Anybody remember the scandal Hillary Clinton inadvertently caused when she showed the tiniest shade of cleavage at a hearing on education last July?

Magnified by an article written by the Washington Post’s fashion writer, Robin Givhan, the subtle dip of Hillary’s neckline suddenly became a barometer of her sexuality and femininity, as well as political fodder for Republican presidential candidate, John McCain. In a blog, McCain accuses Hillary of intentionally and boldly displaying cleavage to help dissuade criticism that she is trying to “act like a man”.

Reading about Clinton’s cleavage scandal reminded me of how closely a woman’s physical appearance and bodily expressions are linked to her intelligence, capabilities, morality and core values. I got some vivid flashbacks of growing up in a loving but conservative Iranian, Muslim family. I remembered how crushed I felt whenever my self-perception as an Amazon-in-training with big dreams and no limits was challenged by my parents' well-meaning but discouraging focus on my outward physical appearance and “proper” behavior in polite Persian society.

At 17, I was reading Anais Nin and Baudelaire, plotting my escape to New York to join the avant-garde fashion movement and working on my first modern dance/performance piece titled “Sirens.” All of this groundbreaking culture creation was happening in my bedroom in Scottsdale, AZ, which I shared with my five-year-old sister. My fashion icon was Coco Chanel and I strived to look like one of the women in Robert Palmer’s “Addicted To Love” video.

In my mind, I was a powerful, fierce diva just waiting to burst onto the “scene.” In reality, I was still a total and complete social dork and an uber-virgin. But George Michaels’ lyrics in "Freedom" captured what I was feeling on the inside:

“I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I told you so
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone else I've got to be”

Imagine my frustration and disappointment when, in the midst of all this self-discovery and long, feverish episodes of writing and reading, I’d hear a knock on my bedroom door and have to put down my pen to have another one of those “chats” with my folks. The ones where they patiently explained to me that my outgoing, animated behavior at Persian dinner parties and my eccentric, bold manner of dress (I designed most of my own clothes and it was the '80s) was going to give people the “wrong impression” about me. In other words, my larger-than-life personality was going to make people think I was a dumb slut and I’d never land a nice Iranian doctor for a husband.

Forget the fact that again, I was an uber-virgin at this time and had a 4.5 GPA due to the fact that I had no social life and was a complete academic nerdy-brainy, over-achiever type. This wasn’t going to matter to “people.” What was going to matter to people was if I could carry myself in a manner that was appropriate of a “good girl.”

It was right around this time that I made a vow to myself, somewhere deep in my sub-conscious, that I would never let myself feel constricted by society’s ignorant and misogynistic beliefs about women and how they should dress or carry themselves in society... which is why I am writing about cleavage today.

I am a BIG fan of cleavage: on others and myself. My philosophy is, “if you got ‘em, share ‘em with the world.” I don’t get the current fashionista trend towards prudishly high necklines.

Perhaps it’s a backlash to the ridiculous heights a handful of Hollywood and music starlettes have gone to lately to get attention from the press via their boobies.

Whatever it is, I say let’s keep cleavage alive and well amongst our own women’s community. Last weekend, I went to my first psychobilly concert at a dive bar back in Scottsdale, AZ. I had no idea what to expect. I was beyond pleased with what I found: a honky-tonk bar filled with greasy pompadours, endless tattoos and more cleavage than I knew what to do with.

I loved how confidently all these foxy rockabilly, psychobilly and punk rock ladies were struttin’ their cleavage in a variety of bustiers, low-cut tops and revealing dresses. The women managed to ooze sex kitten appeal while still giving you the impression that they could beat the shit out of you if you messed with them.

I, of course, was also rocking the cleavage and felt an overwhelming sense of solidarity with all the other busty ladies so defiantly putting their girls out there. What I loved most about this experience was that the vibe I felt was that we were in control of our own sexuality and self-expression, and that showing the cleavage in no way took away from our strength as women.

Who says you can’t have brains, ambition and a penchant for sharing your décolletage? There is so much more I want to explore in the realm of cleavage, boobies and all the fashion (and lingerie) that comes with this territory. Some of us want the chests we were born with, others of us don’t feel our chests work with our sense of gender/physical expression. Some of us are shy about the voluptuousness or flatness of our breasts. Others have had to create a new relationship with their chest post-mastectomy. Our boobies had a lot of stories to share and I’m excited to explore them all.