Topless and Independent in Barcelona
By Amy Silverman
“Hey Mom, I think I’m gonna take my top off,” Sophie said. I blinked back sleep, struggling to sit up in a saggy, rented lounge chair, and shot my husband a nervous look.
It was Summer 2019, Day Eight of our time in Spain. I see no point in dragging kids along on fancy trips they won’t remember or appreciate, so we’d waited until our girls were 15 and 16 to take them to Europe.
So far, so good. We’d been in Barcelona so long that the days were blending into one another in the best possible way–mornings in tiny cafes with fresh bread, strong coffee and pulpy orange juice, afternoon siestas, evenings wandering Las Ramblas. We’d seen the museums (Picasso, Miro and Dali), the live flamenco, and all the Gaudis, so on this, our last full day, we’d taken an early train to Stiges, a tiny beach town about 45 minutes away.
The guidebook was right about “tiny,” I thought, as we grabbed the last cabana on a beach so small you could almost see from one end to the other without tilting your head. It had rained earlier, but now the sun was bright, the water was blue, and most of the women–from toddler to crone–were topless.
I’m not against topless bathing. I backpacked through Europe with friends in my early 20s, and I took my own top off. My philosophy was that you get a lot less attention on a topless beach with your top off than with it on.
Just to clarify: There will be no public exposure anywhere at any time of my boobs in their current middle-aged condition. Also important to note: I was not with my parents–particularly my father!–when I exposed my breasts to the world.
And, I do not have Down syndrome.
I had worried about taking Sophie to Europe. At 15, she was still a little kid in a lot of important ways. She’d done okay on the long flight and loved staying alone in a hotel room with her sister. She’d even made her peace with the unfamiliar cuisine.
She didn’t love the museums, much preferring to engage with actual people rather than inanimate art. At Salvador Dali’s ornate theater in the small town of Figueres, I lost track of Sophie for a few moments, nervously scanning a gallery until I noticed her sitting on a bench with a security guard. They were having an animated conversation, even though I’m fairly certain that he spoke no English and Sophie’s Spanish is pretty spare.
“I could see how being Sophie’s mom was growing more complicated. I resigned myself to making it up as I went along.”
As the taxi pulled away from the museum, she told us that the guard doesn’t really like living in Figueres. “It’s too small,” she said, a little wistful.
I reached over to give Sophie’s shoulder an extra squeeze and wondered whether it had been a mistake to take her to Spain. I swelled with pride at her empathy for this man no one else seemed to have noticed. In so many ways, Sophie has been my greatest teacher–somehow she manages to sidestep the small stuff in ways no one else I know can. From her earliest days I’ve watched her share her affections without condition.
But every year, I can feel the small stuff getting bigger. For me, anyway. It’s cliched to say so, but in so many ways I saw a certain purity in my daughter when she was a child. As she approached adulthood–going through puberty, expressing her tastes, making plans for the future, struggling to keep up with her “typical” peers–I could see how being Sophie’s mom was growing more complicated. I resigned myself to making it up as I went along.
It wasn’t until we got to Barcelona that I realized that Sophie has no desire to get her passport stamped. She doesn’t brag on social media about seeing new places, doesn’t care about the local flavors, food or otherwise. She wants to be with her family, to drink cranberry juice and eat buttered rice. She also wants to make friends. But this is exceptionally difficult when you don’t speak the language. For days, I watched people rebuff Sophie’s advances at an even faster rate than at home.
I knew exactly why Sophie wanted to take her top off. From the time we’d gotten to the beach, she’d been watching a young woman a few yards away. We’d all been watching her–it was impossible not to. Like most of the women on the beach, she was topless. But unlike the others, she had tan lines–two bright white triangles. She was a newbie. And she was doing something that the other topless women on this beach were not doing. She was playing volleyball.
Sophie watched this girl, and more important, she watched other people watching her. She wanted that attention. I understood.
My daughter is almost 17 and still sucks her thumb when no one’s looking, sleeps with a stuffed Piglet and prefers to drink from a sippy cup–and yet, she can’t wait to grow up. In a lot of ways, it might never really happen. Sophie appears to have topped out at 4’ 5”. It’s unlikely she’ll drive. She might never go off to college or live by herself.
Sophie watched this girl, and more important, she watched other people watching her. She wanted that attention. I understood.
Sophie knows all this. Some days it bothers her more than others, and she texts me across the dinner table:
I don’t want to have Down syndrome
What do you say to that? I don’t have an answer, so I buy her the mascara and foundation she begs for at the drugstore.
Now she wanted to take her top off. And why shouldn’t she?
Dozens of exceptionally good reasons crowded my head, including the statistic that people with intellectual disabilities are seven times more likely to be sexually abused than their typical peers–a stat that stunned me when I heard it only because I’m convinced the real number is much, much higher. At the same time, there’s an argument to be made that one of the reasons those numbers are so high is because we don’t treat people with intellectual disabilities like humans. We infantilize them, ignore their desire for contact and relationships, rob them of their sexuality. And yet, was I letting a Genie out of the bottle?
I looked up at Sophie. She was wearing an army green bikini trimmed in neon pink, a hand-me-down from a favorite babysitter. She loved that suit. Like most clothes Sophie wears, it didn’t quite fit. I kept my mouth shut and stalled, turning to Sophie’s sister.
“Do you want to take your top off?” I asked Annabelle, who was wearing a chaste one-piece. She looked at me like I’d asked if she wanted to cartwheel across hot coals with a boa constrictor around her neck.
“Okay, okay, just checking.” I turned back to Sophie. “It’s fine with me if it’s fine with Daddy.”
The three of us looked at Ray. I was positive he’d say no.
“Why not?” he asked.
Sophie put on her flip flops and walked to a nearby port-a-potty to change. This made no sense to me, but she insisted.
Now she wanted to take her top off. And why shouldn’t she?
When she emerged, I wordlessly handed her the sunscreen. That was not negotiable. Fully lathered, Sophie took her sister’s hand and the two headed for the water’s edge. Ray and I watched in silence. Our daughters walked to one end of the beach, then the other, slowing down in front of the group that included the volleyball player.
Sophie grinned as she walked by the girls, who stopped talking to watch her. I held my breath and stared, waiting for them to smirk or roll their eyes, but instead–after the subtlest of double takes–they grinned back, then returned to their conversation.
“I’m done,” she announced, satisfied, as she approached the cabana. She grabbed her bathing suit top and returned to the port-a-potty.
A little while later, I packed up our books and towels–and held onto Sophie’s reminder that I have to give her the independence she needs to become fully herself. We headed to the train station. It was time to go home.
This is the latest essay in our “Courageous Acts” series
Amy Silverman is executive producer of The Show on KJZZ, Phoenix's NPR member station. Her work has appeared in Slate, ProPublica, Literary Hub, This American Life and other media outlets.