Why Aren’t Black Women Using Menstrual Cups?
When I got my period at age 12, I was told I was a woman. Suddenly, I was capable of birth, sex, and temptation. The stories I heard about menstruation — from Adam and Eve to teenage pregnancy — were insidious warnings that forced me to see my body as something to fear, and I began to detach from it.
In 2019 I won an Instagram giveaway where I received a menstrual cup. Before this unboxing, I believed that my period was something that happened to me and that I had no control over. My cup was the vehicle that pushed me to recognize my body as separate from the racialized and gendered narratives that conditioned me to fear it and detach from it.
Soon after this revelation, I began to seek community with other cup users. I joined Facebook groups, read Reddit posts, and spoke to the menstruators in my own life, and time and time again, I never saw other Black menstrual cup users represented. At first, I believed this was due to an education deficit — that Black folks were simply not educated about menstrual cups as a menstrual management tool. But when I spoke to Black women and menstruators, many were opposed to the idea of even trying a menstrual cup — not because they loved pads and tampons, but rather because they were uncomfortable with the idea of being that intimate with their own blood and body.
Suddenly I understood that the lack of menstrual cup usage amongst Black menstruators was not an issue of individual choice but rather a part of a state project to deter Black women from forming intimate relationships with their bodies. From hospitals to Big Pharma, health institutions are dependent on Black women’s disembodiment because it hides their unethical and coercive practices under the cloak of personal blame. When Black women are detached from their bodies, they are more likely to believe you when you tell them that it is their fault that they can’t and never will feel better — and they will invest in that shame rather than in the institution’s refusal to give them adequate care and respect.
The state’s refusal to invest in menstrual cup usage in Black communities as a sustainable practice that promotes embodiment and better health outcomes is strikingly similar to their investment in baby formula rather than Black breastmilk. In Jennifer Nash’s book, Birthing Black Mothers, she unveils the insidious way that hospitals force formula onto Black mothers at a disproportionate rate while misinforming them that it is a nutritional equivalent to breast milk. Breast milk has profound social and nutritional perks to infants, and the practice of deterring Black mothers and children from these benefits is rooted in a culture that does not value Black life. The widespread use of baby formula and nonreusable menstrual products such as pads and tampons, under the false pretense, that they are as safe as more sustainable practices, foster the state’s motive to separate Black women from their bodies.
The practice of breastfeeding and using menstrual cups necessitates an intimate understanding of the body. Similar to how a breastfeeding person must recognize when they must pump, a menstruator must know when their cup is positioned incorrectly or about to overflow. These practices encourage Black breastfeeders and menstruators to trust the embodied knowledge that health institutions try to negate. If Black women and menstruators can participate in these sustainable practices, it can increase their confidence, allowing them to become better advocates for their health and themselves, especially when communicating with health professionals.
Black menstrual cup usage will not solve healthcare inequality; however, it can be a great starting point for Black women and menstruators to reclaim their bodies and health. Learning to use a menstrual cup can be another way of learning about your own body. For me, my menstrual cup gave me the awareness to recognize when my period symptoms were abnormal and the insight to advocate for myself on my health journey. Beyond that, my menstrual cup allowed me to foster an intimate relationship with my body where I felt like I had a say in how I experienced the world. And for me, that was revolutionary.
Currently, Black women are living through three pandemics, as they are three times more likely to die from COVID-19, three times more likely to die from pregnancy, and three times more likely to suffer from fibroids. There is a war against the Black female body. Despite this targeted violence, it is within the Black feminist tradition to love and restore ourselves in a world that never will. I believe that intimacy with our bodies is vital to our survival. And when Black women survive, so do the rest of our communities.
