Torpedos (2023)
I was in 4th grade when my mom bought me my first training bra. I remember this because during the summer preceding, me and my younger sister, Emma, had tennis lessons, and she pointed out that I had buds. Later on she described them as torpedos. This was the first time I’d ever felt an inkling of insecurity in my body. The idea that someone could be looking at me, looking at my chest, or any other part of my body was terrifying to me. My sister wasn’t being malicious when she told me, rather, she giggled and just stated it as a matter of fact. Which it was. I had buds and that was a fact. I hated them. I hated them so much that when I was alone, I would press my hands so hard into my buds, hoping this would stop them from growing. If you’ve ever grown buds, you know they’re extremely sensitive — so I bruised them, and as the story goes, the buds never went away: they only grew. It was with great disdain that I had buds; they made it very clear that I wasn’t going to be a kid for much longer. It was a weird change that I could not come to terms with. Was I still allowed to play homeless-in-the-woods with my sister and our friends, even though I had to wear a training bra? Could I even have the capacity to have an imagination as the distraction of my changing body soon overtook my every thought?
Towards the end of the summer, my mom took me to Target to buy a training bra. TV shows and movies always showed a girl buying her first bra as this beautiful, miraculous new chapter in her life. Even the weird 90s puberty videos they showed us in school always had an uplifting tone to them; but I watched in horror. It was Sunday when she bought me the training bra. We’d left church and did our after-church errands which included grocery shopping and Target. In Target, she took me to the underwear and bra aisle. The overwhelming assortment of bras hanging one-by-one on a wall made me nauseous. I know what you’re thinking: pretty much everything in existence makes you nauseous in some way, how is this unusual for you? In this moment, I distinctly remember feeling ill. My mom showed me the options and I quickly glanced and pointed at one, trying not to make eye contact with it for too long, and she told me to go try it on. In the dressing room, my mom sat on the little seat while I looked in the mirror: the fluorescent lights, the red door and the white walls made me feel like I was in a circus. I was a clown adorned with two torpedoes protruding out of me that looked pinned on and I so badly just wanted to pull them off. I told my mom to turn away and I quickly pulled my shirt off and then yanked the bra over my head. “Okay it’s on. You can look now.” She turned back and looked at me, and asked me how it felt. “Not good.” “Well you’ll get used to it.” And so that was that on that.
The next day was Monday and I mustered up enough confidence to wear the training bra to school. I will say, the bra covered up the buds which I did like, but you could still see a growth in my chest area, which terrified me. Not to mention the line indentations of the bra could be seen through my tee shirt, and after my sisters’ comment, I became hyper-aware of the concept that anyone, at any moment, could be looking at me. I kept tugging at the straps on my shoulders, as they were creeping in past the neckline of my shirt and showing themselves in plain daylight. I didn’t want anyone to see them. I didn’t want anyone to know I was wearing a bra. But they knew. One boy in particular saw. His name was (and this is a name I’ll never understand) Chatfield. Chatfield was known for always pursuing a girl and convincing them to meet him underneath the slide on the playground. He always looked like a bushbaby to me. Maybe it’s not nice to say that, but facts are facts. We were in class when I saw Chatfield look at me, my shoulders, and my chest. He giggled and told the kid sitting next to him what he saw. I’ll never forget it. I left to go to the bathroom and to try to compose myself, when I came back, he was still staring at me. During recess, his friends were telling my friends that Chatfield wanted to see me. I never went.
I still don’t like bras. They’re never not uncomfortable. The underwire digs into my ribs and the sweat from my underarms rubs with the mesh and gives me a rash. I mostly wear baggie t-shirts. Anything tighter on my body means I’ll spend most of the day with my arms crossed. Maybe one day I’ll overcome this fight with the insecurity in my body, but for now, I’ll thank the torpedoes and Chatfield for being that lasting touch to make me so uncomfortable with the shape of my chest and the way I feel in my body.