Samuel Clemens wrote, “The clothes make the man.” Well, this applies to women too.
When I was eleven, I went through menarche. So the women in my family threw me a party. It happened in the morning before I went to school. Unbeknownst to me, they called my school while I was on the bus, and arranged to have the party in my classroom. Now, to a fifth grader, the kids in that room are the only people in the world, and I didn’t want anyone to know.
That morning, in addition to everyone I knew socially, my family was there, standing under a banner that said, “Welcome to the Joy of Womanhood.” There were red balloons, red streamers, a white cake with the words “Monthly Miracle” in red frosting. Just before I had gotten there, my mother had started sending a big card around the room for everyone to sign with a red marker. I didn’t even know that American Greetings made a “Happy First Period” card. We were in fifth grade, we thought first period meant spelling. I was mortified. I was looking around and my family was so happy. My friends were just confused. Nobody knew what to write on the card, so most of the comments were, “Are you OK?”
As my mother handed me a present in red and white striped wrapping paper, I grumbled under my breath, “What are you doing here?” This was a bad idea. As she responded loudly, “Don’t be embarrassed, your mighty womanly river is nothing to be ashamed of.” My present was Maxi Pads. All the presents were pads. They ranged from light to super absorbency. My friends thought they were diapers. I shouldn’t have asked why I couldn’t have tampons instead. My grandma apparently held very strong opinions on this and told everyone in the class that tampons would take a girl’s virginity. A girl in the back started to cry. I envied her.
Since all the girls in the class were the same age, the teacher thought it would be educational if we kept the party going through lunch. I think she thought it was some kind of Jewish Quinceanera. My great-grandma told everyone about her first period. Her mom died when she was young and she only had seven brothers, no sisters. So, when she got her period she thought she was dying. She felt ashamed because her dad needed her on the farm and she felt that by dying, she was disappointing her whole family. I thanked great-grandma for the pep talk.
My grandpa just talked about how cranky my grandma used to get and called her period a “raging rust-colored torrent.” My dad gave me a hug, but he leaned in so he wouldn’t touch me hip-to-hip. It was the most awkward hug I had ever gotten. My younger brother was pouting because he was jealous that he didn’t get a party. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t have one. My mom told him, “You don’t have a wahoo to bleed out of like Jaime does.”
This story is supposed to have a moral to it, and I did learn something that day. I learned not to wear khaki slacks when you get your period. I hadn’t bled through the pad, I had bled around it and through my pants. My grandma was the first to notice, exclaiming from behind me, “Whoa, Jaime, clean up on isle two!” My mom rushed to the car to get me a new pair of pants. The boy I liked in the front row asked me, “Are you dying?” Yes, Lawrence, yes I was.
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