When I was in 8th grade, I prayed for three things, that my hair would grow, my tooth would grow, and my boobs would grow. We love growth. After a failed Jheri curl (JUDGE YOUR MOTHER), a conversation among my teeth, where they finally decided to make room for my final adult tooth, the universe granted me two out of the three.
In high school, I was surrounded by girls whose eyes, hair and bodies were not like mine, and the more different those characteristics looked from mine, the more beautiful they were viewed as. In German class, there was a guy named Brandon. Any displeasure Brandon had with me, for whatever stupid reasons a stupid person has, were always manifested in reminding me that I was flat-chested. Even though I had an A (grade, not just cup), and Brandon was terrible at German, he was still obviously one of the greatest thinkers of our time, because where would I have been without the knowledge he gave me?
My mirrors may have been broken, but Brandon sure as hell didn’t hesitate to fix his lips to remind me of things I was clearly unaware of.
I was barely 18 years old when I was asked by a slightly older male college student, “If someone paid to get your breasts done, would you?” At more than twice that age, my breasts are still the topic of conversation, and more importantly, how I’m going to fix what others see as broken, or what interesting conclusions people draw just because of how small my breasts are.
I often make jokes about my breasts. I like humor, and self-deprecating humor is usually what comes out of that. I also joke about my cankles, I am okay with both. Would I mind slightly larger breasts and slightly less swollen ankles? Surely, but I am happier with my body than I am not. I am an A cup. I do not love my breasts, for a few very specific reasons, but I surely do not hate them; I appreciate that they have remained on the same latitudinal coordinates my entire adulthood. And while I’ve never had a hard time fitting tops, that doesn’t mean those tops always fit me. Sometimes, shopping can be disappointing enough not to want to bother. As far as my body as a whole, I’m shaped like a centaur, and really appreciate my other assets enough to be grateful and realize genetics still looked out for me.
So, you can’t win them all, and I don’t intend to.
I don’t intend on pleasing everyone, because everyone doesn’t please me, but somehow, me showing up in the world and ‘forgetting my breasts,’ inevitably results in interesting interactions. If I make a joke about them on social media, it is usually followed by at least one person thinking I need their pity, “your breasts aren’t that small.”
They very much are, I see them every day, I would know.
“All you need is a mouthful,” I never said it kept me from getting dick, I just said they were small. Walking around in a hoodie and sweats has resulted in me being misgendered several times. Hell, I was in Michael’s, holding a purse, and the cashier said, “I can help you, sir.” When I told her I was a woman, she began to stammer in confusion, GIRL, THIS IS A CRAFT STORE, MOST OF THE TIME THE ONLY NIGGA IN HERE IS MICHAEL! When I’m dressed ‘girly,’ and possibly braless, I have been asked if I were, or assumed to be trans; neither usually bothers me, other than worrying about my safety. Still, every once in a while, my brain lets me care that people I don’t even know don’t see me as feminine enough, even when I’m dressed up. Also, I just think, where is the logic in that? If I were one of the gurls, as they say, don’t you think I would’ve gotten a better rack?!
Speaking of not being feminine enough, you would not believe the amount of people who assume that I am bisexual. Admittedly, I will fake flirt with a pretty lady on the internet, am a pretty vocal ally, publicly obsess over Rihanna and publicly obsess over my best friend, whom I call my “hersband” online, I’ve actually never been romantically or sexually linked to a woman—but they’re like cute though. However, even without seeing my online antics, I have had people openly and blatantly assume my sexuality, and I know much of that is based on my breast size.
I know what you’re thinking, but it is absolutely true.
Since the beginning of time, and the dawn of the beer commercial, breasts have been associated with femininity. The bigger the better (this is where I don’t come in), and even though lesbians very much exist, femininity, especially the parts of it associated with appearance, has always been associated with an attraction to masculinity. A prime example of this is when more masculine-presenting lesbians bind their breasts. I stand 5’9 and a half with an athletic build and small breasts, so how feminine the world sees me is much more reliant on what I wear, versus someone who is more curvaceous. My best friend, though she’s had them reduced, was once a triple G. Yes, enough Gs for a whole other breast. We have both been in these streets in hoodies, and no one ever misgenders her or randomly and incorrectly assumes her sexuality.
“I bet you got hoes huh?” he blurted out. I respond, “Yeah, I mean I guess.”
I had but no hoes— just the one, and his remnants were still fresh on my flesh—as I stood in the seafood line at Publix, chatting with a guy I had met one time previously. I already thought it was a strange and incredibly irrelevant and kind of inappropriate question for someone I had to even remember where I knew him from. As if the first question wasn’t enough, “I bet you got both!” I pause in a state of confusion for a few seconds. Wait, did he just flat out asksumme (I just made that up), whether I was bisexual? Now, if I had asked him that same question, I don’t think he would’ve handled it as peacefully as I did. I was wearing a black hoodie, an ex’s skinny sweat pants and some pastel pink, purple and blue Crocs. I was not wearing a rainbow flag, or a quippy shirt about being attracted to both sexes, but still hating that I was attracted to men. I love a good pair of sweatpants, I love a good hoodie, but without having larger breasts to take up much of the space, it leads people to conclusions. He is not the only person who has assumed that I was a lesbian or bisexual simply because I prefer to be comfortable and don’t like being cold.
Hell, a friend and I joke about her parents assuming my sexuality or wishing I would dress up more, and if you remember what I stated earlier about dressing ‘girlier,’ that leads people to draw other erroneous conclusions.
Every day, the world wants you to show up being palatable for its eye.
Some days, I wear a padded bra and play along, some days I prefer my comfort over comforting strangers, and relieving them of their self-appointed duty to put me in a box. Funny looks are never meant to feel good to the receiver. Some days, I don’t feel them, and some days they sting. It still doesn’t match the discomfort of a bra that has been on way too long, because let’s be real, I do not need them; they are only supporting my hopes and dreams. Once, I went braless in a button-up top; have you ever had a breast cancer survivor ask you, “where are your breasts,” or even have a child ask you if you had breast cancer?
I have.
Sometimes when I tell people my experiences with having small breasts, just like the cued pity from my jokes, there is often a response of denying that my breasts influence how people view me, even down to denying that people have misgendered me because of their size. The denial is never cruelly dismissive, but friends will assume that because they know me, that people who don’t still won’t make assumptions. I have had to kindly remind them that my experience is not an opinion, and this is what I actually encounter from having small breasts. Just as I have to remind others that my breasts are small, not broken and getting them “done” would be assigning them as damaged.
I am not interested in donating thousands of dollars to someone’s Ferrari fund in order to please others, and potentially harm myself. There is nothing wrong with them; someone has to have the smaller breasts, someone has to have the larger breasts and my fun-sized fun bags are dutifully playing their part.
About 10 years ago, I saw Brandon from high school, while I was out with my mom, he had bigger breasts than I do….*hums in Alanis Morissette. *
