Lingerie

I was almost 14 when I managed to get my first real bra. It was not a purchase. It was a hand-me-down from a friend of my older sister.

It was a pity donation. I had told her of issues with my mother, who was quick to remind me that I did not really need one, and should wait until I did.

Mom didn’t get it.

I was in the last years of Catholic school when the uniforms progressed from a wool jumper to the equally unfashionable plaid skirt with a white cotton blouse, Peter Pan collar; a look reserved for 7th and 8th grade girls.

The white cotton blouse was a bit see-through. It was clear that some girls wore a proper bra, and some were still clad in the white cotton undershirt of doom. That would include me.

It didn’t take long for me to improvise my way out of the humiliation. I found a form-fitting petticoat with a flared skirt in a box in the attic. It had bra-like straps, and would cling at the bodice.

I took the scissors and cut that puppy into a bra- shaped garment. It worked.

Of course, I couldn’t let it be seen at home. I tucked it away in my book bag, and rushed to the girls’ room every morning as I got off the bus to switch into my makeshift lingerie.

Every. Single. Morning.

This lasted most of the way through 7th grade. It was exhausting. I had to be sure that I switched back into the undershirt before going home.

Art by Ana Bagayan

I was tagging along with my sister and her friends one day when the truth came out. A girl named Kathy came to my rescue.

She gave me her old Size 30 AAA ‘s, sometimes called training bras. Plain white cotton and flat as a pancake,  they were golden to me.

It took a while for my mother to notice, and she was okay with it.The deception ceased.

I was slow to develop, it was years before I truly needed them, but I will never forget the girl who saved me from that early wardrobe peer pressure.

My lingerie angel.

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