by Renée Watson
It says: Why Are There Period Ads Everywhere? And below, it says, The better question is, why shouldn’t there be? There’s a 1 in 12 chance that you’re on your period now, yet we rarely discuss menstruation outside of whispers from woman to woman. Today we can change this. I take my journal out and jot down some notes for later.
To the ads in the subway that try to tell me how to change my body—
My body is a tornado. Nor’easter.
The eye of every storm. Yes, my body
a cacophony. Song. Hydrant of butterflies
Collective. Not meant to be revised or edited.
Just exactly right the way it is. My body
is a rallying, an assembling. It cannot be
shut down or silenced. Won’t be. We
live holy & raucous in our skin, we
are not made of fruit—there’s nothing sweet
about me. My body is a hurricane. Natural
earth moving & shaking—we who don’t shut up
or down other girls & the kinds of noise our bodies
make. We are a protest of bones & will not be shushed
or quieted. We’ve got our hands & mouths & teeth
& breasts & blood all the way up & shining
& blistering on up & into the great big blazing sky.
By the time I get off on 96th, I’m practically skipping. No one is gonna take us down. We have all the power. The shirts are ready as soon as I get to the shop. I take a few out and spread them on the counter.
“Very cool shirts,” Dave, the guy who’s working on the front desk, says. “My girlfriend would love the Frida Kahlo one. She’s into that kinda stuff.”
“I love them,” I say, unfolding a few to see which size would work for me.
“So, you have extra-small, small, medium, and large, and then a few of the men’s large as well. Does that work?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.” I walk out of the store and hail a cab, since the shirts are way heavier than I expected. We ordered enough to sell next week. I haul the load into the taxi and text Jasmine that I’m on my way to Word Up, and that she should meet me there so she can help me unload the shirts.
Jasmine is sitting on the front stoop of the bookstore when I arrive. She has her journal out, so I know something’s already on her mind. I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and we haul the boxes inside. The bookstore is still empty, since bilingual story time doesn’t start until one p.m. It’s just Derrick, one of the grad school volunteers who works the checkout desk, and Leidy, who is setting up in the back. She’s setting out notebooks and pens, and is clearly way more ambitious this week, since she has nearly a dozen laid out on the tables. We say hello, and I instantly read my poem to Jasmine, who loves it, and thinks we should make a video this week. I pour all the shirts out.
“So cool,” I say.
“A reminder that class is about to start, so please respect the space,” Leidy says, eyeing the shirts, “but I am loving these shirts. Nice job!”
“Thanks, and you know nobody ever comes to class, Leidy. It’s like every week it’s our special one-on-one,” I joke.
“Well, I am hopeful. So please think about someone other than yourself, dear,” she replies, and walks to the back of the store.
I roll my eyes, then notice Jasmine, who is studying the tags on each shirt. By the look on her face, I can tell something isn’t right. “Did they get a quote wrong? I knew I should have checked them all before I left. What’d they mess up?”
Jasmine looks at me. “You didn’t check them?”
“Oh, I mean, yeah, I looked. They looked great to me, but . . .”
“And you checked the sizes? I mean, you ordered these sizes?”
“Yeah, they’re all there. Jeez, I thought you meant the quotes were wrong, but yeah, the sizes are all here. I got ’em all.” I smile. “We are really doing this.”
Jasmine is silent. She pushes the chair back and folds her arms.
“What?” I ask.
“You really don’t know.”
“Catch me up, Jasmine, because I have no idea what the problem is. I mean, I spent all last week helping Isaac with the design, and then the whole freakin’ morning going downtown to pick these up, and now you’re annoyed—so what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I can’t wear any of them, Chelsea.”
I look down at the shirts and see that Jasmine has laid out all the tags on the women’s sizes. “You didn’t even think about me, which means you didn’t consider anyone who doesn’t fit into the standard sizes, which is messed up.” She whispers that last part so Leidy doesn’t hear us arguing.
