There we stood, a bunch of ten-year-old boys huddled on the playground, just as we always did when discussing our football game. Football was—and still is—a huge deal in Stone Gate, Kansas, and we allspent a lot of time plotting our next big play. To be honest, we probably spent more time planning than actually playing.
But this conversation was different. I heard the words, but didn’t understand what they meant. They certainly weren’t discussing football and everyone was speaking in hushed tones.
“Did you see her?”
“Which one? Kari?”
“Yeah! Maria had one on, too!”
The boys giggled and I tried to follow along, although at that time I had no idea what they were talking about. I wanted to ask, but even at my young age I somehow knew, if I did, I would only be laughed at. So I pretended to understand, giggling right along with them. Funny how young we are when we first learn tohide a part of ourselves in order to fit in.
“I think Dawn has the biggest ones!”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Definitely!”
The boys hooted, but I was still trying to decipher the conversation, which could have been in Russian, for all I understood. Until Russell Adams spoke.
“Man, boobs are so awesome,” he declared in a voice already way too deep for his age.
My cohorts nodded in solemn solidarity.
Comprehension flooded my young brain as I realized they were talking about girls and bras. Personally, I hadn’t even noticed, but I felt great relief that I was up to speed. Not wanting to look out of place,I was eager to share my knowledge and join in the conversation. Of course, the only thing I knew about bras was that my mom wore them, and whenever I saw them in the laundry, they looked weird and uncomfortable. Oh, and there were wires! Finally, I had something to contribute.
“Did you know some bras have wires?” I offered, keeping my voice level so as not to betray my relief atbeing part of the conversation.
All eyes turned to me, intrigued by this new tidbit.
“Wires? What for?”
Leave it to Kevin Mason to stump me. I had no answer. The only thing I really knew was that I had overheard my mom talking about how much she hated those “damn wires.”
“They help hold up the biggest ones,” Andy revealed.
That made sense. With eight sisters, he would definitely know.
We all “oohed” and “aahed” over that new information. Once again, I joined in, although it felt like being in some sort of weird alien brotherhood—one that now included boobs, bras, and girls. I didn’t understand the interest, but these guys had been my friends since kindergarten, so I certainly wasn’t going to stray from the pack.
Over the next few weeks, our playground discussions began to include who was cute, which girl was “going out” with which boy and, of course, more about bras.
One boy, Mark Hilton, even filled us in on how to remove a bra. Apparently you had to reach around back while you were kissing the girl, so you could unhook it. This was big news because his brother was eighteen and dating a cheerleader, so we knew we could trust any knowledge Mark passed along. Removing a bra sounded like a lot of work to me, and I couldn’t really see an upside to putting in all that work.
Suffice it to say, fourth grade was a confusing time for me. I had no interest in talking about boobs or bras. Or even cute girls. I had no idea why my friends were so drawn to these topics. I knew there was something different about me then, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Why didn’t I care about these things? (This is what I now refer to as “Clue #1.”)
That question was answered nearly three years later when I attended one of our annual family reunions. I was only one week away from starting seventh grade.
It was incredibly hot and humid, a typical August day in the Midwest, and the reunion was being held mostly outside as a large family barbecue. It was always a pretty big affair, as my grandparents each had several siblings. That year it was being held about an hour out of town at a great-aunt’s dairy farm.
I was missing a friend’s birthday party at a laser tag center and less than happy about it. Needless to say, I spent most of the drive pouting and sighing loudly while staring out the window.
My dad, who usually ignored me unless it was to tell me to “grow up,” “man up,” or “shut up,” decided he had dealt with enough, finally barking that I needed to “shape up” or he was going to “give me something to pout about.”
I knew that tone and sat up straight, panic filling my chest. My mom turned to look at me tenderly, her lips curving up. She could always calm my fears; she knew how scared I was of my dad and was there to protect me. My younger sister, Pamela, looked just as panic-stricken and my mother gave her a small smile, too.