297 Days Until the Big Five-O

Based on Prompt number 8 from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett.

“Tell a story of going shopping with your mother when you were young. Describe a variety of stores or kinds of shopping tours that were available to you then.”

Growing up in Chicago’s West Rogers Park meant all our shopping could be done on one street whether we were looking for groceries, clothes, shoes, records, model kits, toys, cameras, eyeglasses, pharmacies, ice cream, pizza, fresh baked goods, or a kosher butcher. Devon stretched all the way from Sheridan Road to Lincoln Avenue, but the slice I was most familiar with went from Western to Kedzie. It was the epicenter of my world and in many ways became the center of my being. Devon Avenue was the gooey chocolate hiding inside the middle of West Rogers Park, a neighborhood that felt like an island of safety for a generation of Jewish kids, many born to people who came from other countries and were on their way up, heading north toward the Promised Land, Skokie, or even better, Highland Park. Many never left West Rogers Park, they stayed clinging to the familiar brick bungalows and apartment buildings, some so big they required multiple entrances, others called two flats with both apartments being filled by relatives. As I got older eventually I would get use to people younger than me saying, “Oh, my grandmother was from West Rogers Park” just like I once said, my grandmother was from Russia. Now my best friend and I jokingly call West Rogers Park (WRP) the Shtetle. I recently showed my son the movie Fiddler on the Roof and told him that West Rogers Park was my Anatevka (sp?).

The stores on Devon Avenue each had a distinct personality. This was before our lives would become dominated by large department stores. We had only one department store, Crawford’s, big enough to offer both men’s and women’s clothing as well as shoes and purses. But mostly there were a lot of specialty stores serving a particular need. One of the most famous and it is still around, but like many of the residents, it headed north, was Schwartz’s intimate apparel. When I was a little girl Schwartz’s meant only one thing to me, BRAS. I know they sold swim suits and “cover ups”, but their swimwear was far more expensive than the bathing suits my mother bought for me at Community/Shopper’s World, our version of K Mart. So, the only thing left for my family that would have had any hope of being purchased at Schwartz’s was a BRA.

I did not want to wear a Bra. I had no interest in developing breasts so when I turned 10, got my period and started gaining weight; I also became a rather rude insolent child. Looking back I am going to cut myself some slack. My dad died in March of 1970 and I turned 10 the following July. I think that trauma may have contributed to the dramatic metamorphosis my body went through. It was that or the fact my mother decided to heavily sedate our family by providing enormous portions of pasta, fried foods and junk food. I think the entire family gained about 400 pounds that year. But the only thing I noticed was I went from people teasing me and calling me Bony for Bonita even though my name is not spelled with an O, to being really fat, really fast. Needless to say along with the big stomach, rubbing thighs, and bulging back came the two breasts, 100 per cent fat at the time. So actually I did not consider them breasts. I just thought of them as more fat on my body. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to my growing body. I started buttoning my shirts up to my neck, wearing loose clothes and keeping my hair as long as it would grow. But alas, my efforts to hide were futile. Another sad result of losing my father became the most unusual aspect of my childhood. I had to share a bedroom with my mother! AHHHHH. We lived in a two bedroom apartment and I had been sleeping the corner of my parents’ bedroom. We were about to buy a bungalow. Welcome to the American Dream. But, fate intervened and the apartment building became the major bread winner in our family, and my mother became a Landlord. So, I became the landlord’s roommate which left little room for privacy in the two bedroom apartment where my brothers had to share the other bedroom with each other. I don’t know who got the worst deal, me or my middle brother, but that is an entirely different story.

The first time my mother told me I needed a bra I probably swore at her. I was becoming quite the aggressive child to match my new found girth. I noticed at school one or two other 5th Graders wearing bras. I knew I would not be able to prolong the necessity to strap some of the flab I called breasts down. I would look at my mothers’ bras and want to puke. They were big, white and ugly, just like her girdles. Was I going to spend the remainder of my life finding ways to prevent my body from jiggling? My mother convinced me I had to get a training bra. Ohhh, “I can train them” I said, “what can I make them do?” Along with my aggression I also became sarcastic and found I was rather funny. I would spend the next 4 decades sharpening that wit and using it as an effective tool to gain popularity, defend myself, and better yet attack those I did not like. I agreed to get the bra, but only on the condition that my mother swear to secrecy. No one was allowed to know about the training bra, NO ONE!

