Sex Ed: 1996
I am in the middle of my final period ever.
Being a woman is glory. It is pain. It is empowering and enslaving in equal measure. Saying goodbye to my uterus, fallopian tubes, and cervix feels both liberating (no more periods, yay!) and oddly sad.
After 23 years, I’ve decided to end one of the longest relationships of my life.
Next week’s hysterectomy will stop my menstrual periods forever. The surgery – scheduled to eradicate problematic fibroids – should relieve me of what I can only describe as periods from the fiery underworld of hell. They leave me depleted, sick, and borderline anemic.
I recently discussed the upcoming surgery and the lifelong end to my period with a friend. She asked me in passing if I remember the first time I learned about periods and what they are.
I didn’t have to think twice about the answer to this question.
I first became fully and completely aware of periods at the fifth-grade event that my classmates and I have, for more than 25 years, referred to simply as “the video.”
The girls in my grade were directed to bring a mother, older sister, aunt, or grandmother to our cavernous high school auditorium for the event, while the boys students were instructed to bring a male relative to the gym on the same night. This was one of countless gender-segmented gatherings that marked my public school experience.
I chose a seat in the auditorium with my mother by my side, bristling every time she breathed. When we sat down, she dared to touch my arm before speaking to me and I reeled back, revolted. I had heard rumors of this event and “the video” all week and, if they were to prove true, this was not going to be an enjoyable bonding experience for us. I was humiliated even before I had confirmation of what was to come.
My friends and I turned away from our chaperones to chat skittishly across rows of seats. The room pulsed with anxious energy, our girlish chatter punctuated by nervous giggles and casual adult conversation. Most of my friends brought their mothers, but one of the “cool girls” brought her edgy, dark-lipsticked older sister. I scowled and silently cursed my mom for only providing me with a little brother. How useless.
One of the fifth-grade teachers stood up to share some details about what we were about to experience. It was always strange, on occasions like these, to see our teachers after dark. She dropped the words “anatomy,” “sexual experiences,” “bodies,” “puberty,” “period,” and “safe sex” on repeat. I disassociated and sunk lower into my seat, willing the floor beneath me to open up and swallow me whole.
As this mortifying lecture continued without a foreseeable end, a second teacher passed around a “goodie bag” for each student. The ziploc bag, tied off with a curly red ribbon, contained a single stumpy shrink-wrapped O.B. tampon (sans applicator), a thick, unbranded maxi pad, and a small printout bordered by clip-art hearts, its cheerful Comic Sans font explaining how to use each item. I reddened and shoved the bag into the deep gap between my seat and the one next to mine, where I fully intended to leave it when I exited the event.
Before I knew it, someone cut the lights – and “the video” began.
While I don’t remember the details of the movie’s narrative, here’s what I do remember seeing, as it’s still burned into my brain a quarter-century later:
A diagram of female anatomy with arrows pointing to the clitoris and vulva.
An illustration of ovulating and menstruating ovaries, uterus, and vagina.
A diagram of male anatomy.
An animation of a flacid penis growing erect and beginning to drip. (The animation then zoomed in on one drop of semen, magnifying swarms of tadpole-like sperm swimming around frantically.)
Photos of penises and vaginas blanketed in curly, fluffy dark hair.
A cartoonish illustration of a man and woman having sex, missionary style.
…and pubes. Pubes upon pubes. So. Many. Pubes.
by Ana GomezThe film ended. The room fell dark and silent. But just when I thought I had experienced all the terrors the evening had to offer, another video started.
It was called “The Miracle of Life.”
This video treated us to a close-up view of two spread legs connected by a vagina (covered in, you guessed it, unruly, untamed pubes), which expanded to an alarming size as the seemingly enormous head of a baby appeared.
The woman roared as she pushed the child’s head out. I covered my eyes and watched the rest of the birth through the slits between my fingers. Soon, the baby’s shoulders made their way out, quickly followed by everything beneath. The camera followed the wailing, squirming creature that emerged, which was coated in what looked like a coating of white powder, beige goop, and splotches of blood. We never returned to the vagina close-up. Thank goodness for small mercies.
This horror show was referred to as “the miracle of life”?
I wanted no part of it. I wanted no part of anything I had seen that evening. I didn’t want my period. I didn’t want sex. I certainly didn’t want to push a baby with a head the size and shape of the bowling ball I used at Chris Smith’s birthday party last weekend out of my vagina. I was thoroughly dissuaded from engaging in – or even allowing myself to get curious about – sexual activity of any kind. Period.
And I couldn’t believe I had watched all this while grazing elbows with my mother.
One thing was immediately obvious to me, even at the naive young age of 11: Boys had it easier. So much easier!
My future held a life of bleeding, cramping, inconvenience, and pain. My body would be used for housing and feeding. Puberty would require products and preparation – but, if I understood correctly, the boys would have very little to think about at all. And, speaking of the boys, what were they watching down the hall in the gym at that moment? I was willing to bet their video was shorter.
“Any questions?” my teacher asked.
I had one thousand questions (namely: Dear God, WHY?). I asked none of them.
Other students weren’t as timid. I no longer remember their specific questions, but I do remember mentally cursing each one for causing this night to drag on any longer than it had to. And, finally, it was over. We were all reminded to take our goodie bags home. My mom swiftly reached over my rigid form, stuck her hand in the gap between seats, pulled out the ziploc bag, and put it in her purse. I supposed I hadn’t been as stealth as I thought.
We filed out.
Three years after this event, I got my first period while at the beach with a friend and her mom. It was relatively uneventful as no one, including myself, noticed it had happened until I got home.
26 years after “the video,” I am in the middle of my final period ever.
In between these two milestones, I have had no fewer than three pregnancy scares. I’ve had one abortion, one miscarriage, dozens of pap smears and ultrasounds, and two vaginal births. I’ve since learned that the experience of birthing children can be beautiful – and that periods can be so much worse than how the video portrayed them to be.
Being a woman is glory. It is pain. It is empowering and enslaving in equal measure. Saying goodbye to my uterus, fallopian tubes, and cervix feels both liberating (no more periods, yay!) and oddly sad. I am grateful beyond measure to have birthed two beautiful, healthy little girls. Many women aren’t as lucky – yet, there’s still something nostalgic and dejecting about having my internal baby-making machine ripped out and thrown in the garbage. Such finality. Such disregard for a key player in the miracle of life.
No matter how this surgery goes or what life without a period will look like, I look forward to helping my daughters learn about their bodies, their choices, sex, consent, and childbirth in a way that doesn’t make them – or me – want to disappear into a hole in the floor. They have been born into a generation of females who hold their heads and standards high – and we all have a role to play in perpetuating that.
