There are periods of world history—large, expansive, extremely important and eventful times in human existence—that I will never remember, yet for as long as I live, I won’t forget the Ming Dynasty, for it was to the noise of their clashing swords that I became a woman.  I was in seventh grade, age 13, and we were watching a movie on Chinese history.  While the Mings were in the midst of expelling the Mongols, I began to feel this unearthly pain in my lower abdomen.

We were all sitting on the floor of the classroom to watch the movie and I remember attempting to discreetly lie on my belly in hopes that it might go away.  Facedown in the scratchy carpet, I tried to figure out was happening to me.  My two guesses were 1) appendicitis, and 2) my period.  As the Mings were reforming the Chinese Civil Service Examinations, I weighed my options: if it was appendicitis, then either I would have to go to the hospital, or just die, and not have to come back to school in either instance.  Of course, if I had gotten my period, then that was another matter—that meant a lot more. 

Back in the days of middle school, at least at my middle school, getting one’s period was akin to a competitive sport.  Everyone knew who had theirs already; everyone couldn’t wait to join their ranks in womanhood.  My best friend at the time who I had known since preschool had gotten hers a couple months earlier, and I remember sitting jealously in my living room as my mother congratulated her and explained to her womanhood, what it meant to grow up, and the finer points of the tampon vs. pad debate.

I was very excited, lying there in the carpet, at the notion that now it might be my turn.  I ended up sticking it out for the whole film, which I still feel is quite an accomplishment—it was a very long movie, there is a lot that happened in 14th century China.  After a trip to the girls’ bathroom and a harrowing experience with the pad dispenser, I got on the school bus to go home, excited to tell my mother the news.  I expected a lot from that talk.  I expected secrets to be revealed, meanings to be exposed, and to emerge somehow closer to my mother and her adult world.  I remember beaming as she sat me down on her bed with a package of pads and launched into a similar version of the talk she had given my friend.  But about five or ten minutes into it, her then-boyfriend got home from work and walked into the bedroom.  She looked at me, handed me the package, and nothing more was said.  My first period remained an event shared only by the Mings and me.

—Aliza Shvarts, Los Angeles, CA
Aliza is an Art major at Yale