Are You There, America? It’s Me, Sapna. And I’m a Nine-Year-Old Indian Lesbian Who Just Got Her Period in the Heartland!

I’m at the library looking for books on puberty and periods. The first that comes to mind is, of course, “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret?” I feel sorry for any girl who made it through adolescence without the pleasure of reading this book. It captured the awkwardness, anxiety, and excitement of “becoming a young woman,” in the hormonal sense.

I say “in the hormonal sense” because some of us became young women as children. I was only nine when I got my period. And I was overwhelmed. It was in the fourth grade. They didn’t show us “Julie’s Story” until fifth grade.

For those of you who were not raised in the dark ages, here is a summary for “Julie’s Story” from IMDb: “Julie gets her first period in her dance class and tells her best friend and their teacher. The teacher informs Julie of what to do during her period. This is an informative piece for pubescent girls who have or will begin to menstruate.”

I recall the teachers handing out pamphlets after the movie and showing us with a clean pair of panties in hand, how to affix a maxi pad to them. As if any idiot couldn’t figure that out.

Apparently, I was that idiot. When my period arrived when I was nine, I was ashamed. I knew what periods were because my mom was very vocal about hers. I knew Mom used maxi pads, which I saw discarded in the trash, soaked with blood.

Having periods seemed like something ladies my mom’s age did. Periods had to be so far away from the life of a nine-year-old, I thought. So naturally, when it arrived, I wanted to hide its evidence. This effort involved me wearing 3–4 pairs of underwear at a time to school and hiding the underwear in the back of my closet.

I don’t know how many times I got my period and did this ritual. I think only for two months, until my big sister discovered the heap of bloodstained panties creeping out from behind boxes in my closet. I heard her enter the closet, pull things apart, and holler “Mom.”

Then came Mom. She was quite an imposing figure to a nine-year-old. My mom had a bellowing voice, giant bear-like eyes, and a gaze that looked deep in your soul. She said to me simply, “So, you’ve gotten your periods?” She was from India, and she always made the word plural, so it was getting your periods.

I shyly nodded. She took me to the bathroom and pulled a box of maxis from under the sink. I think all she said was, “Next time, use these.”

So I figured it out. Because like I said, any idiot can stick a maxi pad on underpants. But the shame stuck with me. And apparently, it does to this day. Because here I am in the public library trying to find the books about puberty. I had to shuffle through “The Joy of Sex,” and “Having Multiple Orgasms.” Here I am: a grown woman feeling completely embarrassed by my sexuality. Of course, I didn’t want to be mistaken as a pervy McGervy, because I’m also a grown woman without children who is looking for books about puberty.

The first and only book I can find has pictures, and it explains sex from a heterosexual angle and how it is tied to reproduction. Again, I feel invisible as an adult. Where are the sexual acts that I understand, explained? Maybe I should write that book: “Are You There, America? It’s Me, Sapna. And I’m a Nine-Year-Old Indian Lesbian Who Just Got Her Period in the Heartland!”

This book would describe how I had to stuff maxi pads in my jeans’ pockets in the fourth grade and beg to go the restroom so I could do my changing ritual. Because unlike Julie, in “Julie’s Story,” I didn’t have a teacher I felt like I could tell. I just had to sneak around as if I was running to the little girls’ room for a smoke break. No one could know of my womanhood.

And no one did. I kept it my little secret until about Grade 7. At a sleepover, we played a game of Truth or Dare. I took a Truth and was asked, “Have you gotten your period?”

I said, “Yeah.”

My best friend shrieked, “Soupy!” (That was my nickname.) “Soupy, you didn’t tell me. I’m so happy for you.” Then she hugged me.

I didn’t say it, but I wanted to say, “I’ve had my period since I was nine! Back off. It sucks.”

And it did. I can remember many trips to the school nurse to lie down and cope with cramps. One by one us teenagers would make our way to the nurse’s office to parade our womanhood and its woes. Because it did suck. And it still does.

Luckily, being an out lesbian since I was 19, I’ve never had to cope with the fear of my period not coming, meaning that I was pregnant. I say luckily because I don’t want kids. I don’t know how women who sleep with men who don’t want kids handle all these multiple pregnancy scares. Because periods suck, but sometimes getting them is just what you wish for!

So here I am, growing older gracefully, I hope. And I’m finally comfortable to talk about my period openly.

In Indian culture, if you have your period during the day of a religious ceremony, a puja, for example, you must not attend the puja. Supposedly, having your period means your unclean.

My mom made me sit out of a few pujas, even as an adult. I didn’t feel unclean, but I did feel blessed. Religion is not my thing, so sitting out a puja was a win in my book. I cannot imagine what it’s like for those who embrace Hinduism though and are faced with this ostracization for being who they are — women. Women who bleed. So I ask you now, a call to action, have you ever faced shame for getting your monthlies, your Aunt Flo, your gushing volcano of pain? I hope to hear your thoughts in the comments. Thanks for reading and bleed on.