tattoos of our own; not declaring anything at all.


I can’t help but think that maybe it’s because we haven’t already defined ourselves and made our character clearly visible to others. Maybe we haven’t taken any stand or declared who we are.


One day, long into the ugly custody battle with my ex, my 14-yr-old son, Nick, and I were on our way to their dad’s house to deliver birthday gifts to his sister, Jen.


“Why do you even try, mom?” he asked as we drove over to deliver a birthday present we both knew would be scorned and discarded. “You know they are just going to throw it away and hurt you,” he said.


He desperately wanted to convince me to turn around and go home. And I could feel his anguish.


“They’re just going to laugh at you and make you look stupid…” he pleaded.


I felt that it was such an important, teachable moment that I actually pulled the car to the side of the road when he said that to me, and turned off the engine.


“Coke,” I told him, using his childhood nickname. “I am going to tell you something very important that I want you to remember forever.


"I know they are going to reject this and treat me in a hurtful manner. God doesn’t hold me responsible for their actions. But he does hold me responsible for mine.


“No matter what the circumstance in life, we need to always do the right thing. Even if others laugh at us or try to make us look stupid. Our duty is to live our lives in an intentional manner, and do what we know to be right.


“How others respond to our actions is sometimes out of our control. But we’re not responsible for their actions. I cannot allow their hurtful actions to identify who I am. I choose to do the right thing, even knowing that it will result in rejection.  That's not my problem. I love your sisters unconditionally. And because of that, I will act accordingly, because that is who I am, and that is what God tells me to do.”


So now, when I think of the time the officer pulled a gun on me, right there on Rosemead Boulevard, I vow to myself that never again will I let someone else decide who I am.


I will not allow others to tattoo me with their eagles or define me with their behavior.


I will stand on my own two feet, sure of who I am, by God’s grace, and knowing just where I stand.


And it will be just as visible to a ‘tattoo’ as that purple bird – visible for all to see. God demands nothing less.




Liz Carson Rosas
10 April 2009




“He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."


Micah 6:8


"Yet if you devote your heart to him and stretch out your hands to him, if you put away the sin that is in your hand and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,
then you will lift up your face without shame; you will stand firm and without fear.


Job 11:14-16