Even in creating this title—a play on ‘mummification’ and mammary glands, the latest Word program’s thesaurus failed to define the word mammary. Is that not troubling? As a woman in my fifties who ‘blossomed’ early, and later breastfed three children for a total of five years, breasts have been a topic of discussion all of my adult life—scratch that, all of my life. Yet in today’s complex world of ‘what do you identify as?’ somehow, the presence of female breasts appears to be relegated to the shameful category of pornography or a sinful topic at best. In my lifetime, as a society, how far have we actually come?
While I’m not suggesting that we go back to the days of cat-calling and wet t-shirt contests, nor imagining women in droves leisurely strolling topless in neighborhoods nationwide, I am advocating for normalizing the idea of women’s breasts in America. Women have them. They are important and unique. We should be proud of how that differentiates us from men, not shamed into concealing them at all costs, or forced to hide them unless it’s deemed pleasurable to the opposite sex.
Young boys and girls of my generation, the topical Gen X crowd, in my opinion equally thought of breasts from an early age. After all, they were elusive and whispered about but never seen. We secretly called them boobs, bosoms, tatas, titties, fun bags, jugs, melons, mounds, mountains, peaks, and so on. Girls couldn’t wait to wear training bras, while boys wanted to just see what went into them. If you were lucky, someone’s brother or cousin attained access to a ‘dirty mag’ with full-blown color pictures of glorious breasts. The word spread from street corners to playground swing sets overnight. Gaggles of unsupervised kids would sporadically find the mythical secret club and for a quarter fee, be allowed to enter a makeshift fort to ogle the contraband for about a minute apiece.
As a desperate second action, there was always the ‘poor man’s Playboy’ known as National Geographic. You’d really have to search for it, but there seemed to be depicted on those glossy pages, in at least half of the monthly magazines delivered to an elder relative, at least one remote country’s tribal dance ritual. I studied the photos with the intensity of a Where’s Waldo? Gasping, coming up victorious when spotting topless dancers with elongated breasts sometimes flopping down past their navels. Often a child that appeared much older than allowed, suckled contentedly on a breast’s two-inch long dark nipple painfully stretched beyond its limits. I recall thinking, “Doesn’t that hurt? I’m never doing that!”
A sad, third-place try would be a trip to the local library (a place before Amazon, the internet, and Google, where you could borrow books for free!) and the Encyclopedia Brittanica to flip to the ‘human bodies’ section. There, tucked within the thick pages you could find a see-through section of plastic-painted vellum pages with colorful organs. The transparent background allowed you to examine each system individually and ‘build’ a human body with each sequential page. Start at the back and only the nervous system was present on a skeleton. Then flip to add the muscular system, the organs, then on to glands, and finally, voila! Wait, the page with the skin cover was usually missing. You get my point.
I remember as a bare-chested ten-year-old wandering the beach or lakeside with only shorts on, along with every other girl and boy, not understanding the snide comments. Decades ago, we were an unsophisticated lot. Socks and tissues were often added to bras before the invention of the push-up bra to appear grander. And what better way for the fellas to make a fun Halloween costume than to raid grandma’s dresser for a borrowed bra and shirt, stuff it to the max, and parade house to house wearing it and garish makeup and a wig?
Sadly, carefree days of wonderment ended when I ‘became a woman’ at twelve, which just meant I got my period. When made aware, my mother insisted I don my only nice dress and then whisked me out to a fancy dinner we most likely couldn’t afford, to celebrate. That’s the 80s for you. I grew breasts almost instantaneously. This was a problem, as I looked older and got a ton of negative attention from men of all ages. I started hunching over to hide my breasts, leading to a lifetime of poor posture and a host of back pain-related issues. All to avoid comments my young mind didn’t understand.
Early television watchers will recall one of America’s favorite actors, Tom Hanks, starring in the silly ABC sitcom Bosom Buddies. The show centered around two broke guys who finagled their way into living in an inexpensive women-only city apartment building by dressing like women, complete with ridiculous-looking fake ‘racks’ for effect. They weren’t alone. Every movie, even romcoms seemed to depict women’s breasts as something to attain for both men and women. We were taught early that to reveal breasts to the opposite sex was to offer love. To have access meant you had achieved something grand. Even A-list actresses of the 1980s were expected to expose breasts in almost embarrassingly awkward ways. And when they bucked the system, they were chastised for it. I recall the controversy of a Pretty Woman sex scene when it was announced later that Julia Roberts used a body double. How ridiculous is that, today?
