Brien Freeman is covered with stories. At 63 years old,
he harbors a wealth of insight and wisdom collected slowly from each episode in
his lifetime. Each experience of his has become a memory – a tiny indentation
in his brain left from the impact of a lifelong triumph or failure, achievement
or realization, which he chose to fill with a recollection of why that period
in his existence meant so much to him. These experiences have changed him for
good, and you can see them come to full fruition in the way Brien dresses, or
in the way that he walks, or in the things that he says.
Or, more distinguishably, you can see them on his skin. Perhaps
the most memorable thing about Brien Freeman, even when you consider all of his
collected wisdom and experience (a unique and noteworthy characteristic, no
doubt), is that he is covered from head to toe, from fingertip to the
crook-of-shoulder-blades, in tattoos of every kind.
“These are my memories,” he said. “I love each one
individually.” That could be considered a great accomplishment on its own
because, in total, Freeman has right around 63 tattoos – one for each year he’s
been alive.
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A tattoo on Freeman's leg he chose to commemorate Sept. 11, 2001. |
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“Each
year on my birthday, ever since I was 16, I go to the [tattoo] parlor and get a
new one to help me remember what happened during that year.” Freeman, a native
of Paducah, Ky., who moved to Somerset, Ky., during his early childhood, says
that each specific tattoo corresponds with a memory from a very distinct time
in his life. “I’ve got one from being born”, he said. “I had to go back later
to get that one. And one from my first marriage. This one [he points to a
specific tattoo covering a scar] is from a car accident I had when I was 23.” The
process of getting a new tattoo for each year he’s alive has become such a
substantial aspect of Freeman’s life that people who know him have taken to
calling him the “walking scrapbook.”
People
who don’t know him, however, have been known to call him other things.
“I’ve
seen parents pull their kids away from me if I get to close in the grocery
store,” Freeman said. “I get called freak a lot when people think I’m not
listening.” But he never lets that get to him.
“I
don’t do it to look nice anyway,” Freeman admitted. “I do it to remember.
Everything on my body, when I look at it, it reminds me of something, or
someone, or some place; things I used to care about, and things I still do.
Most people – they forget these things.” Freeman likely won’t forget as long as
he lives.
“The
biggest challenge about it all,” Freeman admitted, “is choosing what
[particular event] to get the tattoo about. Sometimes I have such a good year
that there is too many options to choose from, and sometimes it’s [a] boring
[year] and I have trouble even finding something to tattoo.” Freeman said that,
after so many tattoos, the pain of each new one dulls more and more.
He
also admitted that, for a while, it was hard to get a job anywhere.
“Most
folks don’t like to hire people with so many tattoos,” he said. “I could never
work in front of people.” This forced him to find other means of employment.
For several years, he worked with his uncle on a farm until, in 1984, when his
uncle died, he took the farm over. Now he is responsible for overseeing all of
the incoming and outgoing products, and he even gets to hire his own employees.
About
his job, Freeman said: “It’s not a bad gig. It pays the bills and leaves me enough
to afford a new tattoo once a year [chuckles].” But where does he get that annual
tattoo?
“He’s
like a timeline for the both of us,” said Willy Buntz, the now-retired tattoo
artist responsible for every tattoo Freeman has to date. “I can look at some of
the ones that have faded, the older ones, and remember where I was [in life]
when I did it.” Buntz retired and closed his tattoo shop in 1998, but still
breaks out the needle once a year for Brien’s birthday. “I won’t quit ‘til he
does,” he said. “It just wouldn’t feel right to me.”
“I
don’t think I’ll ever stop,” Freeman said. “I’d forget too much. These
[tattoos] remind me of so much. Not just what they are about, but the whole
year of my life. I remember the process. I remember having to choose. When I
look at them, I can remember what it was like to be 28 back then, or 33, or 52.
I think if I stopped getting the tattoos, I would lose that.”
Brien
Freeman is a storyteller. No one who knows him would doubt that. And, like all
great storytellers of any period in history, he had to make decisions about in
what medium he will present his stories and who his audience will be. Freeman
made that decision when he was 16 years old; he skin became the medium, and his
audience became himself. To date, I’m not sure anyone has chosen a more unique
method of storytelling or a more grateful listener.