This is a biography of my boobs as remembered by me. By society’s standards, the most important part of me, and so should go first as a matter of priority.
When I was in elementary school, I was the first person in my class to have to wear a bra. Up until that point, my general disposition was blend into the background like I don’t exist. That actually still would have been my preference, except now there were two stupid bumps sticking out of that background which were difficult for others not to notice. I hated them. I hated that they made me a focal point when I did nothing to encourage them to be there. I hated how sometimes I would feel the neckline on my shirt slide far enough down my shoulder that my bra strap would show. I mostly hated that no one else had to worry about this yet so I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. Paradoxically, I even hated it when one boy said I was “flat-chested,” when I was LITERALLY the only kid in the class who, in fact, was not flat chested. It was like being seen for your most obvious flaw, but then being told it wasn’t a part of you. I felt so conflicted about being offended by that taunt, because I would have given anything at that moment to be flat-chested. Mostly, I was lonely.
When I got to middle school, I mostly wore loose t-shirts, but I also wore smaller tops from the Limited Too because that was what all my friends were into. I wasn’t into anything fashion related, so I would just buy the same shirts they did, but they looked different on me. I was a still relatively innocent sixth grade, but boys decided I knew what “hand jobs” or “blow jobs” were. Because I had boobs already, I guess my body was meant to be put to use. Upon finding out I didn’t know, they would whisper the definitions to me in the middle of science class. I wouldn’t tell anyone else this information because my friends would be scandalized. I still felt very lonely.
By the end of middle school, other girls had boobs too, to my desperate relief. But mine were still something different than most of them. I couldn’t buy cute little bras. Mine were more like real mom bras with thick straps and stiff wires. By this point I had seen other boobs somewhere or another and knew that mine were incorrect. I fretted about the size of nipples, thinking they were going overtake my entire body. Again, I never told anyone about these fears because my friends all had “normal” boobs and, presumably, cute little nipples.
In high school, I knew I should be proud of my boobs. They were something to be desired, something that got attention. Like the time a boy romantically yelled out “BIG FUCKING TITTIES” at me from across the school parking lot. Or the time I was hot and took off my sweatshirt and a boy in my theater class said “Oh yeah, I forgot *Aninamous* has huge boobs.” And then three other boys turned to look at them, and one said “she should go outside” because it was raining that day and my shirt was white.
I tried to play it cool, but I still hated them. I was so, so ashamed of them. I hated when anyone looked at them and the rest of me disappeared.
One day near the end of high school, I mumbled something in a class about being cold and the teacher said loudly to me “maybe you should cover your chest, if you know what I mean.” I was wearing a v-neck t-shirt, but all she was seeing was cleavage I guess. It drew attention to me. To them. Again. And I froze, because I didn’t know how to respond. I rarely talked in class, so I didn’t have a relationship with any of my teachers. This was probably the first thing she’d ever said directly me to me and I was completely taken aback. I sat through the rest of class feeling ashamed and alone and holding back tears.
By college, I had more or less figured out how to minimize my boob display and keep them tucked away for special occasions. Plus there were a lot more people with boobs even bigger than mine, some that really were proud of them, who felt no shame in accentuating them. I was happy to cede all the gazes to them so I could vanish directly into the ground.
At my first post-college job, I worked with men in higher level positions who would talk directly to my chest. And not just mine, but all the young women who worked there. I only made it there for a few months before quitting.
After that, I tried to just ignore my boobs for years, doing my best to hide them away. And then I had a baby. And my boobs became a tool to keep another human alive. This is a precious, miraculous thing that our bodies are able to do. But it also hurts. Constantly. I pumped milk in little closets at work. I pumped milk in my car driving to meetings. And then the daycare providers told me it wasn’t enough. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I pumped and nursed and pumped and that was my life for 6 months after each of my babies were born. As much as it hurt, I can say, that moment when your milk lets down and really starts to flow is one of the best feelings in the world. It must release some powerful drugs in your brain, because sometimes I still crave that feeling even though I remember all the mastitis and cracked nipples.
Now my boobs are used up has-beens. I can appreciate what they’ve done for me, but I wish I could hide them away. I find them distracting and annoying and a lot to carry around. And every 28 days or so they ache annoyingly. Still, I’m trying to do better at loving my body for what it does, not what’s expected of it by other people. Radical kindness, even to my boobs I guess.
Masked Misfit 