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It was July 4th, 1999. I had just stepped away from watching Pokémon on my box television to use my mother’s bathroom. As I looked in the mirror, I saw my oversized, tattered Spice Girls t-shirt and mismatched scrunchies holding my messy pigtails. Sitting on the toilet, my legs swung in the air, not quite reaching the ground. A glance down revealed what looked like brown and red watercolor paint in my underwear. I wasn’t scared—pain was what I associated with something being wrong, and this didn’t hurt. Still, I felt the need to show my mother.
I bunched my underwear in my hand, pulled up my high-water jeans from Walmart, and secured them before stepping out of the bathroom to find her in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboards.
“Mommy,” I called out.
She didn’t respond.
“Mommy, I don’t know what this is,” I tried again.
Still, she ignored me. Finally, I held out my underwear for her to see. The horror on her face was alarming. Was I dying? Had I done something wrong?
“Oh my God! NO! NO! YOU’RE GOING TO GET PREGNANT!” she exclaimed, snatching the underwear from me and immediately dialing my aunt on the landline.
I stood there, bewildered, waiting for my mother to guide me. She was frantic, and after I left the kitchen, I went back to my room and turned on the television to distract myself. I thought, “If I die, maybe God will let me watch all the cartoons I want!” My mother hadn’t told me what to do, so I didn’t dwell on it too much.
A day or so later, at my aunt’s house, she called me into the dining room. “Hey sweetie, I want to teach you something,” she said, knowing how much I loved to learn. She pulled out a magnetic dry erase board and explained where the watercolor paint came from and how often it would occur. “It’s okay. It just means you’re becoming a big girl, Sarah,” she said while rubbing my back.
She showed me what pads were and promised to get some “just my size” from the drugstore. Her calm demeanor always reassured me, even in daunting situations. I thought that the world would handle this new “big girl” status similarly. I was mistaken.
As many women know, periods can be unpredictable. During science class, I felt dampness in my pants and asked to go to the restroom. I grabbed my tiny purse, prepared for any situation. A few girls giggled at my request.
Once in the stall, I noticed one girl had followed me. I tried to discreetly take out the pad, but the crinkling plastic was hard to hide. The girl stood outside my stall, waiting. With no trash can inside, I had to wrap up the packaging and dispose of it in front of her.
When I exited, I said hi to her. “I WON’T TELL ANYONE!” she squealed, stifling laughter. Not understanding why it was a secret, I thanked her. Soon after, I realized I wasn’t invited to any birthday parties anymore. One girl told me her mom said I couldn’t come because I would “bleed everywhere” and would look “inappropriate.”
At that time, I was wearing a training bra because my body had changed rapidly since starting my period. Kids’ clothing no longer fit me, and I felt like an awkward mix of a young girl in juniors’ outfits. While the girls excluded me, suddenly boys who had previously ignored me began to show interest, inviting me over. I was thrilled when a popular boy invited me to his pool party, but I distinctly remember being gawked at, with boys pulling at my bathing suit while we swam.
In middle school, severe bullying forced me to transfer to a small private school, which I loved. The uniforms meant no outfit judgment, and the smaller environment made me feel safer. I quickly made friends, including Cassy, who invited me to her home after school.
Upon meeting her family, I sensed something was off. Cassy later confided, “My grandmother thinks you’re a slut.” The sting of those words felt like a breakup. I didn’t even know what a slut was, yet I was labeled as one. This caused me to loathe my body and appearance, believing I was somehow unlikable.
It’s crucial to learn from experiences like mine. Don’t shame young girls. If discussing their development feels uncomfortable, seek help from trusted individuals, do research, and provide better resources. Teach them self-acceptance and that they are perfect as they are. Most importantly, help them understand that they are more than their bodies. These lessons will resonate throughout their lives—I know they have with me.
For further insights, check out this related post on home insemination. If you’re looking for more information about the process, this resource on pregnancy is also very helpful.
Summary
At just nine years old, the author recounts her experience of being slut-shamed and sexualized after her first period. Initially seeking help from her mother, she faced panic and misunderstanding rather than guidance. Later, as she navigated school life, she found herself ostracized by girls and objectified by boys due to her developing body. Ultimately, she urges others to support young girls in understanding their bodies and self-worth, emphasizing the importance of education and compassion.
Keyphrase: Slut-shaming and sexualization in childhood
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