My Summer Embracing the Lower Back Tattoo
This type of tat has long been shrouded in stigma. But getting one myself brought me a sense of confidence, power and bodily autonomy.
Growing up in the late 2000s, I learned that certain personal style choices would only bring regret. Overly tweezed eyebrows were one. Skunk highlights were another. But the worst offender by far was the lower back tattoo.
“Tramp stamps,” as they were unfairly dubbed, were a badge of bad decision-making, promiscuity and poor judgment. Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera and Nicole Richie were among the famous young women judged for their rear-end ink. Whether the design was a dramatic butterfly or a tiny heart, its distinct placement was synonymous with the objectification of its wearer. The tramp stamp tattoo, I was taught, led to dark things. Never did I imagine that twenty-something years later, I’d go out and get my own.
But this is what happened in early June, when my sisters, my mom and I were on a trip to Scotland. High off the thrill of being in a new country and still somewhat delirious from the time change, we entered an Edinburgh parlour and spent the day getting inked. One by one, our lower backs were branded with the triskelion — an ancient Celtic spiral symbol ubiquitous on that side of the pond.
The timing happened to coincide with the release of Brat, in which artist Charli xcx proclaims her appreciation for the infamous iteration of body art. In “Guess,” she teases the possibility of “showing off” her “brand new lower back tattoo.” In “Everything Is Romantic,” she sings about “bad tattoos” in the same breath as falling in love and admiring the landscape of Capri, Italy. With her viral influence and the ongoing indie sleaze revival, celebrated messiness seeped into the summer zeitgeist. There was a growing cultural appetite to make mistakes and veer into the morally ambiguous. And what better way to do this than opting for the most “regrettable” tattoo of all?
Now, let me be clear. I am by no means a party-goer with a taste for reckless risk-taking. I am a sleepy girl with generalized anxiety. I famously pass out mid-way through movies and often feel relief when plans get cancelled. But getting a lower back tattoo allowed me to tap into a different version of myself while feeling an indescribable kinship with other women.
Before it appeared in tabloid magazines, the lower back tattoo was rooted in divine feminine power. In ancient Egypt, it was reportedly used as a form of spiritual protection in childbirth, believed to bring safety via the goddess of fertility. Western society was a different story. In the ‘80s, the lower back area became a favoured tattoo spot, since it could be easily concealed and permanent ink on women was still largely taboo.
As waistlines lowered and tabloid culture soared in the ‘90s and early aughts, it became synonymous with scandal. In 2004, the “tramp stamp” name was used in a tone-deaf SNL skit that equated a lower back tattoo with a woman’s sexual experience. Nicole Richie and Khloé Kardashian both expressed regret and documented their “bumper sticker” removal processes. TMZ went as far as to call it the modern-day “scarlet letter.” During the 2000s, it seemed that lower back tattoos existed only in the context of humiliation. I wondered how that would translate to my experience with it.
Little by little, I started sporting my tattoo out. First, on my birthday in late June with low-waisted jeans and a chartreuse tube top. (#Brat.) Then, a miniskirt that sat just below the hips to run errands on a balmy weekday night. Each time I modelled it around — whether heading to a club or walking down the sidewalk — I unlearned societal stigmas I’d grown up with. Before I knew it, I was finding any excuse to shimmy down a waistline and show off my back.
For starters, wearing it around brought a sense of agency in a world that puts bodily autonomy up for debate. Plus, it made me more delusional — a trait I’m always striving for — by convincing me that low-waisted garments were not daunting but an opportunity to exhibit my ink. At a friend’s book launch in late July, I circled through a party with my peers in a lingerie skirt and a cropped halter-neck top. I experienced no shame or discomfort. Like the little fairy on Britney Spears’s back, I felt cute and kinda magical.
This sense of reclamation is perhaps why lower back tattoos have been having a fashion-forward renaissance in recent years. In 2021, Paloma Wool released a line dedicated to the art of lower back ink, while Collina Strada presented “tramp stamp”-inspired belts for her Spring 2022 collection. Then there’s Ramp Tramp Tramp Stamp, a cult-favourite Australian label with an intersectional ethos and a brand mission to “reject shame.” The tattoo’s title, in this case, is reframed to centre body positivity.
Similarly to the Brat summer ethos, having a lower back tattoo means redefining what has long been deemed low-brow. It’s a badge of honour you can flaunt or conceal, and a nuanced label that makes a statement whether you want it to or not. When I wear my little accessory out on the town, I feel inspired by the possibilities of personal style. I also feel pretty badass.
While it might be deemed vapid and tacky, the lower back tattoo necessitates a level of strength. “If you choose a design like this, you have to be tough,” says Detroit-based tattoo artist Dawn Smith on Instagram, noting its physically painful placement and derogatory associations. From harnessing the power of fertility to being used as a target for misogyny, the lower back tattoo has always carried symbolic intensity.
For me, it’s come to represent self-expression, sisterhood and maternal love. I’ll gladly be branded with that forever.
