This essay was chosen last year as a finalist for the YWCA of the Greater Capital Region’s 8th Annual BraVa - a night of memoir about the place of bras in our lives.
During the summer of 1977, when I was almost 12 years old and headed into my first year of Junior High, I discovered lumps on my chest. I never said anything about them, thinking my mom would notice when we went school shopping and suggest buying a bra.
Clothes shopping was a ritual we practiced every year precisely one month before the start of school. It was an occasion I immensely disliked. I mean, I liked getting new clothes, but I hated trying them on in the store. What I hated even more was the pressure I felt to choose clothes my parents could afford, which would also make me look like I fit in. I was a geeky kid with a penchant for nerdy stuff, but I wanted to appear as if I belonged.
But Mom didn’t offer.
And I didn’t ask.
Intuitively, I sensed the subject made Mom uncomfortable. Also, I didn’t have the audacity to speak up for myself.
“Hey, Mom, you think you could buy me a bra?” wasn’t a question I felt I could ask.
What would I do if she said I didn’t need one? I’d feel humiliated and still have no bra. So, I said nothing.
I was also afraid that asking for a bra would come with a conversation about periods, which we hadn’t discussed yet and I didn’t particularly want.
When I arrived at school in September, I tried to conceal my growth with shirts that didn’t allow my continually developing chest to show through. I became increasingly uncomfortable, feeling like I was naked. I crossed my arms a lot. I hated gym class. My bra-lessness made me feel like I didn’t belong as I noticed how all the other girls seemed to have bras, and I didn’t.
Then, I auditioned for the school play. As a 7th grader, I was ecstatic to win the comedic role of Ms. Preen, the nurse in The Man Who Came to Dinner. The part required a white traditional nurse’s uniform and cap. My enthusiasm for the role almost came to a halt, however, a few weeks before the dress rehearsal when I had to try on the costume. As I observed my reflection in the dressing room mirror, I was horrified at what I saw: my breasts beamed through the white material like the eyes of an owl. What was I going to do? There was no way I could go on stage like that. I broke out in a sweat and thought about quitting.
Should I ask Mom to buy me a bra?
I felt she should know I needed one.
But I didn’t ask.
And she didn’t offer.
Someone upstairs must have been watching out for me because what happened next felt like divine intervention.
Mom was given a giant bag of hand-me-downs by a friend with a daughter a few years older than me. I loved hand-me-downs because they took the pressure off choosing clothes, so I eagerly tried every item. Finally, when I reached the bottom of the green trash bag, I saw a flash of white - like two powder puffs. Could it be? Yes! Sitting at the bottom of the bag were two modest, slightly padded bras trimmed with a little flower in the center. Immediately, I tried them on. They fit perfectly. I tried a white blouse on. Nothing beamed through. The garment gave me a flattering form instead of what previously looked like two lumps of cookie dough. Formerly bra-less, I was now in possession of two.
I hid them in the top drawer of my dresser, beneath my underwear, like contraband. I didn’t want Mom to know I had them, but I wore them every day, and when they had to go in the wash, of course, she found out.
But she didn’t ask.
And I didn’t offer.
On the play's opening night, I donned my nurse’s costume with the confidence of a Broadway star.
When I gave my bow to the crowd's applause, I beamed.
I truly felt like I fit in. I belonged.
Christmas came three weeks after the play, and on Christmas morning, I found a neatly wrapped rectangular box under the tree from “Santa." I hadn’t asked, but I had a hunch what it contained.
Inside, underneath the tissue paper, two lacy white brand-new bras were offered.
Do you have a bra story?
Thanks for this, Doreen, it brought back memories. Being a boy growing up in the fifties my unmentionable garment was a jock strap. I was boxing under the direction of a coach at the YMCA. All the other boys were wearing them. I was afraid to ask. No one in my family ever talked about anything private. I just wore my tighty whities under my boxing shorts. Knowing that I wasn't properly attired, I tried to hide the fact. One day, the coach came into the locker room before class with a brown paper bag. Seeing that we were mostly dressed, gave the order to run the stairs before heading to the gym. As my classmates streamed out, he held me back and handed me the bag, saying, "Put this on." Inside was an "athletic supporter."
Bra-va! What a great piece!
I HATED bras, I still do. But I have some melons and really need to reign them in. I did sports bras for a very long time because I thought they were comfiest. Then in my dating years I got "sexy" bras that made me so uncomfortable.
Now I'm wearing bralettes, the best of sports bras and no bras lol