Are They Real?

A response to the stranger who asked me whether or not my boobs are real.

Real Talk

…’and by the way’, you ask, ‘are they real?’

They are as real as my crooked front tooth, as my hopeful blue eyes, and my mischievous smile.

They are as real as the dimples on my bum, as the scars on my hips, and the starscape of moles on my back.

They are as real as my strong arms, as my rock-solid core, and my lean sculpted legs.

They are as real as my quick wit, as my brisk brains, and my bashful poise.

They are as real as my insatiable curiosity, as my deep darkness, and my craving for comfort.

They are as real as the child they nursed for a year, as the marks she left on my body, and the love for her that is like no other.

They are as real as the embarrassment I felt when the male employer, twice my age, insinuated that same question, loudly, in front of all of my co-workers.

They as real as the shame I felt as the words silicone slut were shouted at me by the boys in middle school.

They are as real as the aches from the sunken marks on my shoulders from all the ill-fitting bras I wore in high school.

They are as real as the frustration of being told, sorry, these items are not made in your size—ever, when all you want is to fit in.

They are as real as the confusion I felt when learning that a part of my body could be used both to my advantage—and to my detriment.

They are as real as the bewilderment of being accused of accomplishing something simply because of them.

They are as real as the bizarre mix of pride and humiliation I felt when a boyfriend bragged about them at parties, offering others to touch, like a trophy.

They are as real as the pain from the stabs of unending insults, remarks and questions, the innocent gropes and passerby touches — the compliments.

They are as real as the stings of jealousy I feel as I watch a petite, perky woman do cartwheels in a triangle bikini on a beach in summer.

Non-the-less, they are as real as the genuine gratitude I feel every day for waking up in a strong, healthy body, despite its kinks and flaws.

And before you succumb to the impulse to cheekily ask another woman the same clumsy question, get real with me for a minute, why don’t you;

In the case that her’s may not be…

Are they not as real as the stings of jealousy she felt, flat, in her triangle bikini, when watching someone like me in a sultry, low-cut cocktail dress?

Or as real as the fatigue from years of societal indoctrination telling her what a real woman should look like?

Are they not as real as the cancer she battled and won?

Are they not as real as her pain and her shame, her experiences and ambitions, her wishes and worries, her dreams and her fears?

Are they not just as real as she is?