The Right Support
By Kelsi Folsom
@kelsifolsom
While most moms might be compelled to ask their child’s daycare teacher questions like, “How is Stella’s appetite?” or “Did Johnny keep his hands to himself during playtime today?” I go the cheekier route and straight up ask where I might be able to buy a bra on the five-square mile Caribbean island I am living on.
After a few months of adjusting to our new locale, I have dropped a few pounds postpartum and subsequently need a wardrobe refresh. However, finding a clothing store is not that simple. My daughter’s teacher points to a building across the street, a seemingly abandoned blue building with boarded up windows; a building I have noted with raised eyebrows on numerous prior occasions. “Really?” I say, understanding I will now have to magically arrive at the right time the shop owner is actually there. “We’re open unless we’re not” is how store hours work on an island as remote as Saba.
Although the gaping, spandex maternity bra dying under the aggressive, standstill September tropical humidity and sun sizzle provides a daily reminder of my needs, it takes weeks for me to finally risk a visit to this abandoned blue building with boarded up windows, which is apparently also the local Victoria’s Secret. With my husband in class five days a week, and the majority of the weekend hours spent cramming as much medical knowledge into his brain as humanly possible (and making just enough eye contact with me to remember we’re married), it is a small miracle that he is actually able to watch our three toddlers one Saturday afternoon so I can commence the bra shopping.
When it comes to things like personal needs, I have historically had a hard time drawing any attention to them. Around age ten, I desperately hoped that my mother could see my budding need for an extra layer between my shirts and my chest. I longed for her to leave a cute note on my pillow for me to find one afternoon after school inviting me out to a “mom and me” date to Walmart, or Target if we were feeling fancy. Maybe we’d swing through McDonald’s for a coming-of-age McFlurry on the way home, and my transition into womanhood would be fun and final. I’d already snuck into the pre-teen underwear aisle at Target, lingering at the pastel-colored contraptions that announced “Look out world, this girl is a woman.”
After weeks of not noticing, I fumbled my way into our kitchen for one of the biggest asks I would ever make.
“Ummm, Mom?” I squeaked.
“Mmmhhhmmm?” she replied, not looking up.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure, Honey, what’s on your mind?” She put down the coupons she had been clipping and followed my invitation to my bedroom. She sat on my bed because that is where all serious conversations happen, and I swallowed the sawdust my saliva had become.
“Well, I just wanted to ask you about, bras, uh, training bras.” I felt a little proud I remembered seeing these bras before, like boobs needed an intro course to bra-wearing, a trial period to see if it was indeed the next right thing. Mom couldn’t say no to that.
My mom nodded, eyes fully open now and fixed on mine.
“It’s just that, when I wear the white school blouses, you can sorta see … ” my cheeks started to burn, “like … you know, and I feel embarrassed.” My cheeks became as pink as my … well, you know.
“Oh, well, yes of course,” my mom stammered. An awkward pause dragged between us until, “Would you like to stop by Walmart after school tomorrow?”
(Okay so we are not feeling fancy. Noted.)
I stared at her, measuring my answer knowing full well that swinging by Walmart after school meant my two brothers would also be with us.
Gosh I wanted to puke.
But this was my big moment to advance among the girlhood ranks.
“Sure, yeah, that’d be great,” I mustered with conflicted excitement. What’s the worst that could happen?
The next day after school, we ran an impromptu errand to Walmart for my mom to pick up a few things, which I knew was code. She needed a few items for dinner; I needed a bra. Just thinking about it made me feel special. We walked into the store, brothers making a beeline for the Lego and Star Wars figurine aisle and me slinking away to the girls’ pajama section. Mom offered to come with me, but suddenly feeling very shy, I decided this was research I needed to do on my own. There would be no exiting the dressing rooms for the usual second opinion today. I had to figure out what I actually wanted.
I perused the racks of various sizes, shapes, and colors, forcing myself to ignore the junior bras with padding … those were for like, twelve-year-olds. I was barely inside double digits—I hadn’t earned padding yet.
I grabbed a few white cotton training bras, and a peach satin sports bra that felt magically soft. I didn’t know how many my mom would let me buy, but I figured two would be a logical place to start.
