We are one inked up nation, over these last few generations. What was once the exclusive province of bikers, over-served sailors on shore leave, and carnival “carnies” has now become the norm for almost everyone in their late teens or early twenties. Years ago, tattoo parlors were only located in the same part of town as the “bucket of blood” bar, the local whorehouse and the pawn shop. Now they can be found in almost every neighborhood.

Our skin has become our canvas and what a canvas it is! You can express your love for another person, your lingering memory of the departed, your favorite team, a unit in the military in which you served, what a badass you wish you were, or what an incredible and unusual lover you must be. Location of the tattoo can be public, private, or extremely private; in the case of the ubiquitous “tramp stamp”, it can serve as an “open for business” sign over the doorway.

It’s painful and unsanitary, and mostly permanent, and for sure I don’t get it, but hey, it’s not my generation’s problem.  At least I won’t have to sit around some rest home someday watching barbed wired biceps when the wire goes slack or when the heart with your old boyfriend’s name starts to wrinkle.  There are other drawbacks, too, especially when you exit the world of youth and take your inked-up self into the workplace.

I see bridesmaids trying to camouflage that heart with Johnny’s name inside it just above the right breast. She can see his name every morning in the shower, but Johnny is a distant memory and her husband is Eddie and how does he feel about it?  Or professional women in their 30’s, trying hard to come off as cold steel and all business, but betrayed a bit by the winding vine on their lower left leg, reaching up for, well, somewhere. Young businessmen suffer from having older people question their maturity and judgment when they spy the tip of a lightning bolt or a Celtic cross peeking up from that necktied collar. Ah, youth.

I have an unproven theory that the smaller the town you come from, the more inked up you are likely to be by age twenty. Body piercings follow roughly the same curve. I base this theory on too many years of observation in towns like Blaire, NE (Pop. 8,000), Fremont, NE (Pop. 25,000) and North Sioux City, SD (pop. 2,500). All nice towns, but your younger employees will make your office look like a circus train overturned nearby.

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My wife and I were 22, newly married and teaching school for a living. I taught in a Catholic girl’s high school in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. Maureen taught in a Catholic elementary school in the heart of a Mexican and Polish neighborhood in the near downtown area (North and California) known as Humboldt Park. For whatever reasons, those two groups seem to coexist easily in Chicago. Maybe it’s their shared Catholic faith and their propensity for hard work, but there are several Mexican-Polish neighborhoods around town.

Maureen had made friends with another teacher in her school, St. Fidelis.  Helen was in her forties or early fifties, an attractive middle-aged woman of Polish descent with accent to go with it. Maureen admired her skills in the classroom and I think Helen served as a sort of mentor for her. Helen also served as moral support for her, as Maureen looked way too young to be in charge of a classroom and the principal who hired her was a nun who was very skeptical at first. By the end of the first semester, Maureen had won the principal over and she and Helen had become fast friends.

A few months later, Helen invited us to dinner at her house and the chance to meet her husband Bishof, which translates into “Bill”. In those days of lean paychecks, we didn’t turn down too many free meals.  Bishof was a distinguished looking man, about Helens’ age, and an old country Polish tailor, who made all the clothing for both he and Helen. These were the terrible days of polyester, the photos of which no one really wants to recall or see again, so he was decked out in his blue polyester jacket and slacks. I don’t know what I wore, but I am sure it was equally hideous.

It was a wonderful dinner with ham and a number of Polish delicacies, Zywiec Polish Beer and some wine. We chatted about al lot of things and they showed us around their home, so proud of every room and every detail. After dessert, we drifted into some contemporary topics, one of which was a newly-surfaced theory that the holocaust in World War II was a myth, that nothing like six million people died. It was a ruse being used by the Israelis to get support for their cause.  I’m not sure who floated the idea or why, but it was getting lots of ink in the papers.

Bishof and Helen grew quiet and then, seeming to nod to each other, Bishof took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Helen did the same. There, on their left forearms, were the tattoos, six numbers each, the unmistakable and permanent marks of concentration camp survivors. I could not have been more stunned had they undressed and stood naked before us.

You can read about it, see movies about it, and see the newsreels of corpses piled high, but it’s not the same.  My uncle was with the 82^nd Airborne and had overrun a few of these camps at war’s end, and had talked a bit about it, but it sounded like just stories from long ago.  My mother lectured us at lunch about it and felt very passionate about the holocaust.  But here standing before us was living proof of this word holocaust. Here were two normal, likeable people who somehow survived the most lethal killing machine ever seen on earth.  That machine was built under the blatant lies and half -truths of a ruthless political party selling nationalism and racial purity. And a misguided nation bought into it and in so doing brought the world into a global struggle to end the murders and punish the authors of Nazism.

That ended that discussion, and we drifted on to other topics that night, but I never forgot it. Our new friends had honored us with their tattoos, as if to say “It really happened…it happened to us, and we were the lucky ones. Six million others were not.”

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Nationalism is being sold again, both here and abroad. The British people are now dumbfounded to learn that they have been hoodwinked by the loud voices of separatism, the suspicion, hatred and banning of immigrants, and a return to the “glory days” of Britain, which were never that glorious to begin with. The final tally was barely announced before members of the U.K. announced their own plans for referendums to leave Great Britain. The leaders of the “Brexit” movement within days had renounced most of their pre-election claims and had removed themselves for consideration for higher office. They sold their “big lie” and have now left it for others to resolve.

Here at home, we have, of course, Mr.Trump. Plenty of people would rather vote for anyone but him, but there he stands. His supporters demand only that he continue to boast, insult, and demean. His deficiencies, and they are many and deep, matter not at all. He plays to our basest, most unlikeable self, the absolute worst angels of our nature. His base is mostly white, more male than female, not very bright, angry about almost everything, racist, and plyable.  They are buying into the myth of “Make America Great Again’, which is a transparent lie they refuse to see through.  Watching their behavior makes me think that the only difference between them and the “Brownshirts” of 1938, breaking the windows of shops in Berlin’s Jewish quarter, is the uniforms.

I believe we are a better country than this and I believe he will implode and his frantic supporters will cry foul, but then go back to their fear and loathing on a local level, polluting their own towns and cities with their misplaced hatred.

The great British Parliamentarian Edmund Burke once said “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Do the right thing, Americans. I have seen enough tattoos.