Tessie D

I don’t know how to start… or, how to keep going with this journal. I started it to share my life at school and home and to talk about going to college. But, looking back at what I’ve written so, all I’ve written about lately is work.

And, work is getting so complicated. 

Yesterday, I asked for another blouse. I had only one — from when I first started last month. But, since then, I don’t know what’s happened but it feels a bit tighter. Across the arms and chest. Maybe from carrying so many plates and tea pitchers. But, it’s definitely tighter. So, I asked Alex for another one. 

He said that they didn’t have another one that they could give me. And, then he said that I shouldn’t worry too much about it. 

“It’ll help you get better tips.” 

Why do men do this? Say things like that?

I’ve always had a larger chest. There was a day in seventh grade that I went to bed with a flat chest and woke up with giant boobs. I was so humiliated that my body could betray me like that. I was being punished somehow for something I didn’t even know I did. None of my clothes fit, the buttons popped and seams stretched. Forget wearing strips and tank tops. I hid in an oversized Army sweatshirt that I’d gotten at a garage sale for months — never wearing anything else.

I was running track then and really loved it — all of it, sprinting, long distance. I loved how my legs felt so strong and how I could drown out the world when I focused on controlling my breath by focusing on inhaling and exhaling. That was until Justin Turger — this disgusting sophomore in high school — made a joke to the other guys about getting a hard on when he watched my boobs bouncing when I ran. Monica announced to everyone in the locker room what Justin said and asked me in front of everyone if ran like that on purpose to get attention. I wanted to die. For the rest of the year, everyone called me “Titsie.” I made up an excuse about my knee hurting to the coach and never ran track again.

It wasn’t just Justin. I’d be walking around town with Sarah and grown men would holler at me from their trucks driving by. Sometimes, they’d chase us down. Sarah and I would duck behind a bush and wait for them to give up. A couple of times, they’d spot us later and come back and we’d have to stand there and be polite while they asked us to get in and drive around with them. When we said, no, they’d call us “stuck up bitches” and drive off mad kicking up dirt and rocks at us. But, seriously, what kind of disgusting man thinks that a seventh grader is going to get in his truck?

And, don’t think it’s just strange men who act like that. It’s also the pervy high school football coaches who stand over us while we’re working on our tests and pretend to be looking at our answers while they adjust their pants through their pockets. Or, they call us up to their desks and ask us to lean over so that they can whisper in our ear to clean the chalkboard while they look down our shirts. And, when we finally get fed up and say something about it, their wives come into the room and yell at us and we get detention for the second time in our lives for being disruptive and rude. (I talking about you, Coach Strickland and Mrs. Strickland.)

So, no, I don’t like it and I don’t care if I get bigger tips.

Okay, that felt good. Maybe I remember now why I started this journal.