“Oh, crap,” I say, gathering them up to look at all the labels. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even, I just . . . I didn’t even think about getting the bigger sizes, or the plus sizes, I mean—”
“Well, you should have, and if you looked at anything other than your favorite magazines, then you’d know there’s a whole market for curve models, and women and girls who occupy space with their bodies in different ways.”
“I know, I know, I just—”
“You don’t know, and it makes me feel like you don’t even see me, Chelsea.”
“Intersectionality,” Leidy sings from the back of the store, clearly listening in on our conversation. “You must learn to look at and see each other—you have to come together over race and class and color and nationality and sexuality and size and ability, and so on,” she begins to hum.
I roll my eyes again. “I got men’s large, okay? You can wear that, right? It’s fine.”
“No. It’s not fine. And by the way, for someone who’s so into fashion, I think you’d know that a men’s shirt is cut differently, and so no, it’s not gonna fit me. And Leidy’s right. We have to start thinking about everyone, and not just ourselves all the time. You have to do better,” Jasmine says, grabbing one of the women’s large. “I’m gonna get Nadine to make this work for me. And you, you need to do some edits on that poem.”
When I get home, I sit at the kitchen table and try to start my homework, but all I can think about is my conversation with Chelsea. I can’t stop thinking how girls like me hide in plain sight. Chelsea has known me since middle school, and in middle school I was fat. I wasn’t thick or plump or big-boned. I was fat. The biggest kid in our grade. Always. How could she not see that? All these years of taking the subway together, hasn’t she noticed that when she points out that there’s a seat and I say, “That’s okay, I’m fine, you sit,” that I am not just being polite but that I actually can’t fit, can’t squeeze in between two people on a crowded train?
I have always felt so close to Chelsea. In the fifth grade, a white girl told me that my brown skin was just dirt and that if I took a bath, it would come off. Chelsea slapped her. Of course, we later learned about the whole nonviolent movement, but for me it meant Chelsea was my real friend. That she wasn’t going to make excuses for anyone’s racist comments. She has always had my back. Always.
I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I don’t even notice Mom has come into the kitchen. She has bags of groceries in her hands. “Can you help me with these?”
I take the bags and start unpacking them.
“We’re having sandwiches for dinner,” Mom says. She sets out pastrami, salami, turkey, and cheddar and provolone cheese.
I unpack the pickles and all the condiments she bought.
Mom slices sourdough bread, then takes out serving dishes and prepares the meat and cheese on the plates like she’s getting ready for guests to come over, even though it’s just us.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“Nothing. Why?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Mom, I’m fine.” I bring the trays of meat and cheese into the dining room.
“Humph.” Mom dumps potato chips in a bowl and brings it to the table.
I call Jason and Dad to come eat.
I wish I could just make my sandwich and go to my
room to eat. Every time we have dinner together, we share our peaks and pits of the day. Today, there are no peaks to share. Just pits for me. And I don’t want to talk about it, especially not with Mom. She has nagged me about my weight since I was a chubby seven-year-old. You need to get that weight off of you, she says. She’s eased up on it now that Dad is so sick. But still, I know she wishes she had a normal-size daughter.
I can feel myself about to cry, and I am so tired of crying. So tired of stressing about if I am going to fit in a booth at a restaurant or if the reason why Isaac hasn’t actually asked me out is because he’d be embarrassed to claim the fat girl as his girl.
But I am more tired that all these things are superficial and have nothing to do with my actual health. The last time Mom insisted I go to the doctor because she was so worried about my weight, the doctor told her I was healthy. That, yes, incorporating healthy eating and regular exercise would be important but that all my vitals were where they needed to be. Still, though, she nagged the whole way home. “You need to get that weight off of you.” Like it is so easy.
I don’t care what Mom says, losing weight isn’t about my health. I know this because whenever she gains half a pound, she looks at herself in the mirror with disgust and says, “Oh God, I am getting fat.” And when she was pregnant with Jason all she kept talking about was the fear of not losing the weight afterward, as if staying big would be the worst thing that could happen to her.
