Notes of a Musing Girl

At the age of eleven , I came to understand what every girl understands, that their existence does not belong to them. The first time it came, it was like a subtle storm with the indication of a tempest blow. My stomach turned into itself, while the blood soaked my underwear wet. Afraid that I was dying and that I would be judged for the biology of my body, I dared not say a word to anyone.

Instead, like the frail girl I was, I went into my room, hoping the darkness would hold me in its warmth and stop whatever it was that was happening to my body.

I groaned, tossed, and turned, unaware of the brutality one must face when entering womanhood. I knew not what it was nor what it held, but I knew I was going into it whether I liked it or not.

My refusal to tell anyone what was going on, did not stop my mother from knowing. The stains on my pants and on my sheets would have been clear for anyone to see, if they truly looked for it. Yet, our conversation about my period was not as calm or understanding as I expected it to be. She approached me, like a detective trying to solve a murder. I felt her ardent accusations everytime she looked at me or asked me to turn around. She gave me a snarling stare with her eyes, which relegated me to a state of shame.

It wasn’t until I was tired of dirtying and hiding all of my clothes that I told her what was going on. And, with a quickness, she grabbed an underwear and what she described as a “pad” and showed me how to put it on.

I felt a huge burden off of my shoulder, but then anger quickly set in. I had realized that in all of my past years of living, I had never been educated on my body. My mother merely said that I couldn’t wear bras, when I asked her to buy me some, and she refused to tell me what pads were.

This is what I mean when I saw that girls come to realize they are not the masters of their own bodies. My mother had tried to suppress mine for so long as I can remember because for a long time, society had taught her that her womanly ways were something to be ashamed of.

On a separate occasion, my father told me “go change your clothes, your uncles and cousins are coming here” to which I replied, “what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“It’s not appropriate and it’s too tight.”

Aged twelve, I didn’t know that knee length shorts and a tank top were inappropriate for me to be wearing around other family members. I couldn’t process the significance of that moment at such a juvenile age, but I came to realize in my more mature years that in spaces where women and men are required to exist, the woman is always forced to compromise for the comfort of the male.

I reckon that my parents were the products of the teachings of their society, but, at some point, one has to question the ways in which they see other people and the world.

We must not be caged birds, longing for a freedom we can offer ourselves. We must be the latter bird, who claims the world as their own, seeking rightful discernment.