Red Blooming
Twelve years old, whispering "shit" to myself on the toilet. The red in my underwear stares up at me as if it were invited. I was in my father's house with no female reinforcement. Secret secret secret. I clear up the evidence, wrapping wads and wads of toilet paper around myself for protection. I scurry back to my room, wondering if this is what it feels like to be a woman. Later at Grandma's for the weekend, my undercover femininity is discovered in the laundry room. Her creaky fingers dust off sanitary pads that hadn't been thought of in years.
The blood didn't bother me. It was becoming a vibrant force that showed me I was still making ripples. The bright splash of red reminding me that I was part of something ancient and mystical, something that runs by the heart of the moon. Red tents and Midol began to mean things to me. I could now hunch my shoulders and crinkle my face at PMS, commiserating with my mother as an equal rather than her daughter, because now we were both women.
As I grew, I learned more and more to throw away any humiliation of my bodily transformation. I toss my tampons on the checkout counter without looking down at my sneakered feet. I pull tampons from my bag as if they are flowers instead of a gun. I talk with other women openly about my body because we all have one and we all know what it means and we all bleed the same.
Now when I bleed, I feel chosen. I was chosen to bear this pain as it courses through my breasts, back and hips. I was chosen to bear life or expel it. I was chosen to continue the lineage of women who are afraid but keep moving. I was chosen to follow the lunar cycle. I was chosen to be among women.