Photo by Yassir Ketchum
Breasts, especially nipples are so powerful they often cause high emotions in members of the opposite sex. They can make other women hate you. They can make your boyfriend dump you. They can get you attacked, and you can even lose your job because of them. If you show them on social media, your page can be deleted. Breasts themselves are OK, but you must cover your evil nipples because they will apparently drive people insane.
I have always tried to make sense of these strange contradictions.
My surgery has left me without nipples, and with scars. It’s not the tragedy I feared it might be. Rather, the whole experience has made me question even more why breasts (and especially their attendant nipples) are entities to be feared.
It is the fall of 2023, the first months of my post-surgery self. Low and behold! I have a rack almost as big as the one I was born with. Well, not born with, the rack that miraculously appeared, almost overnight, during my (very) early adolescence. I’ve just come through the first summer of my post-surgery self. Summer is my favorite season, a season our bodies are more visible, more necessarily uncovered. I was determined not to hide, and so bikini-clad visits to Coney Island and Brighton Beach remained on my dance card, as did walks through the upper East Side and Central Park in my favorite summer outfits. I was not prepared for how much my breast size affected my sense of self. My physical “womanness” was and is very much wrapped up in my physique.
Then my husband and I went to the Barbie movie. I wore one of my favorite dresses, a long, form fitting white dress with pink flowers and foliage. I wore this dress often last summer and always felt sexy and comfortable in it. I’d tried to wear it before my chest expanders were filled and felt sad and self-conscious. I felt more comfortable wearing it after my tissue expanders were injected (“filled up”) during my appointment with the plastic surgeon. I was a little disappointed in myself for not being “above” my physical looks after surviving cancer.
When I was a little girl, I used to run around the house in the summertime without a shirt.
The summer I turned 10 my father said,
“Hey, Baby Faced Nelson!” - He called me this often.
“It’s time to put a shirt on.”
I was angry, then sad when I understood the reason why. As the youngest of four girls, I knew that a bra was next.
Over the next couple of months my clothing began to look different on me. An increasing number of my clothes no longer fit. I was embarrassed at first - until I became aware of new super power.
In the 6th grade the boys in my class chose one girl who was supposed to be the “prettiest.” She was more developed than the rest of us. When our teacher wasn’t around or paying attention, they would drag her to the back of the classroom and grope her. This caveman event happened almost every day. Eventually, her parents took her out of the school. Once she was gone I became the chosen one. I was too embarrassed to tell any adult what was happening to me.
“At least they like you,” other girls in my class would say to me.
It didn’t feel like I was being “liked” at all. I just felt like a target, and I began to realize I would need to fight back, by myself if necessary, if no one would listen.
The last class before Christmas break led to a physical altercation between me and the ringleader of the groping boys. It ended with my hands around his neck. I remember feeling satisfaction seeing the fear in his eyes as I squeezed; it felt so good that I could not stop myself. Luckily (for the boy,) the teacher arrived in time to pull me off of him. I was sent to the principal’s office and my parents were called. I had to come clean and tell everyone what was going on and that I wasn’t the only one this had happened to. Predictably, the school did nothing, so my parents took me out.
The first day in my new school, the boys were more respectful. I remember them being “extra nice,” but I knew the drill by now and was still very careful with them. I felt different that day.
“Prettier.”
When I got home, I realized I had gotten my first period. Again, I was embarrassed. I waited until the next morning before telling my mother. I couldn’t get the words out and couldn’t hide my tragic faux pas. I called her from the bathroom and showed her the evidence: A discarded and unused tampon in the toilet.
“Oh honey! Why didn’t you tell me? You tried a tampon?! Congratulations!”
I was so relieved she wasn’t upset.
Throughout junior high I’d put on red lipstick and black winged liner. Since I could never escape my home in the outfits I was beginning to prefer, I’d bring form fitting clothing and makeup to school, effect my transformation, and walk slowly down the hall to the girl’s bathroom so boys could look at me. I loved the attention but was not interested in having an actual boyfriend. I was deeply affected by the opinion other girls had of me.
I remember hearing that a dear friend spoke negatively about my looks behind my back.
“They are only interested in her body. Because her face is not that pretty.”
When I started college at CCNY, I had developed more artistic interests in visual arts and theater. The theater department was the place I met lifelong friends.
My first “Burlesque” performance was in a play directed by my talented friend Patrice Fyffe, “Closer” by Patrick Marber. I played Alice, a stripper who was involved in a love triangle. She directed my performance in the strip club scene like a burlesque performance. It was an amazing feeling. I felt so powerful and natural.
