The Tattoo That Wasn’t

This week’s memorial blog is number 388, and as we look at this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim, we are given a powerful command:

This week’s memorial blog is number 388, and as we look at this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim, we are given a powerful…

“Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

Why repeat the word justice?

Perhaps because justice isn’t only about deciding who is right and who is wrong. It is also about being willing to look honestly at ourselves—to recognize our own actions, our own responsibilities, and our own shortcomings.

There is an interesting parallel in the New Testament, where Jesus teaches that before we concern ourselves with the fault in another person, we should first examine the fault within ourselves.

Different traditions, but a remarkably similar lesson:

Justice in the world begins with accountability in our own hearts.

And that brings me back to one of my favorite childhood memories of my brother, Harlan—and to a lesson our parents may have taught us without ever realizing they were teaching it.

There was a time when Harlan and I were probably six and eight—or maybe eight and ten. We were both still in grade school, and for some reason, children had discovered the magical world of ballpoint-pen tattoos.

You know the kind.

A kid takes an ordinary ink pen and draws a flower, a name, or some mysterious artwork on their arm and proudly announces, “Look! I have a tattoo!”

Our mother, God bless her, was what we affectionately called a Nervous Nelly. She was convinced that the ink would somehow work its way through our skin, enter our bloodstream, and poison us.

Therefore, under no circumstances were Harlan or I permitted to draw on ourselves with ink pens.

And then I watched my big brother get caught.

Harlan got in trouble.

And I was the innocent little brother, standing safely on the sidelines, watching and learning.

Or so Mom and Dad thought.

A day or two later, I was at school talking with a classmate about what had happened to Harlan. Somehow, in the course of that conversation, my friend drew a little flower on my arm.

I had my tattoo.

Then I forgot about it.

Until bath time.

Somehow, Mom or Dad noticed the ink on my skin.

“Hal, what’s that?”

Now, I was young. Too young to understand one of the great mysteries of childhood:

How do parents always know when you’re lying?

So I put on my best politician’s face and delivered what I thought was an absolutely airtight explanation.

“No. There was a problem in class. The ink pen blew up and exploded, and the ink got on my arm.”

I said it with a perfectly straight face.

I fully expected to be believed.

Instead, Mom and Dad looked at each other.

They didn’t say anything.

They didn’t even roll their eyes.

They just exchanged that mysterious parental look—the secret language parents apparently learn when their child is standing three feet away telling the most ridiculous lie they have ever heard.

And somehow…they let me get away with it.

A few years later, the subject came up again.

Dad’s fraternity brother, Uncle Merill Janowitz, owner of People Pawn on Monroe Street, was like an uncle to us.

For some reason, Mom and Dad were in the back of the house getting ready, and Uncle Merle was up front with Harlan and me.

Uncle Merle picked up an ink pen and drew a little heart on my tush.

Of course, Mom and Dad eventually saw it and laughed till the end.

I couldn’t even reach that spot!

I looked at them and essentially argued my case like a miniature attorney:

“I didn’t do it. Uncle Merle did!”

And Uncle Merle, to his credit, owned it.

He admitted that he had drawn the heart.

Case dismissed.

I was not shipped off to reform school for my violent and blatant disregard of parental authority.

And maybe there is a reason neither Harlan nor I ever got a tattoo.

Maybe it was because Mom had successfully scared the ink right out of us.

Maybe it was because neither of us particularly liked needles.

Maybe it was because neither of us had any desire to turn our bodies into permanent canvases.

Or perhaps, in some strange way, our parents’ lesson simply stuck.

They were both free of ink, too!

Three different times I remember ink pens making Mom and Dad furious.

And to Harlan’s dying day, neither of us ever used indelible ink on ourselves.

Harlan might eventually have chosen a Waterman or a Montblanc.

But neither of us ever chose a tattoo needle.

Looking back now, I realize there was another lesson hidden inside those childhood memories.

Our parents weren’t simply teaching us what not to do.

They were teaching us about accountability.

Sometimes we argued.

Sometimes we tried to outsmart them.

Sometimes we even invented exploding ink pens.

But eventually we learned that the easiest person to fool is ourselves.

And perhaps that is what “Justice, justice shall you pursue” asks of us.

Before we point a finger, look inward.

Before we decide who is wrong, ask what part we played.

Before we demand accountability from someone else, have the courage to practice it ourselves.

We don’t always understand those lessons when we are children. Sometimes they arrive disguised as parental rules, childhood arguments, embarrassing stories, or even a ridiculous explanation about an exploding ink pen.

But years later, we discover that something stayed with us.

Not necessarily the rule itself—but the deeper lesson behind it.

Pursue justice in the world—but begin by practicing it in your own heart.

Because ultimately, we cannot make the world more just without making our own hearts more just.

That is a lesson worth carrying forward.

A lesson worth remembering.

A lesson worth leaving as part of our legacy.

And perhaps that is part of Harlan’s legacy too—not simply the memories of the things we did together, but the lessons we carried forward from the family that raised us.

Some lessons came through words.

Some came through consequences.

And some came through a little ink, a childhood lie, an exploding pen…and a heart drawn by Uncle Merill.

Perhaps someday I’ll get “Peace, Love and Equality for all!” tatted on my chest!