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It happens when you are ten or eleven or twelve.
Your mother drags you into the underwear department at JC Penny’s or
Sears and asks you to choose between the two styles of training bra.
You stand there gazing at the yellow rectangular boxes with a Marcia
Brady-looking teen model on the front and try to choose between the
white bra with tiny blue flowers all over, and the satiny beige one
with a bow in the center and wonder why, suddenly, you need a bra.
You glance down and are sure that nothing has changed since
yesterday, you haven’t sprouted overnight like a rose or mold on a
tomato, yet standing there in the fluorescent light, you are quickly
growing obscene in your thin, red and white baseball jersey. You
want to scream and vanish in a puff of prepubescent smoke, but
instead you grab the box that holds the neutral beige bra, thinking
it will blend with your skin and you might be able to ignore it. On
the bus, on the way home, you press the brown bag with the bra tight
against your chest because you now feel exposed, because you notice
how the bus driver’s eyes, reflected in the rearview mirror, shift
towards you.
Poem ©
Terri Carrion 2004-2005. All rights reserved. |
