Don’t Publicly have your period - a personal story of shame in india
I was about 12 years old when I got my first period, and was 14 years old when I was taught I was supposed to be ashamed of it. The message was read loud and clear when I went to buy pack of pads after a surprise attack in India. Many women are irregular, and I didn’t own a calendar to keep track or know I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome at the time.
I trailed the three short isles until I saw my favorite color, a bright green package and brought it to the counter. Without making eye contact, the male cashier fully wrapped my pads in newspapers and then shoved it in a pitch-black bag.
“What a waste of plastic,” I thought as the older Indian man handed me my package. As my cousin and I walked out of the store I asked her why he did that. I was completely confused because in the states I would walk out with, “no bag please,” in an attempt to save the planet. “It’s your period,” she whispered as if confessing a sin. “My what?” I raised my voice, “Shhh, your period. It’s so no one will see your pads and know.”
I couldn’t believe it, and in a fit of annoyance and anger I ripped off every piece of tape, paper, and plastic and walked the streets of Jammu, India with my head held high for the young women who were shamed; as she trailed behind me, trying to pull them out of my hands with every step.
“Stop it Summer! You are embarrassing.”
“Why? Why is this embarrassing??” I raised my pads above my head.
“Why are you doing that? People are looking.”
“Let them stare!”
And it was true. Men and women in the small town looked at me in horror, probably thinking who raised this demon child, and smiled directly at each one until I reached home. She didn’t waste a second to tell the whole family of our outing. I was on display, circled by the aunties with an eager ear for their daily dose of gossip.
As my cousin continued the story, gasps filled the living room, and some aunties put down their chai to cover their mouths. Three generations sat in the circle, and none of them had ever heard of such actions. Shock filled chatter in Hindi filled the air, as they questioned me for 30 minutes. I stayed quiet with my eyes lowered absorbing each jagged comment.
At the end of them asking and answering their own questions, the oldest auntie asked me, “Are you not ashamed?”
I looked up, smirked, and responded, “Why should I be?”
Back then, and even now there is a stigma around a monthly cycle. I have met women who explain that they hide their pads or tampons at the bottom of the full bathroom trashcan so their brothers and fathers won’t know. They make excuses to cover up they eat more than normal, and would rather pop blood thinning pills (even though Advil can be a saver at times) than explain that their cramps are why they are doubled over in pain. I have also met women who think I am crazy for truthfully admitting that I am on my period when a man of any age and occupation asks me why I look so tired.
I have met men that would rather turn a blind eye during that week, cringe at the thought of blood, and think that women need to take care of their business alone. They blissfully wave our pain away with a flick of the wrist, and scoff in disgust like it’s a disease they can catch.
The stigma of being “impure” during that time transcends in a different form in every culture and then twisted through the patriarchal world we live in. What if we start being explicit about our bodies and how every woman reacts differently on their period because it is not common knowledge. What if we explain that some have hormonal imbalances which makes birth control a necessity and that there are also terrible side effects. What if we explained some get violently ill, some have mood swings, some have combinations of the above, and some are hardly effected. What if people knew bloating occurred, and the pain is focused on everything in between our bellybutton and knees but radiates throughout our entire body. That an average woman bleeds about 4 table spoons over 2-5 days but the accompanying blood clots and soaked pads/tampons make it feel like a liter instead. That, “women can’t handle pain,” is a completely invalid argument, when some of us can break our bones or sustain a concussion without batting an eye.
The question is what about the word illicits fear? And how can we stand together to change it?