[postlink]http://diaphragmblues.blogspot.com/2009/10/one-boob-becky_2506.html[/postlink]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iK0YUCN4slUendofvid
[starttext]
Rebecca McCarthy, the Author and performer of “Writing the Diaphragm Blues,” offers a confession of her own - why she now calls herself: Rebecca.
One Boob Becky
Do you remember that song from Sesame Street: One of These Things Is Not Like the Others.
One of the characters, like Big Bird, would sing as he would show you matches and mismatches of things and you had to guess which item did not match? We would see three green apples and one red one (the red one did not belong). Or three small bowls of bird seed and one really big bowl of seed (the big one did not below). But Big Bird would always share the little bowls with the little birds. I feel as If I embody this song.
Like the Big Bird’s seed bowls, I am uneven. One nostril looks bigger than the other. One foot is slightly bigger than the other, and one breast is larger than the other. On some people this might not be noticeable, but on me it apparently is VERY noticeable. - I am the Sesame Street song:
They called me one boob Becky. Boys that looked and sounded like Cookie Monster called me one boob Becky: “Hey, one boob! How’s it hanging?” (Get it . . . how’s IT hanging, it. Not them or they…) But the boys were only pointing out the obvious. Puberty hit and I had sprouted only one breast - One monument to womanhood, sticking straight out from my left side like the Effie Tower. Puberty is cruel.
I asked for a training bra, thinking we could smash down the offending appendage and my mom said: "For what?"
I turned to the ace bandage and that was an utter failure (pun intended). I grew up in Tucson, AZ, and it is really unpleasant to bind yourself in 100-plus degree weather. My friend, Debbie Lebowitz, who had a bra already, scored me one but it was too big and so I had to stuff it. I went from “one-boob” Becky, to “yo, Dolly Parton” over night. I feel bad for Dolly Parton that her name and being will always be associated with breasts. I used toilet paper but it gave a bumpy look. Rice offered a nice visual but it was heavy and the plastic against my skin was gross. I thought about cutting an apple in half and just popping it in the bra – but again, exposed fruit in 100 plus weather? Not a good idea. In the end there was nothing I could do. I would always be “one-boob” Becky to my peers until I got old and died. There was only one solution. I moved to Seattle with my parents.
Lights dim
[endtext]
[starttext]
Rebecca McCarthy, the Author and performer of “Writing the Diaphragm Blues,” offers a confession of her own - why she now calls herself: Rebecca.
One Boob Becky
Do you remember that song from Sesame Street: One of These Things Is Not Like the Others.
One of the characters, like Big Bird, would sing as he would show you matches and mismatches of things and you had to guess which item did not match? We would see three green apples and one red one (the red one did not belong). Or three small bowls of bird seed and one really big bowl of seed (the big one did not below). But Big Bird would always share the little bowls with the little birds. I feel as If I embody this song.
Like the Big Bird’s seed bowls, I am uneven. One nostril looks bigger than the other. One foot is slightly bigger than the other, and one breast is larger than the other. On some people this might not be noticeable, but on me it apparently is VERY noticeable. - I am the Sesame Street song:
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn't belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?
They called me one boob Becky. Boys that looked and sounded like Cookie Monster called me one boob Becky: “Hey, one boob! How’s it hanging?” (Get it . . . how’s IT hanging, it. Not them or they…) But the boys were only pointing out the obvious. Puberty hit and I had sprouted only one breast - One monument to womanhood, sticking straight out from my left side like the Effie Tower. Puberty is cruel.
I asked for a training bra, thinking we could smash down the offending appendage and my mom said: "For what?"
“for my boobs” I said.
“What boobs”
“This boob.”
“Honey, waiting till you sprout two, and then we’ll talk about it.”
I turned to the ace bandage and that was an utter failure (pun intended). I grew up in Tucson, AZ, and it is really unpleasant to bind yourself in 100-plus degree weather. My friend, Debbie Lebowitz, who had a bra already, scored me one but it was too big and so I had to stuff it. I went from “one-boob” Becky, to “yo, Dolly Parton” over night. I feel bad for Dolly Parton that her name and being will always be associated with breasts. I used toilet paper but it gave a bumpy look. Rice offered a nice visual but it was heavy and the plastic against my skin was gross. I thought about cutting an apple in half and just popping it in the bra – but again, exposed fruit in 100 plus weather? Not a good idea. In the end there was nothing I could do. I would always be “one-boob” Becky to my peers until I got old and died. There was only one solution. I moved to Seattle with my parents.
Lights dim
[endtext]