Guilty Tits: A Commentary of Feminine Guilt and Shame

I remember when I developed boobs. Adolescent me requested big ones. Then I got them, and spent most of my childhood and young adult life wishing them away.

Most girls in my age group hated me and boys were atrocious and gross.

In the 6th grade my best friends boyfriend thought it was hilarious to grab, pinch, and twist my boobs at a movie night once, every time my friend would leave the room or turn her back. Sneaky bastard. There I sat, minding my own business, the shy third wheel and BAM: tity twister. Like the talons of a hawk digging into my breast tissue to steal my soul.

Talk about an awkward position. My best friend was immaturely possessive and her boyfriend was a little scum bag. I had to do something, but what? It hurt like hell and was really kind of insane when I look back. Out of sheer frustration, mammary pain, and the power of grey skull, I totally lost it and kicked his ass mid-twist, then had to explain why, honestly.

She got mad at me, and this hurt. It hurt worse than the actual bruises on my breasts that turned black, then purple, then yellow. It hurt because I hated him and she was my best friend, but I was the perpetrator because…

Well, because I had big boobs.

My big boobs made him do it.

My big boobs ruined their 6th grade romance.

My big boobs made me an enemy.

Is this really happening?

Is this a curse?

It felt like it.

I’m sure you can imagine the type of stigmas around large breasts, and I don’t mean to milk it — I no longer feel victim to this — but the 6th grade version of me did. So I did what all the other girls do during that hormone-induced phase and internalized it, along with so many other shitty projections about what made me a “good enough girl” and “acceptable” and “safe enough” for others to feel secure and blah blah blah.

I learned that girls with big boobs are villains, and the boys that like them only want one thing. I got the memo in bright florescent Lisa Frank design and slid it inside the cover of my three ring binder.

I took those projections and stored them deep in my mammary.

It took some years before I realized what this internalized narrative had done to my self-perception. In fact, Juliet Stevenson’s voice narrates: “A big-boobied outcast; a vigilante; placing one foot in front of the other on the railroad tracks at the outskirts of society. Misunderstood. Shameful. Guilty Tits.”

I smugly cackle at my melodramatic wit.

After some sorting and working through what is me and what is not me, I learned how I’ve been objectified, and also where I have objectified myself.

Oooph.

Slowly, the narrative changes, and this profoundly impacts the relationships in my life.

Funny how that works.

I no longer nurse this old wound, but the reality that ugly aspects of human nature will always exist remains unchanging.

Big boobs and self respect can live together. Obviously. In fact, the two combined with a dash of intelligence is kind of a weapon, and some will be threatened by it, but that doesn’t decrease its value nor its potency.

I wont feel guilty nor ashamed of having big boobs ever again, and per the great words of Karen Kilgariff, “I refuse to apologize for my tits or my entrance music.”

Sixth grade can suck it.