"Finding Tiffany" by Tiffany Bankes
A slow, quiet suburban neighborhood. Neatly manicured lawns line both sides of the road, each one boasting a classic white mailbox with a little red flag. As a child, this neighborhood was nothing short of idyllic. The asphalt ridge that contoured my front lawn to the street served me well throughout the years. See, the curb provided me with a sense of safety, security. From that vantage point, I could see the humble happenings on our block while still remaining cloistered. Sometimes I鈥檇 watch the neighborhood kids play in the streets, but I was too shy to join them. I could sit for hours watching the neighbors rake their leaves, carry in groceries, and pick up the daily batch of bills they couldn't afford.
Most days, sitting curbside gave little reward. Aside from feeding my own nosiness, nothing much ever really occurred. That never stopped me. Nearly everyday, weather permitting, I鈥檇 stake out. Watching, peering, gazing, whatever you want to call it; that鈥檚 what I would do. Most days, sitting curbside gave little reward. But not this day.
Have you ever had crispy autumn leaves rubbing against your bare prepubescent chest? On a fall evening, many moons ago, a young me experienced this strange yet transformative phenomena. There is a valid reason for this, or at least it seemed valid at the time.
Mark Simon, the neighborhood heartthrob was quite a few years older than me, (he was a seasoned fourteen year old to my naive eleven years.) Mark often rode his bicycle in front of my family home, and he looked good doing it. For me, he was the pinnacle of male perfection; with expertly coiffed shaggy raven hair, and warm brown eyes. Everyday, as he rode his bike I鈥檇 watch him from the curb. The feelings I harbored for Mark bordered on obsessive. I believe he liked me too, in a platonic way. See, Mark as a fourteen year old boy had an obsession too. Instead of the innocent puppy love that I felt, he obsessed over breasts; big, fat, mature female breasts. This is going somewhere.
One September night, I sat in my usual location: curbside. On this specific fall evening Mark rode his bicycle in front of my home, as per usual, except this time I had an idea. That day my father had raked our front yard. Piles upon piles of autumn colored leaves were strewn across the grass. As I heard the angelic sounds of his bike pedaling forward, I quickly reacted. I grabbed fistfuls of the tawny dead leaves and violently stuffed them down my shirt, to emulate breasts. I stood up and ran towards the street and let out an excited, 鈥淗i, Mark!鈥� He looked at me with a jarred expression.
鈥淗i, Tiffany.鈥� he responded. I could see him studying my newly chesty physique. Before allowing him a chance to elaborate on his confused salutation I blurted out, 鈥淚 just got my first period! That鈥檚 why I have these boobs.鈥� Puzzled wouldn't do it justice, he was outright disturbed. An awkward silence filled the space.
鈥淥kay, that鈥檚 pretty cool.鈥� he replied. I stood proudly with my chest puffed out like a peacock. Before I knew it, the leaves began to fall out the bottom of my shirt. I struggled to contain my falling breasts. With his mouth agape, Mark yelled 鈥淭iff, your boobs are falling out.鈥� He let out a laugh, and swiftly took off.
I resumed my standard curbside sit, shocked, embarrassed; both literally and physically picking up the pieces of my mistake. How could this be? How could this foolproof plan be so quickly foiled? That evening I went inside, too ashamed to ever show my face. I never sat on the curb again.
As an adult, a few things stand out to me about this day. While a funny story about a young stalker fabricating breasts in order to woo a potential sweetheart, I believe now there is more significance. For me, the curb was my safe haven. It was risky enough to excite me but safe enough for me to enjoy peacefully. The curb gave me the perfect in-between place to be, right on the edge of home and the real world. But that specific day, I forfeited the one thing I enjoyed most for the chance of male approval.
The curbside incident is the first memory I have of self-sacrifice. It became a running theme throughout my teenage years, giving up things I liked in order to be popular with the boys. Sacrificing myself became a part of who I was, for a very long time. It鈥檚 one of those things I think many young women find happening to them. It isn't a conscious decision, it truly is just that: something you find happening to yourself.
I found it happening throughout most of my late childhood; those awkward years of pimples and first periods. I recall visiting the shopping mall with my closest companion (my mother) and throwing tantrums while trying to shop for the latest trends. I remember the hormone fueled outbursts when arguing about when it would be appropriate for me to try my hand at face paint or makeup as we commonly call it. She always won these debates, she never gave in.
My mother is a stern woman. She is fiercely protective, vivacious, and determined. Her spirit is reinforced with steel. She was young when I was born, in fact she celebrated her 21st birthday 6 months pregnant with yours truly. Over the years, she worked various jobs: real estate agent, cafeteria worker, newspaper courier, group home manager, pest control, waitress, housekeeper, the list goes on. Eventually, she found her calling as a small business owner (there is no better job for a woman as determined as she). My mother come hell or high water, made sure that I had everything that I needed to grow. Her hands now are twisted from years of hard work, her face is decorated with lines that tell the stories of laughter, love, and struggle. Her life was never easy, and because of this she always instilled strength in her daughters. Looking back, I realize that I never had strength comparable to hers. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I could never reach that mountain top. I could never have the same resilience she has; like a rubber band, life could pull her in so many directions and she always bounces back.
Growing up, I caved in. I caved at any and every chance to be liked. I didn't have the backbone my mother does, I guess the spine isn't hereditary. Mark Simon was the first of many boys to have their way with me. I remember another crush, Ethan Gleason.
