A girl’s first bra and for that matter, anything having to do with such personal and private matters of a girl’s femininity, should be made special between the mom and the girl. It matters not what the event or issue is, the little girl in her growing years should have a relationship with the mom that is just between them in “girl things.” These developmental changes are not to be made fun of, used to be an embarrassment to the little girl, or to make the little girl feel ugly and dirty.
This morning, while preparing for my chiropractic visit, I began to dress. This event triggered a difficult and painful memory for Molly – her first bra. You see, in 1976 it was apparently getting time for Little Sherry to start wearing these awful things. The fullness was becoming obvious. My mother hadn’t taken care of that detail and it was mentioned to her while visiting someone she was friends with that day.
We remember that day, that experience, vividly. We were at Nellie Burpee’s house in Orland Maine. My step-father’s brother, wife, and cousins were there as well as my family less my step-father because he was working at the mill that day. Because Nellie and Aunt Edith mentioned to my mother my need for a bra and put much pressure on her to do so, she left and went to the Bucksport Main Street shopping strip.
At that time I don’t know what name the five and dime had but at times it was Trueworgy’s and at others it was the Ben Franklin. In 1976, I can’t remember.
Being that I’ve realized and learned that I was nothing but a paycheck for her, it makes sense the disgust she portrayed when she brought this nasty thing back to me. She came in the house, took this box out of the bag, and demanded I go to the bedroom at the end of the hall and put it on.
It wasn’t even pretty but just two foam triangles put together with bias, white, bias tape. There was nothing pretty about it or the events that took place that day. The picture above is prettier than what I was handed and IT is ugly. No lace, no beauty, no care…. Nothing. Pain.
I was instructed to come back and “show it off.” I couldn’t do the back and called out for help. She came and put my arms and hands behind my back and “showed” me how to clip it. I finished and went to grab my shirt.
“No, go show everyone” she said. I was mortified. My Uncle Wolfred, his sons who hurt us when we were 4, and Mr. Burpee were all in the living room. How could I go out there with this on and no shirt? I was so embarrassed.
What mother does this to her child?????? What person condones this kind of behavior? First, she buys the bra out of pressure and is angry about that, then she parades me in front of men who’ve hurt me and some who haven’t?
I never remember going back to Nellie’s house again. Once I did what I was told, I was allowed to put my shirt back on. I don’t remember the rest of that visit and as I said, I never remember going to visit Nellie again.
I remember the ladies talking in the kitchen but not what was said. Is it possible that Nellie and Aunt Edith chided her? I would hope so!
When we left there and went to pick up my step-father at the mill, we went home. I was to, once again, parade in front of him. Him who’d been hurting, molesting, and abusing all of us so badly. Him who’d continue to do terrible things to us in the coming years. How? Why??
What is the point of humiliating a young girl like this? What is the point of humiliating ANYONE like that? Nothing was pretty on me, nothing about me was pretty, I wasn’t worth pretty, and only worthy of humiliation, embarrassment, and deep, deep hurt. Why?? What had I done? What was it about me that deserved such treatment?
What would have been so bad about just a little bit of beauty such as the photo to the right? Couldn’t there be any privacy? What about a cherishing of that time for a girl? Something a mom would do with her little girl as a “rite of passage” if you will? Yes, this is a very painful memory of an event that took place 38 years ago when we were 9 years old. Why? What mother does this? Such agony for a child……
Such agony for me, now 47 years old, in remembering this event. Such pain and deep hurt. Tears.
thumbelina thinks 