When my younger brother was very small he pointed at a framed photo hanging in my father's home office and declared "Mommy"! Only it wasn't our mother. It was a nude Marilyn Monroe in all her well endowed glory. It hung there for many years unapologetically setting the bar for my sister and I and I suppose my brother. That it seems wholly inappropriate in hindsight to display such a photo with all the respectability the title "pin-up girl" could offer before the eyes of young children is an understatement. The subtlety with which that photo embedded our forming views of what standard was acceptable to attract the affections of the opposite sex was very effective. To be fair, my father was not alone. Post World War II movies often depicted the scantily clad pin-up girls as a sailor's reminder of what he was fighting for. My role was cast. I only had to grow into it.
I was twelve when my mother purchased my first "training" bra and though it was unclear to me what was being trained, my girlfriends and I faithfully practiced a bust developing exercise to the chant: "We must, we must, we must improve our bust. 'Tis better, 'tis better, 'tis better for the sweater." Some girls resorted to stuffing their bras with socks but I resisted this trend after observing with horror a sock escaping its restraint and poking its way out of my friend's blouse. I would let nature take its course and throw in a few extra chants for good measure.
My posture improved dramatically over the next few years as I thrust my chest out in an effort to draw attention and admiration for my developing form. And I was not without success. Cat whistles confirmed I was growing into the young women my father could be proud of. To be fair, I don't believe this was ever my father's thought but it was definitely the unintentional effect.
It was too late for me by the time "Twiggy" reached cover girl status. The popular "skinny" model didn't fool me. I knew what boys liked so it came as no surprise when Twiggy was replaced by the likes of Raquel Welch, whose poster now adorned my brother's room with my father's snickering approval. Try as they might, the feminists had failed to stuff Marilyn back into Pandora's Box. That her life ended in misery from all the wrong attention was unsurprising. If the bra burning 70’s were supposed to make some statement of liberation, I was lost on me.
At the age of 18, my first breast lump appeared and I was hospitalized at Stanford, a teaching hospital, for a biopsy. Imagine my horror when a group of gawking med students came into my room to "observe my condition". With attention I hadn't bargained for my breasts were now the source of clinical curiosity. I escaped the experience intact with only slightly bruised dignity.
Breasts took on a new purpose with children. New to me that is. That I was equipped to nurture my babies providing their sole sustenance was a marvel to me. It was both humbling and empowering to be their source of survival. The days I held my children to my breast are the most precious of memories.
I never achieved "Marilyn" standards for which I am not unhappy. At this later stage of life the fascination is lost on me. I tried to present a different standard for my children although the battle is largely cultural. It always was I guess but I can attest to the role a father plays with sons and especially daughters in setting beauty standards. My mother recited "pretty is as pretty does" throughout my childhood but my father’s open admiration of Marilyn's unwittingly spoke a thousand words.
Now I face their removal, the "girls" are going away. The big scary word ‘Mastectomy’ that once struck horror in my soul is now an imminent fact on my horizon. I find myself grateful they are not the major part of my identity they once seemed, that this is taking place now instead of twenty or thirty years ago and that I didn’t miss the baby bonding pleasure. But most of all, I am grateful to have a husband who bravely faces this with me as it will be his loss also. They will be replaced by perky imposters; I've permitted myself this vanity. It will be my effort to feel normal again and to one day put this all behind me.
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