The Vagina Monologues Read Online Free Page B

sticking out as if it had been a teat, to the length of half an inch,” which the gaoler, “perceiving at the first sight thereof, meant not to disclose, because it was adjoining to so secret a place which was not decent to be seen. Yet in the end, not willing to conceal so strange a matter,” he showed it to various bystanders. The bystanders had never seen anything like it. The witch was convicted.
    —The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets I interviewed many women about menstruation. There was a choral thing that began to occur, a kind of wild collective song. Women echoed each other. I let the voices bleed into one another.
    I got lost in
    the bleeding.
    I WAS TWELVE. MY MOTHER SLAPPED ME.
    Second grade, seven years old, my brother was talking about periods. I didn’t like the way he was laughing.
    I went to my mother. “What’s a period?” I said. “It’s punctuation,” she said. “You put it at the end of a sentence.”
    My father brought me a card: “To my little girl who isn’t so little anymore.”
    I was terrified. My mother showed me the thick sanitary napkins. I was to bring the used ones to the can under the kitchen sink. I remember being one of the last. I was thirteen. We all wanted it to come. I was so afraid. I started putting the used pads in brown paper bags in the dark storage places under the roof.
    Eighth grade. My mother said, “Oh, that’s nice.”
    In junior high—brown drips before it came. Coincided with a little hair under my arms, which grew unevenly: one armpit had hair, the other didn’t. I was sixteen, sort of scared. My mother gave me codeine. We had bunk beds. I went down and lay there. My mother was so uncomfortable. One night, I
    came home late and snuck into bed without turning on any lights. My mother had found the used pads and put them between the sheets of my bed. I was twelve years old, still in my underpants. Hadn’t gotten
    dressed. Looked down on the staircase. There it was. Looked down and I saw blood.
    Seventh grade; my mother sort of noticed my underwear. Then she gave me plastic diapers. My mom was very warm—“Let’s get you a pad.”
    My friend Marcia, they celebrated when she got hers. They had dinner for her. We all wanted our period. We all wanted it now. Thirteen years old. It was before Kotex. Had to watch your dress. I was black and poor. Blood on the back of my dress in church. Didn’t show, but I was guilty. I was ten and a half. No preparation. Brown gunk on my underpants. She showed me how to put in a tampon. Only got in halfway. I associated my period with inexplicable phenomena. My mother told me I had to use a rag.
    My mother said no to tampons. You couldn’t put anything in your sugar dish. Wore wads of cotton. Told my mother. She gave me Elizabeth Taylor paper dolls. Fifteen years old. My mother said, “Mazel tov.”
    She slapped me in the face. Didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. My period, like cake mix before it’s baked. Indians sat on moss for five days. Wish I were Native American. I was fifteen and I’d been hoping to get it. I was tall and I kept growing. When I saw white girls in the gym with tampons, I thought they were bad girls. Saw little red drops on the pink tiles. I said, “Yeah.”
    My mom was glad for me. UsedOBand liked putting my fingers up there. Eleven years old, wearing white pants. Blood started to come out. Thought it was dreadful. I’m not ready. I got back pains. I got horny. Twelve years old. I was happy. My friend had a Ouija board, asked when we were going to get our periods, looked down, and I saw blood. Looked down and there it was. I’m a woman.
    Terrified.
    Never thought it would come. Changed my whole feeling about myself. I became very silent and mature.
    A good Vietnamese woman—quiet worker, virtuous, never speaks. Nine and a half. I was sure I was bleeding to death, rolled up my underwear and threw them in a corner. Didn’t want to worry my parents.
    My mother made me