My performance received stellar reviews, even from both of my parents. But my boyfriend at the time could not handle it and dumped me backstage before I could even get out of my costume.
He said, “I was so embarrassed. I don’t want to go out to eat with you. I don’t want to see you. You disrespected yourself and me.”
I was devastated.
When I met my family and friends in the lobby, they could tell I was upset, so I told them I was just wistful about the show ending.
Others who knew about it took two stances.
My own father said,
“You did a great job and I’m very proud of you. Keep acting, you're so talented.”
And from others:
“No man who loves and respects you will be ok with you showing your body.”
Not true!
-“ Remember? Marilyn Monroe, Joe Dimaggio and the skirt incident?”
Yea, and Fuck Joe Dimaggio!
Even though I knew the latter-day Puritans were wrong my self-esteem was still shot. I apologized and begged him to take me back and he did…Under the condition that I would never show my body publicly. He even picked out my bathing suits for the beach to make sure they weren’t “too revealing.”
We became engaged at one point and it lasted until I went to grad school. But I had never gotten burlesque, and the heady sense of self-empowerment it gave me, out of my system. That proved to be too much power for him, and he finally dumped me for good.
“You will never find a man who’s ok with you stripping.”
While getting my master’s degree in early childhood education at Sarah Lawrence I secretly started a burlesque troupe with some of my friends from CCNY.
As a lifelong Josephine Baker fan, I knew I wanted a French name. The day I found my burlesque name I was at my friends Tiffany’s house, a place where many artistic ventures got their start, watching “Miss Pettigrew Live for a Day.” I had discovered the book one summer and always loved the way the name Delysia felt when you said it. I have an affinity for cats, so La Chatte was perfectly naughty.
My chosen stage name:
Delysia La Chatte.
Photo by Michi Rezin
I taught kindergarten by day and performed with my own burlesque company by night. At that time most burlesque shows were all white, apart from the innovative Brown Girls Burlesque. Our troupe was diverse.
Our first performance was at our favorite bar in Harlem. We did not take our bras off. My friend Alex Casasnovas, my dance Capitan and moral support, remembers my big speech that ended with, “We are NOT strippers! We are not sluts! We don’t take our tops off, and we don’t twirl pasties!”
Within four months, we did, and joyously so. In a final group number one very special night, the entire troupe gave the audience a pastie reveal. A new confidence and freedom had taken hold of me, the woman scared of what others thought and terrorized by her boyfriend’s dubious moral code began to recede in my rear- view mirror.
I started to seek out other burlesque shows and began to hire other burlesque performers to perform for our show. While many in my troupe went off to do other things, I started to work in other venues with more established performers. I’d gained a clarity and vision and continued to produce on my own without a troupe.
Looking back, I realized I had been forcing myself to step out of my comfort zone. I’d been too intimidated by fear, fear of what others thought of me, to the point where I’d lost my own voice. Burlesque had helped me find that voice. I still had (and continue to have) my doubts, but now I’ve learned to bet on myself.
I continued to teach kindergarten for a year while secretly performing. The school I was working at proved to be rife with corruption, and the workers attempts at unionizing were met with layoffs, mine included. Another school offered me a position but the idea of teaching again made me feel sick to my stomach.
Finally, I told my parents,
“I’m not going back to teaching. I’m a burlesque dancer.”
“I’m disappointed,” said my mother.
My father said nothing.
I was reacquainted with a man I worked with at CCNY. I was costume designer for his production “Polaroid Stories”. It was the first time I had seen immersive theater; it was incredibly inspiring and not mainstream yet. When my friend Alex was working on one of his newest shows at La Mama and wanted me to connect with him. His latest show, “Caligula Maximus” an immersive comic, burlesque, circus employing music dance and rhetoric. We discovered we were kindred spirits and haven’t left each other’s side since. We got married in 2014.
The road wasn’t easy and once I stopped teaching; I performed almost every weekend. Eventually landing a role to play Josephine Baker in Cynthia von Buhler’s Ziegfield’s Midnight Frolic. Not only was I Josephine, I choreographed and cast the Ziegfeld girls. It landed me a large photo in the New York Times.
Ivory Fox, Mia V. Preisser & Pearls Daily Shot by Roam Pictures
“An Excellent Delysia La Chatte, .”
It was the first time I was disappointed in my name.
I wished it said, “An Excellent Mia Victoria Preisser.”
I will continue to write Barbie Boobies Blog throughout my journey. I am writing my own personal story as well as offering info that was not easily accessible to me during this process. Your donation will help keep this going. Please continue to spread the word.
Love,
MVP