Identity can be a strange thing. Your first identity is given to you—son, daughter, Christian, Muslim—it’s what’s in you, not on you. I never thought I’d get a tattoo on account of my Judaism, especially having family members forcibly tattooed during The Holocaust. But after a reoccurring dream with a reoccurring image, it compelled me to seek someone who could realize it on my right thigh. Grin was the perfect artist to meet as he understands how certain images don’t belong on walls, or crafted as jewelry, the body can be an artistic medium all its own. We met again to create a personal identity on my left thigh—a 3-headed entity I interpret as my ambition, all good and bad aspects of what it feels like to be a man. And then there’s the identity you discover. At 19 my grandmother revealed our indigenous heritage, and I joined The Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians residing at the northern-most tip of Michigan. Only as an adult, and on the precipice of starting my own family, have I truly embraced this identity, even in my professional life. The backs of my legs are Grin’s to determine, with a vision conjured by my wife, illustrating the fusion of our identities now that she received her Ojibwa name.