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I shook off the memory.
Canada might be famous for its winters, but that doesn't apply here. Vancouver Island is temperate rain forest. We get rain, not snow. This year, our dry summer was holding on, and the occasional memo about small wildfires in the interior was making Dad nervous. Nobody else was complaining, that was for sure, and it was nice to look out and see all the islands, not a curtain of fog.
We walked along the marina docks. It was a gorgeous afternoon, the sun shining off the water, boats lined up at the floating Petro-Can station to fill up before heading out to sea. An engine whined as a seaplane took off.
We crossed Front, then cut along a tiny street before coming out on Commercial. I scanned the street, a mix of local and tourist shops, about half of them devoted to food.
"Can we get a snack before we shop?" I asked. "I'm starving."
Mom shook her head. "You can grab a chocolate bar, but we need to be someplace before five."
"No, that's okay," Dad said. "Go ahead." When Mom gave him a look, he said, "If she'd rather get something to eat, let her. There's always next year. Or the year after that ..."
I stopped walking. "Okay, what's up?"
When neither said a word, I peered down the street of shops and saw a sign that caught my eye: Sacred Ink.
"Oh my God," I said. "Seriously?" I grinned and grabbed Mom's arm. "Seriously?"
"Yes. You're getting your tattoo."
I threw my arms around Dad's neck. "Thank you!"
"Hey," Mom said. "I'm the one who had to persuade him it wasn't going to turn his little girl into a streetwalker."
"I never said that," Dad said.
"No?" I said. "Cool. Cause I've decided to skip the paw print. I'm thinking of a tramp stamp with flames that says 'Hot in Here.' No, wait. Arrows. For directionally challenged guys."
Mom grabbed Dad's shoulders and steered him away from me. "She'll get exactly what we agreed on. Now go hang out in a guy store and we'll call when we're done."
"This is so cool," I said loudly as Dad walked away. "Have you met the tattoo artist? Is he hot?"
"He's a she," Mom said.
"Is she hot? Cause I'm still young, you know. My sexual identity isn't fully formed."
"Your father can't hear you anymore, Maya." Mom sighed. "Poor guy. Why can't you be a normal teenage daughter who'd sooner die than say the words 'sexual identity' in front of him?"
"You guys raised me right. You should be proud."
I picked up my pace, but Mom said, "No need to run. Your appointment isn't for another twenty minutes."
I slowed to let her catch up. "So how'd you get Dad to agree? Did you play the cultural card?"
"Of course not. That would be wrong."
I grinned. "You did, didn't you?"
Dad's quick to defer to her on that part of my upbringing. If she'd told him that tattooing was a part of Native culture, he would have backed down.
Mom's background, though, is as different from mine as English is to Irish. That makes it tough on her. She wants me to be aware of my roots, but she isn't really sure what they are, so she teaches me what she knows instead.
My Haida grandmother lives in Skidegate on the Queen Charlotte Islands north of us, and we're really close. She's a lot more into the traditions than my mom is. I love hanging out with her, working at the cultural center, and helping with the festivals. But sometimes I feel like one of the tourists. I felt the same way when I was twelve and we visited a Navajo reservation. And I felt the same way when we went to visit Dad's extended family in Dublin. I'm aware of my background, and I'm proud of it, but I don't really feel attached to it. Maybe that'll change someday.
I wasn't surprised when we got close to the tattoo studio and I saw a Haida raven painted on the sign. Inside, I could see more native art ... and a shocking lack of skulls, Celtic crosses, and dragons.
"Cool," I said.
