Kayla Schmidt
Period Day Rally 2019
P is for Personally I always try to keep a spare tampon in my purse. You never know when a friend will be in dire need or a stranger will find themselves mildly inconvenienced because the bathroom doesn’t have a vending machine or even if you manage to find a couple quarters no one has kept the thing re-stocked anyway. Keeping a tampon handy means you can do the secret hand-off.
E is for Except now that I have the implant, my periods have mostly stopped which is really great because in my family, 3 daughters, 6 granddaughters on one side, 2 daughters and 5 granddaughters on the other, with an average height of 5 ft 2” with tiny wrists and dainty ankles, we must be like scorpions, where the smaller the skeleton, the more concentrated the poison, except our poison is our uterine wall and we bleed for at least a week and a half. And it’s not easy to be a productive part of society when your reproductive system is performing a production of the elevator scene from The Shining every time you sneeze.
R is for Realizing that this is all a natural, organic, pure part of life doesn’t change the fact that I prayed really hard to get my period because that’s what I learned from reading Judy Blume, but even Judy, bless her, oversold the whole process. It’s not a beautiful, blossoming, moment of womanhood. It’s messy and tedious and I don’t plan on being a mother, so right now, it’s kind of wasted on me. But I have friends now who really want to be mothers, but that’s pretty complicated too. No one told them that miscarriages mean bleeding. A lot of it, for a long time. In high school you have to ask your teacher to go to the restroom. As an adult, you have to explain to your boss why you ducked out of that meeting early. Excuse me, Person of Authority, my body is being biological and I have to make it all sanitary and then come back and smile and pretend there’s no war zone in my pants.
I is for In memory of all the sweatshirts I tied around my waist because there was a mishap and no matter how dark the denim is, that patch is still visible. Like mud on the back of a bumper. Except we’re not dirty. Or bad. Or neglecting personal hygiene. There’s just no easy way to make sure you’ve got the cotton/blood ratio in check. But we’re so good at cleaning up stains. Once my dad, who owns a bar came home after breaking up a fight and was upset that someone else’s nosebleed ruined his “Here Fishy Fishy” shirt. Luckily I knew just the restoration recipe. Dads are great, but they get real uncomfortable when their daughters need to take a trip down the pantyliner aisle. Guys who get in bar fights think they’re tough, but over-react when you mention an ovary.
O is for Optimistically, period products wouldn’t have to be passed like illicit little secrets. We could go without all the tender euphamisms: lady time, Aunt Flow, shark week, monthly friend. Just think if Carrie had been able to talk openly about what was happening to her body. And the other girls didn’t think they had to bully her to feel good about themselves. Sure, cinematic horror would be lacking, but maybe she could have grown up to be a well-adjusted human and could help science to develop hover-cars. It’s the 21st century and we don’t have hover cars OR equal access to menstrual products. What a waste of intellectual capacity.
D is for demand. Supply and demand is one of those things we get taught in this beautiful capitalistic society. Sex education? Not really. But economics and competitive markets and supply chains? Boy do they love talking about that. So here’s the thing, there’s a healthy, monthly demand. Where are the supplies? What if our teeth fell out every month? Would toothpaste have the same mark up as tampons? Demand your legislators do a little work for you. That they understand that half of their constituency depend on affordable, accessible, products that are as regulated and as regular as a lunar calendar. Demand that we eradicate the pink tax, that extra little cost tacked onto your lady-designated pens and razors and ear plugs. Demand that until we get paid the same as our male peers we’ll keep peering into the pockets of those who are making all this money off our menstruation. Keep demanding, until they start handing out pads to kids in school who have no one else to ask. Until our at-risk populations have equal access to menstrual products and no one has to worry if their diva cup will runneth over. Until I can talk about my period without shame or stigma just as easily as the weather or the price of gas or all the other mundane things that people complain about everyday. Until there’s no such burden as the Tampon Tax and we can move onto other things. Like hover cars. Don’t hate. Menstruate.
