Underwire and Identity: Intersectionality is a Bra That Doesn't Fit
A humorous and heartfelt exploration of neurodiversity, cultural diversity, chronic illness, disability, and the awkward fit of intersectionality.
Intersectionality is a bra that doesn’t fit. As you linger between cup sizes its underwire wears til it breaks, eventually stabbing at under-boob, while you go on smiling for the world hoping that no one will notice your discomfort.
Unity. Melting Pots. These eighties concepts have failed you. They’ve only ever really worked for people living outside the in-between. When people’s bras fit they don’t realise that your bra is an important part of your identity. Despite its bad fit, you don’t want it to melt away or get lost.
You’re asked to ignore the bra strap slipping down your shoulder, as one boob drops. When you finally steal a moment to pull the strap back up, you look awkward and uncomfortable, a big no-no. Your bra is supposed to fit, just like everyone else’s does. You're not supposed to complain.
“Just shut the fuck up and buy a new bra!” People say.
Your ill-fitting bra is an inconvenience they don’t want to know about. If Berlei and Bonds started making bras that fit you, surely it would be harder to find the 10B’s and C’s through the disorganised racks and harsh lighting of K-Mart and Target. Why should they give an inch, so that you can wear your first bra that doesn’t produce a third and fourth side boob under your armpits?
What happens when your undies don’t fit either? Diversity, yes. But what about diversity of diversity of diversity of diversity and so on. How many times can you split yourself into pieces? How many times before you feel whole?
Don’t label, but identify. Don’t be a victim, but own the adversity. The world seems to decide where you should stand between each of these contradictions.
But I love my boobs. They’re mine. At 42, I love their weight and size. I love their complexity. They’re my boobs, and part of my story. I’ve come to love them all the more because they refuse to fit.
I’ll go on walking all the little pieces of me home, every day, forever. I’m still figuring out the best bra size for me. There’s no Greek lady in a change room with a measuring tape draped around her neck, ready to measure me and hand me a thousand itchy options. I’m not twelve. The best fit varies, brand to brand.
But after a thousand bad bras you learn exactly how they’re bad and prime yourself for the battle. You have increased tolerance for under-boob angst and it makes you formidable, with a pair of smoking guns.
They may never make your bra size, but they won’t break your spirit.
Love this... I have finally allowed myself to not worry about clip bras because it's a marathon to put one on. Been so much happier.
I'll happily take any recommendations, as a fellow sufferer of both problems 😭 Beautifully written 👏🏾