and bra-snapping going on at school, as the boys learned this new trick and the girls feigned it annoyed them when really they were proud their new accessories were noticed. The only cheeks burning with shame there belonged to the girls with no bra straps to show.
“Okay,” I answered my dad, and like that, the topic was changed.
I hadn’t seen my mom much, even though she still lived in Anchorage. I wish I could go back in time and tell my twelve-year-old self to ask why the hell not. I instinctively knew not to. She picked me up the next day and drove me to a mall, and as she guided me through the maze of racks of strange-looking contraptions, I tried my best to hide the fact that I was absolutely dying inside. When she involved a store clerk in our mission, I almost lost all composure. I stood mutely and imagined myself running from the building into the street to let the cold air hit me. I hid my embarrassment and went into the dressing room to try a few on, while my mom and the clerk waited outside the thin curtain, mere inches away, for my verdict.
“Is the fit all right, honey?” the store clerk said.
“Yeah,” I answered meekly. I had no idea what a good fit was from a bad one.
“Let’s see,” my mom said. I stepped out to be examined. Four eyes focused directly on my nonexistent bosom, the cotton triangles of fabric so white the outline could be clearly seen through my shirt.
“Oh, that looks great, don’t you agree?” the clerk said.
“Is it comfortable, Jewel? You don’t want it to feel too tight.”
“It’s good,” I said shyly. “Let’s go home.”
In the car on the way back my mom talked about how my feminine issues were nothing like hers had been. Her mom was scared of talking about such things. One day Arva had flung open my mom’s bedroom door, thrown a sanitary belt and napkin into the room, and shut the door as quickly as it had been opened.
In reality my mom did not know how it happened for me. When womanhood arrived a few years later, she was gone, and I was alone in a house with some strangers she was staying with, and when I saw the blood, I wrapped my underwear in toilet paper, walked out the door, got a city bus to the grocery store, and stood dumbfounded in the feminine-products aisle. On the bus, I wrapped the package in as many bags as I could so that no one could see my dirty little secret. And when I lost my virginity a year after that, I would tell no one but my journal, and even there I could not bear to tell the truth. I rewrote and reimagined the whole thing—it was romantic, and the man thoughtful and kind. In reality he was much too old and drunk and he never called again and I was not ready as much as I felt like I just better get the whole thing over with. I had never been valued up to that time in my life by those closest to me, so how could I begin to value myself? It would take me years of learning to love and create safety for myself before that would ever be possible. I wish I could tell every young girl how special and valuable they are. I wish someone had told me.
All that was years away. That day I sat in the car, twisting my torso this way and that, experimenting with the strange new feeling around my chest, wondering if anyone at school would notice the next day, not sure which I dreaded more—boys noticing or not noticing.
I was a regular visitor at Diane’s house. Her mom liked me, and Diane and I often played after school, dressing up and listening to the radio,dancing for hours to songs like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” One day she and her mom had to leave for some errand, and for whatever reason they left me alone in the house. They told me to make myself at home. And boy, did I ever. It began with me trying on Diane’s necklace that was sitting on the bedside table. Black plastic beads made to look sort of like pearls. It was like a fever came over me. I wanted it. I put it in my pocket, thinking she would never miss it. Then I saw a
“Okay,” I answered my dad, and like that, the topic was changed.
I hadn’t seen my mom much, even though she still lived in Anchorage. I wish I could go back in time and tell my twelve-year-old self to ask why the hell not. I instinctively knew not to. She picked me up the next day and drove me to a mall, and as she guided me through the maze of racks of strange-looking contraptions, I tried my best to hide the fact that I was absolutely dying inside. When she involved a store clerk in our mission, I almost lost all composure. I stood mutely and imagined myself running from the building into the street to let the cold air hit me. I hid my embarrassment and went into the dressing room to try a few on, while my mom and the clerk waited outside the thin curtain, mere inches away, for my verdict.
“Is the fit all right, honey?” the store clerk said.
“Yeah,” I answered meekly. I had no idea what a good fit was from a bad one.
“Let’s see,” my mom said. I stepped out to be examined. Four eyes focused directly on my nonexistent bosom, the cotton triangles of fabric so white the outline could be clearly seen through my shirt.
“Oh, that looks great, don’t you agree?” the clerk said.
“Is it comfortable, Jewel? You don’t want it to feel too tight.”
“It’s good,” I said shyly. “Let’s go home.”
In the car on the way back my mom talked about how my feminine issues were nothing like hers had been. Her mom was scared of talking about such things. One day Arva had flung open my mom’s bedroom door, thrown a sanitary belt and napkin into the room, and shut the door as quickly as it had been opened.
In reality my mom did not know how it happened for me. When womanhood arrived a few years later, she was gone, and I was alone in a house with some strangers she was staying with, and when I saw the blood, I wrapped my underwear in toilet paper, walked out the door, got a city bus to the grocery store, and stood dumbfounded in the feminine-products aisle. On the bus, I wrapped the package in as many bags as I could so that no one could see my dirty little secret. And when I lost my virginity a year after that, I would tell no one but my journal, and even there I could not bear to tell the truth. I rewrote and reimagined the whole thing—it was romantic, and the man thoughtful and kind. In reality he was much too old and drunk and he never called again and I was not ready as much as I felt like I just better get the whole thing over with. I had never been valued up to that time in my life by those closest to me, so how could I begin to value myself? It would take me years of learning to love and create safety for myself before that would ever be possible. I wish I could tell every young girl how special and valuable they are. I wish someone had told me.
All that was years away. That day I sat in the car, twisting my torso this way and that, experimenting with the strange new feeling around my chest, wondering if anyone at school would notice the next day, not sure which I dreaded more—boys noticing or not noticing.
I was a regular visitor at Diane’s house. Her mom liked me, and Diane and I often played after school, dressing up and listening to the radio,dancing for hours to songs like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” One day she and her mom had to leave for some errand, and for whatever reason they left me alone in the house. They told me to make myself at home. And boy, did I ever. It began with me trying on Diane’s necklace that was sitting on the bedside table. Black plastic beads made to look sort of like pearls. It was like a fever came over me. I wanted it. I put it in my pocket, thinking she would never miss it. Then I saw a
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