I wandered into the fitting rooms as nonchalantly as possible. I definitely wear bras, Key Lady, nothing to see here. These are not the droids you’re looking for. I breezed into the badly lit stall and slid the lock into place. I stared into the mirror, relishing the cusp of the transformation I was about to witness. I put the first bra on and turned this way and that in front of the mirror, standing a bit taller with the extra support.
I pulled the pink satin sports bra off, placed it in the “yes” pile, and grabbed one more classic white cotton bra with a tiny white bow sewn into the band between the cups … to grow into of course. I was far from needing cups, but this bra seemed so simple, elegant, and modest. Perfect for a ten-year-old girl.
Confident in my selections, I wandered back to where my mom and brothers were and casually dropped them into the cart as if they were a box of granola bars. My mom caught my eye and winked. I couldn’t stop smiling. The bras made me feel amazing, like a bonafide female. Regardless of the awkwardness, I was arriving, and that felt like something to be celebrated even if we weren’t doing victory dances in the aisles.
Because it was Wednesday, my parents had evening choir practice which meant my three siblings and I would be attending Teamkids, the children’s program at the church. With my newly found maturity, which I wasn’t quite comfortable with yet, I entered the room where we would play games before breaking off into gendered small groups. I wanted people to notice but to also have the decency not to say anything about it. That would be humiliating. But why? Why was becoming a woman humiliating?
One of my guy friend’s eyebrows shot to the roof as he noticed this little butterfly was sprouting new wings. “You’re wearing a bra!” he whispered in a clipped panic. He sounded horrified and a little intrigued, as was I. Was he judging me? His very public observation had my cheeks in flames but I felt an unexpected something else accompany this flush: pride. Because I knew how pretty my bra was and he didn’t. The bra became more than just something I put on; it became a shield of beauty I could stand behind.
In a tiny seizure of confidence I stammered, “Yeah, so!” He huffed at me as I ran over to my girlfriends to gleefully share my boob update.
This doesn’t stop does it? The state of our boobs on any given day seems to be a weird barometer for how we are doing at life.
Back to the abandoned blue building with boarded-up windows where I am shown to a back “nook” where I am supposed to try everything on and trust that no one else is going to walk into the shop and also need to try something on with me. No stalls, no door, just a mirror and a lot of mosquitos. I wore a sleeveless, striped sundress in an attempt to feel sexy during this whole process. I scan the room, assessing my options. For some reason, there’s a plethora of bras from China. Not American bras “made in China” but literally the bras ladies in China would buy. I do not read Mandarin and have no idea how their sizing system works, so I grab anything that looks like it will remotely fit me. The mosquitos gather around my ankles for the show as I slip on a few pairs of matching underwear with the colorful variety of bras I have to try on. Eventually it seems that 80 is perhaps my size.
After many many failed attempts at a good fit, one bright red bra that looks like a Bollywood film got trimmed into foam cups makes the cut. Decent support, a forgiving band, and only twelve dollars. This is a wild bra, something someone who gets paid to be naked might wear. It is so impractical I almost cannot bring myself to buy it. But, I remember how powerful the right support can be. Alright, I’m doing it, I smile to myself. With the lack of traditional lighting, and the small red bumps multiplying on my ankles, I’m anxious to pay and get home. Hopefully I won’t ever need to come back, but I somehow feel like a Bond Girl knowing exactly where to go if I do.
I push cash across the counter, grab my trophy-bra and bust out the doorway. Although no one is throwing dollar bills at me, I do a victory dance when I reach the driver’s side of my car. Me and this bra are going to have loads of fun.
Many years and miles away later, I am putting clean laundry away at our home in Ohio when my daughter, now seven, sees this bra strewn atop a pile of clothes. It has for sure seen better days in the years since I bought it—the underwires are bent and the jeweled charms are missing—but I can’t bring myself to part with it.
“Mom, that bra is beautiful!” she exclaims.
“Yes,” I answer her, “Yes it is.”
Guest essay written by Kelsi Folsom. Kelsi is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Breaking the Jar (FLP, 2022), and is published in Ekstasis, Clayjar Review, Motherly, Motherscope, Grit and Virtue, The Caribbean Writer, West Texas Literary Review, and elsewhere. She is currently pursuing a M.A. in Theopoetics and Writing from Bethany Theological Seminary and is working on her first novel. When she isn’t doing laundry or picking up Hot Wheels, she enjoys hiking, singing jazz with Global Missions Project, and thrifting with her family. Connect with her on Instagram and at her website.