The Breast Chronicles: 7th Grade

7th Grade

Middle school is generally the most awkward and uncomfortable three years of any person's life; some seem to fly by untouched as if they were eternally cool, while others can do nothing but cringe when reminiscing about the braces, the bad hair, and the mental turmoil. The body is changing and things start uncontrollably happening that are more than embarrassing for everyone involved. Young girls and boys start to have sexual feelings and often times, no one is there to explain to them about the emotions they may be experiencing. I would like to think I was an eternally cool middle schooler, but the truth is, the inner turmoil makes me an eternal 'cringer'.

I remember the first time I let a boy ‘go up my shirt’. For those who don’t know what that means, in ‘generation-Y terms’, it’s when you let a boy reach is hand up your shirt and feel your breasts (to be blunt).

His name was Adam T. Adam was the ‘new guy’ at school and need I mention absolutely gorgeous. Adam was an all-star athlete and one of the few boys in middle school who was taller than I. From the moment I met him it turned into one of the worst type of crushes; the all-consuming, stomach knotting, distract a girl from english, math, science, family, sports, church, and everything else possible- type. Adam and I had been ‘going out’ for about two months and we were ‘definitely’ in love. In fact, if one were to take a stroll through my childhood neighborhood, there in the driveway of a neighbor would you witness our initials etched forever in the concrete.

It was Christmas time. Adam and I were hanging out at his house because his room was in the basement, and that was cool. That is where it all happened.

I was wearing a yellow velvet bra, one of the first bra’s I ever wore with the intention of someone else seeing it (which is an odd memory considering I now have been purposefully choosing lingerie for quite some time, and to what purpose I ask? Men are impervious to lingerie). Afterwards I never wore that bra again. For a while I felt like a slut. Like every good part of me was suddenly erroneous, leaving me with no identity but the girl who let a boy touch her breasts.

I soon realized I wasn’t the only girl in my clique to have let a guy go up her shirt. At this time, the public was becoming more and more aware of the hyper sexualized actions of middle-school aged girls and boys in my area, yet nothing was being done to pro-actively counter or help to diminish the number of poor life choices made by middle schoolers (we make enough of them in college and our early 20's...do we have to start in middle school?!?!?!).

I think that was the first time I felt real and painful disconnect with my breasts, and with my body. They became a body part marked by agony and disgrace. I think of how much more sexually experienced some of my friends were and wonder about their relationships with their bodies. I wonder about what being so sexually active at such a young age does to a girl’s spirit, about how you are supposed to learn to have a loving and respectful relationship with your body when it becomes someone else’s, and about why exactly we never are taught to own our bodies.

From that moment on, my breasts became not a part of me, but just something that I had to live with. They were no longer mine, but rather they were for boys to look at, and me to try to hide. I’m not sure why they were feelings of disconnect and dis-ownership. They weren’t taught or demonstrated to me, yet I knew them very well. It is something to this day I struggle with. We want men to 'love' and 'idolize' our bodies, but to what cost? Instead it turns into primping, sculpting and toning to get 'his' approval. 'His' being a plural for all men. I believe I am a highly evolved feminist and have an intense self identity, however, even I fall into this slope. So I ask and actively seek ways to help women and girls not even start on this path.