Rage! My Breast Reduction Continued…

Where did we leave off? Ah yes, my tits having been chopped off and transformed into perky little bao buns for an exorbitant amount of money. Fun times all round.

There is a bitterness which I’ve let go of ever since the operation. Although, come to think of it, that bitterness had already more or less faded prior to the deterioration of my once magnificent mammaries. I suppose the older I got, the more impervious I became to society’s judgement of large breasts. Either that, or my minimisers were doing a fine job.

No. It was something else. It was cultural context. I cannot recall ever being made to feel guilty or inferior in London for having had big boobs. It was the opposite, in fact. All I remember is blissful indifference, acceptance, and a steady flow of respectful admiration from suitors past. I had a happy ego back then. Whereas in Malta circa 2013 and prior, my breasts would attract a lot of unwanted and unsolicited criticism. Perhaps people thought that, the more verbal pins they stuck into my happy bubble, the more chances there were of actually bursting and thus deflating my breasts. Honey, you can deflate my sense of self-confidence, but you can never deflate a pair of real 32Es. Not without a miracle or my plastic surgeon.

I’m convinced it’s a Catholic thing. I say Catholic because two of the people who’ve felt the need to classify my body as a detriment to society were members of the clergy.

There was a nun, and then there was a priest. Both were my superiors in two respective institutions. I’ll not go into the details. Both the nun and the priest had got hold of an indirect way to instil that good old-fashioned Catholic guilt into yet another unwed and childless woman. I reckon it’s how most of them probably get themselves off (I’m taking no prisoners today, so be warned). They had both got wind of my role in a local production which dealt with the subject of breast (and other forms) of cancer. This play had involved a tastefully choreographed tableau of not-really-there nudity. You can guess which aspect of my work had got these Catholic figures riled up. There wasn’t much they could do about what they found on the internet. Neither could they fire me; I hadn’t committed any crimes. But they could make me feel like shit, and that’s something the Catholic church excels at, when it’s not raping our children (told you, no prisoners).

In a nutshell, the nun had asked me into her office, grabbed me tightly by the wrist for what felt like an eternity, and proceeded to tell me how I’ve desecrated my reputation within the institution for having participated in such debauchery, and for having been so naïve as to be led on by my heathen director. She liked doing that – grabbing staff by the wrist mid-conversation and squeezing till it hurt. She also liked staring intently and unashamedly at my co-worker’s chest, one which was way fuller and far more prominent that my own. The first time I had clocked this was quite the lightbulb moment. I made sure not to be left alone with her ever again.

Alla jaħfirlek.

The priest, on the other hand, had weaponised my theatre work to victim-blame me when I tried flagging up sexual harassment in the workplace. Months later, we both happened to be swimming at the same beach. He certainly wasn’t wearing a burkini, his dog collar was off, and I was still a 32E. And yet, I cowered in the water, not wanting to emerge or reveal my body until he was out of sight. It wasn’t to avoid any awkwardness of bumping into your ex-boss at the beach of all places. It was because, months later, that burning shame he had branded me with was still somewhere around on my personage.

X’tippretendi, qalbi?

In both instances, I did not protest. In both instances, I had already been making concerted efforts to cover my body up in any way possible to avoid any perceived seduction. Conservative attire was on the mood board; I was channelling Margaret Thatcher and Anne Widdicombe. I even stopped wearing makeup, but that was probably because I couldn’t be bothered to get up earlier in the morning.

X’kont liebsa?

At the time, I felt it was smarter not to be a little firecracker. At the time, I couldn’t afford to fight back, because I was near-broke and already a national talking point. At the time, I wasn’t weighed down by my breasts. I was weighed down by the shame that had been repeatedly piled on top of my shoulders by the Catholic church and its mouthpieces, all because their God decided to inject me with a generous helping of oestrogen, if you want to go down the Creationist road.  

What am I getting at here, boys and girls? I’m not sure. I’d love for the nun and the priest to come across this and recognise themselves in this article. A little fuck you to the pair of them, although almost a decade too late. More importantly, I suppose, it is to remind girls and young women that you have the right to shut this shit down. It’s not the noughties anymore. Stop Gilead in its tracks. Be not afraid to call injustices out. Be not afraid, for feminism is with thee, and so are the conversations and the jail sentences that have been happening in the last few years. In the face of it all, whenever possible, please allow yourselves to rage. We’ll be right behind you. 

Thanks to Nicola Abela Garrett for sharing her experience with us.

#għajjejtuxbajt

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