“Jasmine, would you like to start us off?” Dad asks.
No. I really, really don’t.
I think for a long while.
“Come on, Jazz,” Jason whines. He eats a chip, and Mom gives him a look, then looks at me.
“Um, I’d rather not talk about today.” I haven’t even told Mom about anything that’s happened at school with the blog or quitting the acting ensemble, so explaining why we made shirts wouldn’t even make sense to her. She’d probably just say what she always says whenever I complain about the roles big girls get cast in, “Well, Jasmine, you know how the entertainment industry is. If you want a different kind of role, you have to look a certain way. That’s the business.” No outrage in her voice.
“There’s no pass,” Jason says. “Hurry up.”
Dad says, “It’s okay. Tonight, Jasmine gets a pass.” He smiles at me.
Jason says, “My pit was not getting chocolate milk at lunch today because they ran out.”
“And your peak?” Mom asks.
“Chips for dinner!”
“You have to eat your sandwich first,” Dad says.
Mom shares about her day. “My pit was the looong line I had to stand in at Whole Foods, but my peak is sitting here, eating dinner with you all.”
Dad drinks from his glass of water and says, “Your mom and I have the same peak tonight, I guess.” Then he looks at me, “My pit is that something’s upset my daughter.” When Dad says this, I smile—which is kind of strange. I have never felt joy after someone shared their bad thing. Dad prays over the food, and we eat. Mom compromises with Jason, telling him as long as he eats two squares of his sandwich he can have some chips.
After dinner, I go to my room. I am finally in a better mood and am able to get my homework done. Just before I go to bed, there’s a knock at my door. “It’s me,” Mom says.
“Come in.”
She doesn’t step into my room. Instead, she talks through the half-opened door. “You don’t have to tell me, but I just want to make sure you’re talking to someone.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just a misunderstanding with Chelsea. We’ll be fine.”
Mom’s shoulders relax. “Okay. Just, just checking. I love you.”
“I know you do. I love you too.”
Mom closes the door.
I lie in bed, trying to fall asleep, and I think for today’s peak I could have said Mom and Dad.
Our shirts are a hit. There are nearly thirty of us who show up in all the different designs. I wear Maxine Hong Kingston, and Jasmine wears Ruby Dee. Isaac and Nadine got some of the people from their clubs to wear them, and then Mia got the entire girls varsity basketball team to come in rocking our Woman Warrior T-shirts. I watch them all walk in together—a whole mix of the women on their shirts—and see the surprised look on the security guard’s face.
“These look nice,” Ms. Sanchez says, eyeing all the designs as we walk in. She stops me to admire the quote on the back. “Wow, I love these! Where did they come from?” she asks.
“We designed them,” I say. “Well, I mean, a bunch of us did. Isaac, Jasmine, and Nadine—we all figured it was about time people celebrated revolutionary women,” I finish.
“You kids did this, huh? I love it. Let me get three of the Sandra Cisneros shirts, please. For my granddaughters. They know how radical I am. They will love these. You have to teach ’em when they’re young,” she says. “We came here from the Dominican Republic, and once you arrive, they try to take all your history away from you. Whitewash it all. Maybe put Julia Alvarez on the next batch.”
“We’re on it,” I say, unloading three shirts for her right then and there.
