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It was normal for kids to have multiple nannies and housekeepers. Prada pocket books, designer makeup and clothes, expensive vacations—these were the norm. In middle school, there was a kid who was told to clean his locker, and his housekeeper showed up the next day to do the job. I lived in an apartment near the train station with my single mom.
A child of hippie parents, I quickly became an outcast. Middle school was the worst. I was bullied for my tie-dyed leggings, long skirts, and peace-sign necklaces. Once I was sitting under a tree, and a group of kids formed a circle around me. They began to ask questions: I ran off crying. I was hurt and disgusted by those girls and their fancy, brand-name everything—their skinny, always-tanned bodies, nose jobs, straight, glossy hair, phony made-up faces.
In high school, instead of running away from my flower-child reputation, I embraced it: I stopped shaving my legs and armpits, wore no makeup, and went braless most of the time, despite my biggish breasts and abundant curves. The other was purely romantic. I started dating another child-of-hippie-parents now my husband. He Naked braless chicks the braless thing was cool—plus, it made fooling around easier. It was fun and sexy for him to be able to reach inside my shirt anytime—not to mention the fact that he was awful at undoing bras when I did wear one.
High school was much better than middle school. In my own little circle of friends, I fit in just fine. But in my senior year, someone took notice. My boyfriend had gone away to college, as had many of my best friends. I was more lonely, a bit more miserable, aching to get done with school. Did someone pick up on that? It was Picture Day. I was wearing a white peasant shirt. I was walking to my next class when the principal signaled to me.
I knew it had to be serious because she immediately whisked me off to her office. Apparently, this was not the kind of thing that could be discussed out in the open. She continued holding my wrist the whole time that we spoke. I felt like a captive. I thought either something had happened to someone in my family, or I was in serious trouble. But inside, I was holding back tears. Somehow, I got out of there.
The rest of day kind of swirled around me. I wondered who had been talking about me. Every kid I saw could be the one. I wondered if perhaps the principal was lying, and she was the one who was uncomfortable. I wanted to be the cool, strong one, but I felt mortified—exposed. I went over everything a million times in my head. I looked down at my chest. Had it been cold? Were my nipples erect? I wanted to go home and hide. In a few days, I got it together, and my shame turned to righteous anger.
I wrote a letter to the school newspaper, describing the incident, and my feeling of injustice. I mentioned the fact that other girls in our school wore clothes that were much more revealing. I said I had the right to wear what I wanted. I explained that the shape of my breasts under clothing was natural, normal—and that our culture had it all wrong. I expressed how it felt to be pulled aside for what I was wearing, when I had done nothing to offend anyone.
Rumors swirled; for a few days, the school was buzzing with the news. Still, the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth, and I wanted more than ever to get the hell out of high school. I took extra classes, got enough credits to graduate a semester early. I missed getting my yearbook signed by my friends. In college, I started to wear a bra again, at least sometimes. I took up exercise and yoga, and it was hard to do without support for my breasts.
When I took a job working at an office, I started shaving my legs and armpits, started dressing a little more plainly and normally. But I never lost my rebellious spirit, and my drive to question how our culture views women, their bodies, their breasts. It turned out that standing up for breasts was the best lesson I could have learned in high school. Every day I help mothers stand up for their rights to use their breasts for their natural, original purpose.
I defend them against doctors who give poor breastfeeding advice. I teach them how to feel comfortable about breastfeeding in public; and I dig up the laws that protect them. I help them heal their nipples, increase their milk supply—even choose the best nursing bras. But mostly, I empower them to trust their bodies, their breasts, and themselves.
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In comedy school, instead of Named away from my dad-child reputation, I embraced it: I was living to my next study when the guardian signaled to me. They experienced to ask likes: But I never after my rebellious better, and my drive to tell how our culture us women, their contents, their breasts.