Remembering how I came to get my first bra…
Standing naked in the shower after gym class, there’s no hiding the fact that I am breast-less. With all eyes on me, I’m certain everyone is laughing at my flat chest. I stare at my nipples. All I have are these little nipples. No bumps or swelling where the breasts are supposed to be. Why can’t I have boobs like Betty’s? I’d even settle for smaller ones like Patsy’s.
Later that Tuesday in the courtyard after lunch, Betty yells at me, “Hey Susie, why don’t you have any boobs?” She asks me that question in front of about fifty million girls. My hands clench into fists. I run to the restroom. Rocking back and forth, alone in a stall, I hear my best friend, Karen, rushing in, no doubt, with the sweet intention of comforting me. I scream at her to leave me alone. What does she know? She has breasts. Maybe they aren’t as big as Betty’s, but they are respectable. Covering my face with my hands I pray, Oh dear God! Swell my breasts. Please?
It isn’t until five days later, right after church, that I muster the courage to ask Mom to take me shopping for a bra. “Really?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom! Please?”
“Sure honey. How about next Saturday?” Her quick response and knowing smile assure me she understands.
I’m counting the days. Little else seeps into my head during the week. Hurry Saturday! Blessed Saturday! It’s similar to, maybe better than, waiting for Christmas morning.
And then the unthinkable happens on Thursday: Richard sits down next to me as I begin unpacking my lunch. I don’t particularly like him, but he’s one of the cool guys and it feels good to know he wants to eat lunch with me. Karen is absent today. I think she has the Asiatic Flu; it’s going around. So it’s just Richard and me.
I grab the apple from my small, brown bag, but I put it aside because I’m saving it to eat after I finish the half sandwich Mom packed. Oh, yum. Baloney and cheese with lettuce. The lettuce is tinged with brown around the edges, but it’s fine with me. Warmed by the morning San Diego sun, Richard and I talk easily between bites, which surprises me a little. Things are going well when just as I’m finishing my sandwich, Richard drops this bomb: “Now I know why you’re so flat-chested, Susie,” he says matter-of-factly, “You only eat half a sandwich.”
What? No! No! No! He did not just say that to me. My body collapses in on itself. Making matters worse, I imagine that the whole world has heard this zinger.
One of the cool guys has just broken my 7th grade heart with his words. All the color leaves my face. I break eye contact with him. My silence is louder than anything I could say. Richard, obviously uncomfortable, waves to a friend, tells me he’ll see me later, and goes off to join the noisy group of boys moving together like a school of sharks. Clutching my flat chest, I can hardly breathe. Fine! Go on, you creep. I vow never to speak to him again.
After what seems like forever, the sting from his words begins to diminish. I inhale deeply and refocus my thoughts onto the shopping trip. Saturday can’t come soon enough.
When the big day arrives I awake earlier than usual. I’m not sure what I expect from getting this sacred garment—a bra—but I am convinced there is magic involved. On that Saturday, in the store’s lingerie department, I move in close to the long rows of padded bras. Because I am afraid to touch them, I plant my feet and stare. Images of what could be swirl in my head.
From the corner of my eye I see Mom shaking her head. I know what she is thinking. Susie, it would be as if one day you were as flat as a pancake, and the next day you were as voluptuous as Sophia Loren. Of course. If she buys me the padded bras I’ll have to begin a new school on Monday.
The bras Mom and I finally pick out are all white, in soft cotton, with just a tiny touch of lace on the upper portion of each cup. Well, cup is the official word. My first bra cups, however, resemble something more like teaspoons. In fact, unofficially these little garments are referred to as training bras. So it is with a new, bright outlook that I whisper to my chest, “Guess you girls are my breasts in training.”
In the end, Mom and I settle on three bras—all size 28 triple A. And while bras may not come any smaller, the one I’m wearing provides a huge supply of much needed self-confidence. Shoulders back, head held high, chest proud; I am glowing from the inside-out, as I enter the holy rite of passage into womanhood.