Junior high and high schoolers were often interrogated when found to have rounded second base. Did you touch them? Did you let him touch them? Through the shirt, under the shirt, breast fat only, nipple only. Numerous distinctions qualified you, whether truthful or not, for a different category of success when it came to interactions with the elusive breast. No internet existed, so much of what we learned came from the local rumor mill, and boobs were big news. Learning that a classmate had accessed breasts went viral within hours, under stairwells and behind the bleachers where whispered gossiping spread the word.
This cultural obsession with breasts carried into adulthood. Wearing Daisy Dukes and a bikini top, wandering a southern beach brought on the catcalls of “Nice tits!” in my direction as frequently as seagull cries above. Most young women at that time took it as a compliment. The looks and comments were that common. It must seem appalling to today’s ‘enlightened’ generation. Lucky for me they are so inclusive. Otherwise, I might have to apologize for subjecting them to my triggering recollected experience. This was a time of mass wet t-shirt contests, objectifying women, and asses being pinched at will, and hardly a repercussion ever issued for excessive groping that was ever so unwanted. But those days are gone, right?
While female breast augmentation has become normalized, the viewing of female breasts as normal has all but disappeared. During my pregnancies and subsequent babies, my breasts were reduced to vessels. They were no longer the ‘fun bags’ of the past accentuated and adored. They were hidden, painful milk bladders existing only to nourish my child. Tainting those beautiful days of bonding with a level of shame I never anticipated.
The change in breastfeeding etiquette through the years is commendable, but twenty-something years ago the tolerance level in American culture needed work. Dozens of inconvenient feedings were spent uncomfortably balanced on a toilet seat, sequestered to a public restroom stall with a squirming infant on my lap because there was absolutely nowhere else acceptable to get the job done. It was awful. Baby crying, leaky breasts swollen balloons ready to burst, and everywhere the judging eyes let me know the poor job I was doing, shuffling awkwardly to the nearest restroom.
Feeding, even in a restaurant booth with a towel covering the offensive act, I would be subjected to looks of disgust from patrons and waiters alike. No longer is that the case. The number of breastfeeding stations now in place anywhere from amusement parks, sports venues, and malls to stadiums is a huge step in the right direction. Yet, even with the baby formula shortages during COVID-19 and increased educational efforts explaining the benefits of breastfeeding, concern for cultural norms factors high still for too many young mothers choosing not to breastfeed. Perhaps if they were exposed to more normalized views of breastfeeding, and female breasts, numbers would improve.
Not an easy task when social media forums are pushing in the opposite direction. For ten years and still, the sensational “Free the Nipple” campaign on Facebook and Instagram has incited controversy. Only recently did they obtain a solid victory. Famous actresses (The Guardian Jan 18, 2023) have lent their voices to instate a more uniform policy when it comes to male vs. female nipple exposure. It sounds silly. After all, how different do men’s and women’s nipples appear? To answer that question and get the attention of Facebook and its parent company Meta, women staged “nurse-ins” at Facebook headquarters, nursing babies in the public space in masses. The campaign also took form in “Go Topless Day” at beaches (Seacoastonline.com 2021) including a favorite of mine, Hampton Beach, NH to drum up support to desexualize the female breast.
I’m reminded of the 90s when as a newlywed stationed overseas in a place where topless bathing at the beach was the local norm, prudish American ways followed me there. At that time, my midwestern husband refused to ‘allow me’ to go topless, even though I felt like I drew more attention to myself being the oddball out. To be clear, there were no military coworkers around and I had no issues going topless. Today, as a single adult female, I still can’t go topless unless deemed acceptable by a set of rules I have yet to understand.
