I’m wearing a pointy bra, like Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and the women on the cover of old pulp fiction novels used to wear, not like Madonna in Truth or Dare. For as long as I could remember I wanted to wear a pointy bra, I couldn’t wait to grow breasts and own an arsenal of those dangerous things.
When I was a little girl growing up in the Dominican Republic I remember seeing my Aunt Alba wearing pointy bras. In the 70’s the Caribbean was still very much in the late 50’s when it came to women’s roles and how a ‘lady’ should dress; so Tia was always in stockings, tacones (high heels)and ‘foundation’ garments such as corsets-like girdles you’d see in old Sear Roebuck catalogues. Tia Alba was gorgeous, Rubenesque with a tiny waist and long straight black hair; looking every bit the Taina goddess she would’ve been way back before 1492.
Tia Alba was a seamstress and would make all of her and my fluffy girly dresses (I guess this is where my obsession with always dressing up began.) I was in complete awe of her, her straight hair; her old fashioned Singer® sewing machine with the big pedal that kept her working even during the infamous ‘apagones’ (blackouts) Santo Domingo was known for; and most importantly her pointy bras. She was a divorced mother of three which gave her license to be more sexual and seductive than her never-been-married-virginal younger sister; even though a lady was never sexual or seductive in those very repressed puritanical Caribbean times. She was the only person I knew that wore pointy bras and I was always amazed and how powerful and sharp her profile looked. I was too young to know who Marilyn or Jayne were, but I knew who Tia Alba was and I wanted to grow up and look, dress and read Vanidades (the Spanish version of Cosmo) just like her. I wanted THAT power even though I had no idea what that power was.
When I finally started to grow my own breasts, a boy in the 7th grade called me torpedo tits. He thought he was insulting me but it was the best compliment ever! I thought I had willed my breast to grow like that, like some crazy form of evolution so I wouldn’t need the actual point bra. As they grew rounder, I became obsessed with them and was always looking for the perfect bra. I no longer thought of Tia Alba and her pointy bras since I thought they went the way of the Dodo; and I wasn’t blessed with her ebony straight hair. Yet whenever I’d see old movies with the likes of Ann-Margret, Rita Moreno and Dorothy Dandridge I wished the point bra would resurrect or that my boobies had stayed torpedoed.
I’ve had wonderful relationships with bras throughout the years, bras that made me feel amazing and that turned many heads. On my 18th birthday I wore a blue and black corset to school with garters and stocking under a poka dot skirt and black gap t-shirt. I also cancelled my subscriptions to Teen and Seventeen and started reading Cosmopolitan; all steps towards being more Tia Alba-like and recreate what I thought were the effects of the pointy bras. I would sometimes wear bras a few sizes too small hence pushing my breast so far up under my chin I looked like I had the mumps.
When cancer caused my right breast to be amputated (the word ‘mastectomy’ doesn’t really communicate the severity, mourning, pain and finality of the procedure) my relationship with bras obviously changed. Finding the right bra is an issue for all women, so imagine what it must be like for someone like me with a reconstructed breast. Now I dream of being able to one day commission custom made bras, bras with two different cups sizes and different support for each breast.
I have found a few bras that make me look like the old ‘breast under the chin me’, but they don’t feel as comfortable so I don’t enjoy wearing them like I used to. Bras are now practical cotton, and lycra undergarments, something I need, like a bottle of Mr. Clean or light bulbs, not the sexy pieces of wearable art I hid under my sweatshirts or chose to display under a semi sheer top and always matched to my panties even if there wasn’t any chance of someone seeing them. They made me feel womanly and cancer robbed of some of that.
Then one night, in Syracuse NY after having performed my play about breast cancer at the university I asked where the nearest Wal-Mart was. I have a secret (ok it’s not a secret) fetish for Wal-Mart. As a New York City girl I don’t have Wal-Mart’s and I’m fascinated by the low, low prices, the extra wide aisles and the fact that I could go shopping there at 3am. My cart was filled with flannel sheets for my bed; a 500 count box of Q-Tips; a buy one get one free box of Herbal Essences hair color; $7.99 mascara that would cost $14.99 in NYC; a dish towel with a little monkey on it (I LOVE monkeys) and ten $4.00 knock off Hanky Panky® panties when I saw it…black, lace, extremely pointy and $12.99.
I stared at it for a long time, felt like just like Jeff Goldblum looked when he saw his first dinosaur. It was extremely padded and a work of art. Wow! Would my frankenboobie fit into it? Would I look and feel like I thought Tia Alba felt? Why couldn’t I find this bra four years ago?
I took a leap of faith and bought it, there were other colors but I didn’t know if it would, A) be a comfortable fit; and B) look good, Tia Alba good, so I only bought one. It sat in my drawer for a long time. I was so afraid of it. So afraid it wasn’t going to be all I thought it would be; after all, Tia Alba is now over weight and diabetic (the beautiful raven mane is still there, though) and I had to find the right outfit. I needed to look (or at least feel) like Marilyn, Ann-Margret, Jayne and the pulp fiction girls.
Finally I decided to take it for a test run, I wore a tight pencil skirt, stilettos and a boobielicious top. When I looked down and saw these grand Tetons leading the way into every room I stepped into all I could think of was the old Singer® sewing machine. I had just been recreated, reconstructed for $12.99. I loved seeing my profile’s reflection and feeling like I should be sitting at the counter of a pharmacy ordering a Coke Float waiting to be discovered by a talent agent with my stocking encased legs crossed.
I felt whole, I don’t know how else to explain it, but I felt whole. Losing a breast is devastating and no matter how much people tell me I look great, I sometimes feel less than the woman I know I am. Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t feel this way; that I overcame so much; that I’m fine and need to move on, because I know all of this. And saying that to someone who’s had a loss of ANY kind belittles how they feel and their personal experience. Besides you only say things like that to take the burden of having to worry about me off of yourselves, not to make me feel better. Feeling and knowing are two very different things, and we need to accept this sometimes. So please don’t read this as a pity party; don’t cry for me because you’ll never cry as much as I have for me and this, believe it or not, is a celebration of my womanhood. It took this pointy bra to give me the boost I need every now and then.
Every woman should have her ‘pointy bra’ whatever that may be. It may be a pair of shoes, or the right dress or a combination of all of the above to make her feel like the bombshell she knows she is but doesn’t always feel it.
Next time you see me you’ll know if I’m wearing the point bra. Not just for obvious reasons, but because you’ll hear it in my voice, you’ll see it in my walk, my fermones will be screaming it, and if you stare at them too long, they might poke your eyes out.