So one sunny Autumn Saturday, my mother and I left the apartment building and headed up Rockwell toward Devon. We lived only one and a half blocks from Devon. Many years later my best friend and I figured out we grew up on “the wrong side” of Devon Avenue. Not only was it a main shopping drag, but it was the proverbial “train tracks” separating the haves from the haves not of our little town known as West Rogers Park. Yes there were some nicer houses South of Devon but those were closer to Kedzie and my best friend and I were smack dab in between California and Western. The only good thing about that was our proximity to the Northtown Theatre. But the bigger houses were closer to Touhy or Howard. Back then I thought those bigger homes meant the families living in them had more money and better lives. I may have been only half right.

By time we got to Devon and made the right turn toward Western Avenue and Schwartz’s intimate apparel I could feel the surge of resentment moving its way up my pot belly and into my throat. Kids would talk about getting a bra and how the women who work at Schwartz’s would literally grab your breasts to put them in exactly the right place. I did not want anyone touching me back then, let a lone some older, heavily made up woman with long polished nails. We had gotten to Maplewood when I saw my Uncle Hymie and Aunt Frieda heading toward us. He was my favorite Uncle, my grandmother’s brother. That was the other wonderful thing about living in WRP, all our relatives lived in the neighborhood, aunts, uncles, cousins. My Uncle and Aunt had just finished breakfast at La Petite on the corner of Devon and Western and were heading back to their apartment on Richmond. My Uncle Hymie stopped, kissed my mother and casually asked where we were going. Unfortunately, my mother answered honestly and said “Schwartz’s”. I screamed “fuck you” (boy was I getting out of hand) right their on Devon Avenue in front of my favorite Uncle and took off running. In my 10 year old mind my mother had just violated a sacred promise by saying Schwartz’s was our destination, I felt she had told them I was getting a training bra! Why else would we go there? My mother bought her bras at Crawford’s where they were cheaper, but she did not need to get “fitted”. The only real reason we were going to the more expensive specialty store would be because we had a “special” need to fit me for my first bra. I guess I figured my uncle knew my mother bought HER bras at Crawford’s. It seemed so obvious we were going to Schwartz’s for me and me alone! I ran for a couple blocks and finally headed back to Devon.

I found my mother talking to my Uncle and when she saw me he quickly walked away from her and left with his wife on his arm. I walked up to my mother and she said “he doesn’t know why we are going there. He could have thought it was for me.” That thought never crossed my mind. I did not want to postpone the inevitable any longer. I could feel the pressure of my rapidly forming breasts on my chest as I ran. I knew in my heart I needed to lock them down. We went to Schwartz’s and the rest is a blur, the man handling, or should I say the breast handling, the choosing of the appropriate trainer, the payment, the exit, the plastic bag with the word Schwartz’s proudly scripted on it firmly in my mother’s grasp. We got home. I ran into the apartment and my mother brought the bag into our bedroom. I took out the three training bras and shoved them deep in a drawer underneath a lot of other clothes. My secret was safe.

Eventually, I got to high school, and guess what; you can train your breasts to do something, ATTRACT BOYS!!! I battled the weight from 10 years old on up. Some years I was thin (freshman) and the breasts were small but perky. Other years (sophomore, and ½ of Junior year) I was chubby and they seemed larger and more determined to head South on my body. But either way, they finally served a purpose other than as a source of embarrassment. By this time I had stopped shopping with my mother for good. My friends and I shopped Devon Avenue on our own from Kenmarc Records to Pint Size (only during thin periods). However, I did still make my mother buy the kotex without me present. But that will have to be HER shopping story.