E is for Except now that I have the implant, my periods have mostly stopped which is really great because in my family, 3 daughters, 6 granddaughters on one side, 2 daughters and 5 granddaughters on the other, with an average height of 5 ft 2” with tiny wrists and dainty ankles, we must be like scorpions, where the smaller the skeleton, the more concentrated the poison, except our poison is our uterine wall and we bleed for at least a week and a half. And it’s not easy to be a productive part of society when your reproductive system is performing a production of the elevator scene from The Shining every time you sneeze.
R is for Realizing that this is all a natural, organic, pure part of life doesn’t change the fact that I prayed really hard to get my period because that’s what I learned from reading Judy Blume, but even Judy, bless her, oversold the whole process. It’s not a beautiful, blossoming, moment of womanhood. It’s messy and tedious and I don’t plan on being a mother, so right now, it’s kind of wasted on me. But I have friends now who really want to be mothers, but that’s pretty complicated too. No one told them that miscarriages mean bleeding. A lot of it, for a long time. In high school you have to ask your teacher to go to the restroom. As an adult, you have to explain to your boss why you ducked out of that meeting early. Excuse me, Person of Authority, my body is being biological and I have to make it all sanitary and then come back and smile and pretend there’s no war zone in my pants.
I is for In memory of all the sweatshirts I tied around my waist because there was a mishap and no matter how dark the denim is, that patch is still visible. Like mud on the back of a bumper. Except we’re not dirty. Or bad. Or neglecting personal hygiene. There’s just no easy way to make sure you’ve got the cotton/blood ratio in check. But we’re so good at cleaning up stains. Once my dad, who owns a bar came home after breaking up a fight and was upset that someone else’s nosebleed ruined his “Here Fishy Fishy” shirt. Luckily I knew just the restoration recipe. Dads are great, but they get real uncomfortable when their daughters need to take a trip down the pantyliner aisle. Guys who get in bar fights think they’re tough, but over-react when you mention an ovary.
O is for Optimistically, period products wouldn’t have to be passed like illicit little secrets. We could go without all the tender euphamisms: lady time, Aunt Flow, shark week, monthly friend. Just think if Carrie had been able to talk openly about what was happening to her body. And the other girls didn’t think they had to bully her to feel good about themselves. Sure, cinematic horror would be lacking, but maybe she could have grown up to be a well-adjusted human and could help science to develop hover-cars. It’s the 21st century and we don’t have hover cars OR equal access to menstrual products. What a waste of intellectual capacity.
D is for demand. Supply and demand is one of those things we get taught in this beautiful capitalistic society. Sex education? Not really. But economics and competitive markets and supply chains? Boy do they love talking about that. So here’s the thing, there’s a healthy, monthly demand. Where are the supplies? What if our teeth fell out every month? Would toothpaste have the same mark up as tampons? Demand your legislators do a little work for you. That they understand that half of their constituency depend on affordable, accessible, products that are as regulated and as regular as a lunar calendar. Demand that we eradicate the pink tax, that extra little cost tacked onto your lady-designated pens and razors and ear plugs. Demand that until we get paid the same as our male peers we’ll keep peering into the pockets of those who are making all this money off our menstruation. Keep demanding, until they start handing out pads to kids in school who have no one else to ask. Until our at-risk populations have equal access to menstrual products and no one has to worry if their diva cup will runneth over. Until I can talk about my period without shame or stigma just as easily as the weather or the price of gas or all the other mundane things that people complain about everyday. Until there’s no such burden as the Tampon Tax and we can move onto other things. Like hover cars. Don’t hate. Menstruate.
This piece was written for the National Period Day rally led by PERIOD. I was asked by North Dakota's event coordinator to do a reading during the rally in Bismarck. We had a small group, but all meaningful things are about the passion over numbers. Plus, I love making protest signs, so it was a win-win.
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