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CLEAVAGE CULTURE

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By Lin D. Jensen

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The Montréal Review, May 2011

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"On the Street... Heat Wave, New York City" by Scott Schuman ("The Sartorialist", July 2010)

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Self considered intelligent and educated, normally I would be embarrassed caught reading anything remotely as vain and superficial as what I am writing about here - with the exception of those moments of guilty pleasure when I indulge myself in skimming the juicy tabloid headlines at the supermarket checkouts - now I find myself shamelessly devoting my time analyzing the very subject matter.

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I immigrated to the United States in the early 90s, nevertheless the summer time each year - especially its beginning when I am still slowly adjusting - can be rather hard, as all of a sudden, as if out of nowhere, half bared or utterly visible under tight fabric, squeezed or bouncing, natural looking or not so, burgeoning or sagging, budding or disproportionally large pairs of breasts flash into my face in every direction I look. Even as a heterosexual woman, my heart would sometimes miss a beat. I simply do not know how my male counterparts cope - all in your view yet out of touch, you are not even supposed to look yet they are there to be admired. You are almost obligated to notice, which is the very purpose of the exhibition, yet you are forbidden to show the process while you are noticing, but then again you are welcome to show your appreciation after you have noticed. Oh, the irony and agony of it! I guess that must be the ultimate test for a western man to become a chivalrous gentleman.

Such incongruity can be puzzling for a child. One Saturday my then five year old daughter got a dose of privacy education while I read through the Cub Scout literature with her older brother about which body parts are not to be touched by anyone but your parents. For young kids who still need a basic definition of private body part the booklet smartly summarized it as "any part of your body that is covered by a swim suit". Our daughter felt so triumphant and empowered once conquered such big kids' knowledge, only to come back from kindergarten on Monday in intense distress, "Mommy, you told me a girl's breasts are her private parts, but why was Amy's mom wearing a dress with half of her boobs showing?!"

Another discrepancy I find preposterous as a culture outsider is the fact that while we vehemently promote cleavage exhibition, with even more passion and intensity we protect the very center (or the lower center for some of us) of the bosom - the nipples. In other words, the peaks are absolutely off limit while their bases are fair game for display. Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction on national television demands mention if breasts and their coverage or the lack thereof were to be discussed. It caused such an uproar that it was officially "gated" (nipple gate), fines were paid and formal apologies were demanded. Had the little nips not shown, it would have been all perfectly proper to sing those risqué lyrics and dance in those tight, cleavage squeezing costumes with however provocative moves. It would have been a legal pastime to suggestively tear off the outside of the bustier revealing the red lace underneath (as planned), yet it was absolutely unlawful for the red lace to accidently come off showing not even a nipple but a star shaped pasty covering one. The darn little tip, star covered or not, ruined all the fun we could have had without crossing that defining moral boundary.

From this perspective, I admire the European style of leniency on body parts - they are treated as just body parts, nothing more and nothing less. One can find a poster of a woman baring her upper body in a relaxed and confident way promoting whatever in a German subway station for the entire public to see. Nothing indecent or vulgar, just a beautiful naked woman, whose body parts are a somewhat better composition than the rest of us. A Danish newspaper article on a disappearing tradition of public shower houses unapologetically shows men bathing in the tub baring full monty because in real life men just do not bathe with a blurred dot following their middle wherever they go. You see them, you are shocked, then you have had enough, you are bored, and you move on.

Admittedly I have ascribed my discomfort in such a cleavage showing dress code to some degree of jealousy probably stemmed from my somewhat lack thereof. Compounding the problem is the fact that I grew up in a culture, a forgone one that is as China is no longer the country I knew as a child, where the purpose of attire was to cover one's body instead of revealing it.

Even though I can be perplexed by Americans' (or now Asians' also, judging from the internet world) obsession with breasts, that is not to say I do not appreciate the sisters - the most prominent and unmistakable symbol of femininity and a vital attraction for the opposite sex are arguably essential for the continuation of human race. Hence by the onset of fall I almost started to miss their easy accessibility the warm weather had entailed.

I guess I love breasts like I love ice creams - they are more delicious in smaller doses. So in a way fall brings relief as I bid farewell to the parade of breasts for three more seasons before I greet them again. That's why I sympathize with people who live in the perpetually warm climates - wouldn't it be information overload if every day of the year warrants bare skin?

If it holds true that fashion cycles repeat every whatever years, except the huge shoulder pads, I hail the day when body parts other than the bosom of a female body get their fair share. How about allowing the mammary twins to be subtly implied underneath a top, so that a cascade of long lush hair, a beautiful smile, and/or a great pair of legs get the attention they deserve?

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