Iconic breasts are disappearing across America. Alert the press! Oh, I forgot the press isn’t really a thing anymore. But if you’re reading this essay, you may be interested in the whimsical early days of the Starbucks logo. The mermaid and her full, nipple-showing breasts were once front and center as she spread her flippers apart in a provocative way. It was thought-provoking and original so of course could not endure.
Much like my own breasts. Age has me closer to resembling the figures in National Geographic than the beach babes of the 80s and haven’t experienced anything as cringy as a “nice tits!” comment in years. That being said, what I do notice is strange behavior associated with breasts. Even women are confused. There’s the fun girlfriend who just ‘got hers done’ and will whip them out at will for her pals to admire and even touch to show how real they feel. But if out enjoying the nightlife and a man approaches and comments, she may take immediate offense and chastise the guy for backward thinking. I’m not excusing the behavior, just explaining it is beyond my realm of understanding.
Another area of negativity associated with breasts is breast cancer. It is a terrible disease. One that affects so many women and some men each year on a level that can’t be measured. Three of my friends have been dealt that blow. It can make one almost hateful towards female breasts, as friends and loved ones are stricken with disturbing regularity. Pink Ribbon campaigns should be commended for drawing so much attention to our breasts, yet the focus on the negative can cause even the perkiest boobs to shrink and hide at the thought of subjection to a medieval crank torture device known as a mammogram. Women of all ages are trained to look at breasts as troublesome. And as we age, we view them as ticking time bombs.
If they sag or are considered too small, implants, you’re told, are the way to go. But beware, implants could leak and make you sick, leading to a host of deficiently researched medical issues to contend with. If boobs are too heavy, the medical establishment is reluctant to list them as a cause of horrific back issues all while suggesting that you look into it ‘on your own’ and most definitely pay for it on your own.
My female children experienced being called out and punished more than once from 7th grade on for dress code violations specific to their attire. If the shirt they chose to wear was too sheer or fell in a way to show the strap of a bra. Young gymnasts have points deducted if their bra strap shows during a competitive routine. They have no choice but to wear bras because they have breasts. Other female athletes in sports like basketball and soccer seem to be finding new ways to minimize and detract from their breasts. Is it an expression of freedom or to distinguish themselves less from their male counterparts in order to be taken seriously?
There are instances in which I am disheartened to find intolerance hand in hand with the controversial breast. When a trans-woman is prevented from reading a book to children in a public library, is it due to the nature of the reading material or the material way she is dressed, showcasing the mere idea of breasts portrayed in an unauthorized way? Consider my mind boggled.
I have to wonder if those long-ago teens who stuffed grandma’s bra for their unimaginative Halloween hijinks are the same Bible-quoting legislators squeezing breasts into specific areas they deem acceptable. Playboy—check. Just a sports bra in public? No check. ‘attractive’ young woman braless with a sheer shirt? Check! Breastfeeding? No check. A middle-aged woman in a sundress with former fun bags flopping in the breeze—no check! And while the burning bras of the 70s that cracked the glass ceiling are reduced to ash buried alongside our hard-won rights and freedoms, breasts, even the saggy ones, will bounce on.
I feel for the ‘new’ Starbucks mermaid who stares out from the roadside sign appearing to me to silently mourn her lost nipples and breasts. There is but a wavy hint where they once proudly protruded. Perhaps the double mastectomy is a symptom of something even more toxic than breast cancer. Heavy are my breasts with the worry of what new ban will befall them in the coming years. Until then, I dream of a world where they are free to be without ridicule or shame whether contained or braless, pert, old, or sagging, any size, shape, or identified form, but still appreciated for their irreplaceable position held in not just a woman’s life, but in all our lives… If there are any updates, I’ll keep you abreast.
References:
Cronin, P. (2021). Every day is Go Topless Day in NH: Free the Nipple campaign returns to Hampton Beach. August 18th, 2021, Portsmouth Herald. Go Topless Day: Free the Nipple campaign returns to Hampton Beach NH (seacoastonline.com)
Demopoulos, A., (2023). Free the nipple: Facebook and Instagram told to overhaul ban on bare breasts. January 18th, 2023. The Guardian Free the nipple: Facebook and Instagram told to overhaul ban on bare breasts | Meta | The Guardian