Ethan Gleason by all accounts was a mean boy. In the seventh grade, he bullied me mercilessly. Every day, he found new ways to hit me where it hurt. There was one day in particular in which he called me 鈥渇at鈥� in front of the entire school. It was a basketball game and all of the popular kids sat in one corner of the bleachers. That corner was coveted, and it served as a VIP section of who鈥檚 who, the middle school bourgeoisie. I sheepishly entered the section, with friends calling me to join. As I walked up the steps to claim my seat, Ethan snickered at me. After sitting down he yelled out to me, 鈥淔atty! You鈥檙e going to take the whole bleachers down!鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 sorry!鈥� I replied with fear in my eyes and a pounding in my chest. Yes, I apologized. I apologized to Ethan for being 鈥渢oo fat鈥� to enjoy the bleachers. It wasn't before long that I retreated, phoning my mother to come pick me up.
When my mother arrived she seemed upset. I hopped into the front seat of her old and battered minivan with tears streaming down my cheeks. My face was red as a tomato, as swollen as a bee sting, and as panicked as a soldier entering battle.
鈥淲hat鈥檚 the matter, Tiffy?鈥� she asked. I looked down, fumbling my fingers trying to think of ways to tell her that I was an outcast and a quitter. The car smelled of cigarettes and day old iced coffee.
鈥淓than called me fat in front of everyone. I don鈥檛 get why boys don鈥檛 like me.鈥� I blurted out. She took a beat. No words were exchanged beyond that. I remember the look of both sadness and disappointment splattered on her face. It was difficult for her to accept that I was a person who cared too much about what others thought, and more specifically what boys thought. We had a silent car ride home.
In the days that followed, I distinctly remember my mother asking me to come down stairs to speak with her. Entering her bedroom, I took a seat on the edge of her bed while she sat there propped up on a mountain of pillows. She always has a mountain of pillows on her bed.
鈥淪o what鈥檚 been going on with Ethan? Have you said anything to him about the other night?鈥� she questioned.
鈥淣o, I haven鈥檛. It doesn't matter.鈥� I quickly snapped. Tension grew. I could tell she was about to veer into lecture territory just by the look in her eyes.
She let out an exasperated sigh. 鈥淵ou know, you鈥檙e beautiful, smart, and kind. You shouldn't worry about what people think of you. You鈥檙e not fat either, he probably likes you. Boys who like girls sometimes make fun of them.鈥�
That was the most formative statement she had ever said, and it wasn't positive. I love my mother; she is strong and all of those things that were mentioned earlier but that was some horrible advice. From that day on, I took all insults and slights as a show of love and admiration from the opposite sex. Not only did I crave approval, but now I read meanness as an invitation to proceed. Those words lead me into the most toxic relationship of my life.
Enter James. At age seventeen, I began dating a guy called James and this entanglement would last for nearly five years. During this time, he would constantly belittle me. He had a sharp, hissing tongue. His eyes although blue could metamorphosize into pits of empty blackness. I was never good enough; my naturally curly hair too unruly, my laugh was far too giddy. Everything I did, every move I made, it was all up for constant scrutiny. He would call me stupid, and if he didn't say it outright it was heavily implied. He would make jokes about my intellect and squash any dreams I had. We dated the entirety of my senior year of high school, I even missed out on my prom because he was older than I was and therefore barred from going. When it came time to apply for colleges he told me that I shouldn't bother going anywhere far away from him or it would be the end of our relationship.
I skipped out on entering my freshman year of college at Hofstra University for an English degree. James told me with an English degree I鈥檇 make no money and I鈥檇 be saddled with debt that I could never swing. Instead, I moved with him to Philadelphia where he secured a job working as an auditor for a large public accounting firm. While in Philly, I enrolled in the local community college at age twenty because I knew that I wanted to earn a degree. I studied accounting there, because I was told by him that it would give me the best job opportunities post-graduation. I also got a job working at a restaurant as a hostess and waitress six days a week.
Needless to say, I was miserable. I woke up every morning dreading the day ahead. My schedule was crammed between working all night and studying full time. I excelled academically, not because I was passionate but because it was the only thing I felt confident about. Growing up, I had always been a good student. It was upsetting for many of my former teachers to see me forgo the traditional college experience in favor of being a businessman鈥檚 trophy girlfriend. After two years of living in Philadelphia and taking business courses, I left James and the community college behind.
I relocated back to New Jersey where I enrolled at Montclair State University with an English degree on my mind. This relocation and act of rebellion to James was the first time I had broken my cycle of pleasing men. Looking all of the way back to age eleven and the Mark Simon breast debacle, and the Ethan Gleason fat bleachers incident, finally I had torn apart the years of self-hatred masked as agreeableness.
Studying English is my passion, and in May of 2021 I will graduate from Montclair State with honors in English. The degree to me means far more than employment opportunities but as tangible proof that I can and will show up for myself. I settled into a life of comfort and joy; I now have a sense of who I am. My name is Tiffany, and I live for myself.
Born and raised in New Jersey, Tiffany Bankes is a current senior studying English at Montclair State University. She is a writer, learner, traveler, and enjoys spending time with family and friends. Upon graduation, she plans to work in Human Resources. Currently, she lives with her partner and family in Toms River, New Jersey.