Shoot. That’s kinda cute. Talk about giving up something, like a sacrifice, we’d have given up our prized ace-boon-coon roadie, Sita, to have the kids at school and random ole common folks in the street look at us and see “cute” and “shotgun” in the same thought. Kinda like they saw Sita, whose ‘breasteses,’ yeah, that’s what we said, put them in the mind, we know, of sexy melons a couple years shy of plucking, at least in this country. Where Sita from in New Delphi, way over across the globe in India, she’d already be some ancient, wealthy man’s wife and him and her babies would be hanging like Christmas ornaments from her breasteses right now. Then again, they probably never be as gargantuan as us, we don’t care how many old men and babies laid gums to them.
We so huge, we make Sita’s grandma look flat chested.
And we won’t even mention her Amma, Sita’s word for Mama. It blows us away every time we see her and those two handballs she got. Won’t even mention she done had five babies. Five. Sita is the baby, like me, but she got four brothers, who all try as hard as they can to keep they eyes in they head when we come around.
Yeah. We that huge.
Make it so bad, we have nothing to blame but Mama’nem gene pool. We come from a long line of big-breasteses womens. Mama’s make her look like a capital letter P. You can’t even tell she got hips and legs and a stomach under her clothes, her top that heavy. We’d never ever tell her, cause we only told Sita that Sunday after church, when Sister Foote whispered to that nosy Johns woman that Mama’nem were “catfish,” one and all.
“Catfish?” Sita ask, that black braid snaking down her back riled up and flopping. “I don’t understand.”
We didn’t either until we passed the word back and forth between us for a day or so. Daylight got shed on matters when our sister Kat overheard us on the back porch, thinking out loud, swinging on the scratchy wooden swing.
“Who call who that?” she want to know.
We told her.
“They can talk,” Kat growl. “All them favor water buffalo.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t tell us what ‘catfish’ mean,” Sita chip in.
Kat open the screen door on her way back into the kitchen. “It mean a woman favor a huge fish, a catfish be good as any, just that her feets be like two lil fins and her body go up into a oversize fish head that stick out, ‘cept her stick-out mouth be her humongous bosom.”
In that minute, fish-faced, too, we must’ve looked as crazy as Chicken Little.
“Should’ve known. Mama’nem so pretty that’s all Sister Foote and that ole Johns woman could make mention of—her breasteses,” we say.
“That and mean,” Kat add.
Sita nod her agreement.
“Wonder if the kids at school jealous when they call us Titty City. The boys say it mostly. A few of the girls join the Peanut Gallery, when they aiming to show off. They say, ‘Girl, if all titties in the city disappeared tomorrow, you got enough titties to give every girl and woman two cups each. DAMN. You a titty factory. Just a titty plant. How you sleep? You ever topple over standing up with all that? Bet it’s a sheer miracle you can get out of bed on yo’ own in the morning!’”
Kat turn around, step over to the swing. “Scoop over, Baby Girl,” she say.
We scoot over and she hug us, her arms squeezing our shoulders tight. Then Sita, face droopy and cute, like one of the new puppies in the backyard, reach over and hug me from the left, her lil thin Indian arms hugging Kat’s. All of us in a group hug.
“Don’t pay folks no never mind,” Kat say, her tone grown up, sounding more like Mama’nem. “Remember. It ain’t about you.”
“No,” Sita chip in again. “It’s about them and how they feel inside.”
The most important thing is how we feel inside, this much we do know. The first chance we get we gone look into getting a breasteses reduction, we don’t care what nobody say about leaving this life with what you came with. Even though we loving all the love Kat and Sita showering us with right about now, that don’t discount the fact there ain’t hardly no room in this swing, we squeezing out the air and space, between us and Kat’s breasteses and Sita—well, hers ain’t even touching my arm, they so small, and she squeezing the wind out of herself.
Next time one of them boys, or girls, for that matter, say something to us at school, we gone get up and plop out of this T-shirt and bop somebody upside the head. We can see it now: “Boys Assaulted by Classmate’s Chest.” Teach them who to mess with.
As for Sister Foote and that Johns lady, they better not let us overhear another conversation like that last one. If so, we gone forget Mama’nem home training and inform them they need to hush up and figure out which pond Brother Foote and Deacon Johns splashing around in.
This is part two, in a series of three guest posts provided by the incomparable Claudia Moss, author, radio personality, speaker, dancer, and all-around AMAZING WOMAN! Please share your thoughts here, BigBodyBeautiful peeps; better yet, visit Claudia’s links below, tell her how you feel about her writings, and connect with this Goddess of self-esteem.