There was a queer, masculine woman named Ms. Thinking about this definitely reminds me that I started school in the ‘90s.
The haircut was very much reminiscent of the Living Single and Martin-esque styles of the time. The fade stayed clean, okay? I think she even had hard curls at the top. Bullock, about mid-50s, who rocked this glorious, curly gray high-top fade. I particularly recall one administrator named Ms. The teachers and parents sported various hairstyles and colorful clothing. We had people from an array of cultures, family structures, age groups, gender identities and personal styles. I never fully appreciated the diversity of the staff and parents at this school. Even with all the awkwardness that a young child feels as they adjust to an environment outside the comforts of home, I felt at home.įrom the teachers, to the administrators to the volunteers, I was surrounded by Black women and men who cared at least a little bit. They identified with our struggles, and did not judge us for going through them. They spoke to us in the language we spoke. My classrooms were usually led by Black women who looked like me and the women in my family. I went to school close to my home in Easterwood with many of the other children from this low-income, African-American neighborhood. For the most part, I felt respected, safe and guided. Despite going to a public zone school in one of the many hoods of west Baltimore, I had teachers who showed me genuine care, support and love. If I were to take an honest look at my early-childhood education, I would have to admit I was more blessed than I’d previously believed. Life event with no trauma, an angel sings. Little embarrassing, but every time a little Black girl experiences a major Show up for me in that moment of my life. Looking back, I it was a blessing to have both of my parents Then my mom told the whole Baltimore I got my first visit from Aunt Flo. I climbed into the car like I was being rescued from some trenches in Iraq. I would have cried, but then I would have annoyedĪ few hours later, my parents picked me up from the camp with the necessary supplies. “Oh…so what you need some pads or something?” he responded, “Hello?!” I called, my annoyance growing stronger. In the middle of my embarrassment, I realized this man still hadn’t said anything! My nosy friend fake gasped like she was on an episode of RHOA. It felt like I had screamed those words from the top of a mountain like a Disney princess or something. I think I just got my period.”Įverything stopped. I was probably hoping he didn’t answer either, but he did on the first try. I reluctantly dialed my dad while trying to put a good ten feet between me and my nosy friend as we walked. I was really saying “please don’t make me have to call dad about this,” but the day had already decided not to go my way. I probably left her the angriest teenage attitudinal voicemail ever as I tried to explain how urgent this matter was without having to say exactly what “it” was outside in public. We left the school heading down the street to after school camp and I immediately called my mother. I needed to find something for my situation quick, fast, and in a hurry. I was panicking and 100% certain that I was mere minutes from bleeding all over myself. I pulled more toilet paper from the raggedy holder (BCPSS please) than I needed and did the best I could with that. To no one’s surprise, she didn’t have one.
Knowing that she already had her “flower,” I asked her for a pad. She was two years younger than I was but was far more developed. “Oh my God, you finally got your period!” I huffed as I did Over to the stall like an excited older sister. I replied “I think I just got my period.” My friend rushed “Girl, fuck is you dying in there?” she asked in her normal, I forgot that my friend was in the restroom waiting on me. My mother and fifth-grade health class had prepared me for this so, now that I was sure my colon hadn’t collapsed, I had to get on with it.
I was more annoyed than afraid or excited or sad, even though I was all of those things at once. My list of conclusions was shortening, and I was forced to accept the only one that made sense: I’d gotten my very first period.
Right before I accepted that as truth, I remembered that I was thirteen and had both full control of my bowels and the ability to smell feces. This couldn’t be right, what the hell is this? I was half convinced that I’d shit myself, no lie. I was standing in the last stall in the dimly lit restroom and the only source of light came from in front of me where the door should have been but wasn’t because Baltimore City public schools. When I pulled down my underwear, that dark red liquid was the last thing I expected to see.