Who knew Ms. Sanchez was so political. And by second period, I am getting text message requests for shirt sizes and styles. We beg Ms. Lucas to use her classroom, and then we post on her bulletin board that we’ll be selling some of our shirts, and if we run out, or need different sizes, then we’re taking any future orders during lunch. We get to the room to set up—unfolding the shirts that Jasmine and I packed up in our backpacks in neat piles. We each brought twenty-five shirts in all different sizes to make sure we had a variety for everyone. We didn’t know if people would want them or not, but we wanted to be prepared. As soon as the bell rings, kids come filing in and we don’t stop the whole time. We sell all fifty shirts. Lots of folks love the women we have chosen, but others come in with special requests: Shakira, Tina Charles (from one of Mia’s teammates), Gloria Steinem, bell hooks, Gloria E. Anzaldúa. And then there are requests for everyday women warriors. They tell us stories about women who make life better—moms who wake up early to make sausage and eggs for their kids, and aunts who show up to school plays and make clothes, sisters who help with algebra homework. When Meg and her best friend, Michelle, walk in to buy a shirt, I know the mood in school has lifted.
“Can I get two shirts? Uh, the bright yellow one and the hot pink one . . . the one you’re wearing.”
“All sold out,” Jasmine says, not looking up.
“But we could take an order,” I add, nudging Jasmine while in my mind trying to figure out why Michelle would even want to be a part of our movement. “This is Audre Lorde, and I’m wearing Maxine Hong Kingston. If you don’t know them, you should totally look them up,” I say.
“These are . . . I really like the shirts,” Meg says, pulling her wallet out of her bag. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We really were just joking.”
“Thanks for that,” I say.
Jasmine doesn’t say anything at first, then as Meg walks away she calls out, “If you’re going to wear these shirts, you really should look up these women. You could learn something.”
By the end of lunch, Ms. Lucas is as excited as we are. “I’m just overwhelmed . . . ,” she says. “Did you hear how many people shared stories about the strong women who make them who they are?”
I take out a sheet of paper before we leave and write: To join the revolution, visit Write Like a Girl, and jot down the website for our blog before pinning it to the bulletin board.
“You can’t use the word ‘revolution,’ ” Ms. Lucas says, eyeing the paper over my shoulder.
“But that’s what it is. You saw how many people showed up here today, right?”
“Listen, I am here for you all, since I am your advisor, but ‘join the revolution’ is very different from ‘join the conversation.’ Let’s get back to the dialogue, and everything will be fine.” She finishes packing up her room and walks out with us. “Let’s keep it all on the u
p-and-up.”
“Okay,” I say, frustrated that I can’t change her mind. “I gotta run to my locker before my next class. Maybe we can talk about this later?” I add. Ms. Lucas nods as I rush out.
I run upstairs to the third floor to grab my textbook before STEAM. I’ve been reading a ton of tech blogs, and I can’t wait to bring some of my newfound poems to class. I only have a few minutes before the lunch bell rings, so when I see Jacob Rizer near his locker, I almost turn around and leave my poems, but he stops me.
“Chelsea Spencer—poet, activist, T-shirt designer—she does it all,” he finishes, starting to laugh.
“Did you wanna buy a shirt? Because we actually SOLD OUT. Too bad you missed your chance,” I say.
“Oh, I probably still have a chance,” Jacob says, and I take a step back. If he’s flirting with me, and I think he is, then he’s doing it in a creepy way. I give him a look and open up my locker.
“Whatever,” I say.
“So you miss us in poetry club?” he asks, pushing his shoulder up against mine for a quick second. It’s not too hard, but it’s definitely uncomfortable, and way closer than he’s ever gotten to me. Jacob was always such a jerk in class, and now I’m wondering if he was acting like a kid—like how my dad once told me when a boy really likes you they’re mean to you.
“Nope, I’m pretty good where I am, thanks,” I say, and move to grab the book inside my locker and get out of the hallway, which is still empty since lunch hasn’t let out yet.
“Come on, admit it, you miss me just a little, right?”
“Oh yeah, I really miss all the times you talked over me in class, and when you’d make fun of what I said . . . yup, I really miss that.”
“Ah, I knew you missed me. But I guess now you’re too busy writing your sweet little poems about how hard the world is for girls. Poor little girl,” he says, and pats me on the head like I’m a puppy or some small animal.
I don’t know what it is, but something snaps in me, and I shove him off me, hard.
“Jeez, Spencer, you can’t even take a little joke?”