From a Girl to a Woman
It’s the year 2012, One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful” is a radio chart-topper, my friends and I are skimming through Seventeen magazines during lunch, and every girl in my eighth-grade class has their period, except for me. Coming from a predominantly Mexican hometown, one of two things (in some cases both) marked a girl’s transition into womanhood; a quinceanera, a celebration of a girl’s 15th birthday, or her first period. Being a young girl in our society subjected us to targeted messages from the media and popular culture regarding our body image, confidence, clothes we wore, and even the natural processes of our bodies. The stigma and shame attached to my ever-changing body made it awkward for my Catholic parents and me to communicate about my period. So the only other place where I could get information about my period and body was from my forty-something middle school librarian.
I received my first official sex ed talk in the eighth grade. I remember how awkward it was to have adults lecture us about the dangers of sex, teenage pregnancy, and STI’s while the boys and girls in each classroom were separated. I specifically remember being advised to use pads rather than tampons and never allow a man to see my menstrual products. After the talk, we were sent off to lunch, where I sat on a blue stacking chair and tried to process the events of that morning. I learned nothing new from what the media, TV ads, and my parents had taught me. I still knew nothing about my period, like how to put on a pad, what brand to buy, or how to deal with the anxiety of being a fourteen-year-old girl without the slightest sign of my period. The day went on, and still, not a single soul made eye contact with the opposite sex.
As the school year progressed, I saw many of my friends transition into women. The girls around me would share their period stories: “I was at the beach when it happened,” “I get the worst cramps that make me lie in bed all day.” “My mom says I shouldn’t tell anyone about it, not even my dad,” or “At least my boobs are getting bigger.” As everyone was changing around me, I began to question if something was wrong with me and my body. Why was I not a “woman” yet? I didn’t get it. And what was so exceptional about a period if this was the way society responded to them? There was nothing special about the complicated morse code-like exchange between friends to ask for a pad or the awkward moments in class trying to explain to your teacher why you needed to use the restroom for the third time that day.
Out of these stories, one theme was recurring; there is a lack of sexual and menstrual education in primary schools. I still had so many questions after the sex-ed talk and didn’t know where to get them answered. If boys and girls were given the talk, why weren’t we allowed to talk to the boys about periods? And if students had to go through a sex-ed talk, why were we still expected to explain to our male teachers why we needed to use the restroom? I was being conditioned to carry shame in hot pink plastic-wrapped squared pouches with hearts and be silent about something so natural.
The year ended, and I still didn’t have my period. Not knowing when it would come simultaneously made me mad and uneasy. On the one hand, I felt left out as my friends sat over cold spaghetti in the cafeteria, sharing the knowledge I did not understand. But at the same time, there was this internal fear of carrying myself differently, being vigilant about blood stains and accidental boob nudges during PE.
A month into the summer, I had my first period, only I did not know it was my period. I tried thinking of all the possible scenarios that would result in this much blood and tried to self-diagnose myself with the potential “disease” I had caught. I was home with my dad that day, and after explaining my situation to him, he figured I had food poisoning or just a bad case of diarrhea. I felt hopeless as the day went by and spent most of the day washing my underwear and lying in bed.
It wasn’t until we picked up my mom from work and we sat under the dingy yellow light at the neighborhood McDonalds that I urged my mother to come with me to the restroom. I talked her through my day, slowly losing my mind as she held me in her arms and announced that I had gotten my first period. We both walked out quietly and crossed the street to the Family Dollar. The two of us side by side in the “feminine care” aisle, overwhelmed by the labels, sizes, and colors. My mom picked up a little blue box with yellow plastic squares and walked me to the store restroom, where she taught me how to put on a pad properly. As I sat in the restroom, I remember thinking to myself, “ I am finally a woman,” but as I flushed, my mind was flooded with questions, confusion, and shame. It took a solid three months for me to learn how to manage my cycle and master the art of hiding pads in the secret compartments of my backpack.
When the fall came, and high school was back in full swing, I spent some time talking to my close friends about their period stories, our shared lack of awareness of what to expect, and accidental red stains on white clothes. I figured that to make a difference, I had to be more open about my period. I began by carrying around pads for my classmates and teaching my closest guy friends about how menstrual products worked (and telling them that one day if they became a father, this information would be essential). While it seemed silly then, it was truly the beginning of my menstrual activism, and it is a huge part of the work I do today.
As a college student, I found the PERIOD movement and got involved with multiple organizations on campus that focused on female reproductive rights and menstrual equity. I have learned so much about what it means to truly be there for someone, regardless of their gender or age, and how much confidence can result from proper sexual and menstrual education. One of my favorite ways to practice my activism is via campus events where we have open discussions about menstruation and safe sex with demos of menstrual cups and other menstrual products.
As I reach the end of my years as an undergrad, I have emphasized my focus on menstrual equity because the community I live in needs help in sexual and menstrual education and accessibility to menstrual products. One of my goals is to have our college administration supply free menstrual products on our campus, where 54% of the enrolled students are female. Looking back, I have helped so many fellow menstruators who desperately needed a pad or tampon and did not have the money to purchase them, and this experience humbles me.
I hope that as more people begin to join the menstrual equity movement, we can accomplish more long-term goals, such as pushing for the removal of the pink tax, implementing sex ed from professional practitioners at schools, and providing menstrual products to those in great need of them. I figured out now that being a woman has nothing to do with my first period. Rather it is the community built around me that supports and empowers others that has truly made me the woman that I am today.
