After that strange passage through the puberty, hair became a very big issue. Those were the days of Charlie’s Angels, and Farrah Fawcett led the charge for what blondes should look like if they were culturally accepted. What had started out as silky golden hair morphed into the worst asset of what all women hold dear. Yes, my friend, it did not happen overnight, but by the time I had left Catholic grade school to enter into the hallowed halls of one of the city’s most prestigious schools, an ongoing battle occurred as I watched the popular girls with shiny, straight hair drawing tremendous influence with our peers and the elusive male sex.
The ectomorph body that God had given me was changing daily. Mom had never mentioned a word about menstruation, so I found myself unable to grasp the tenor of the classroom, as a cryptic film with unknown language elicited peals of laughter from my classmates. Ours was a cliquey class, and never fitting in to any of the rigid pecking order, isolated, I remained confused at all of the content of the cozy film displaying verbal exchanges in confidence between two pubescent females. Mom was unapproachable and peers floated in the higher realms of social behavior, so I was left alone on a flimsy raft barreling down the white waters of adolescence. The day of entrance into womanhood was not a ceremonious occasion. Dressed in tennis whites and standing at the transit station with my younger brother, some confusing babble commenced from the mouth of a young African American woman.
With racquet in hand and one foot on the bench while we waited to be transported to our tennis lesson, I stood as she exclaimed, “Yo period’s on,” to which I replied, “What?”
Again, “Yo period’s on.”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“I sayed, yo period’s on.”
This exchange continued for the better part of a quarter of an hour until my brother acted as my interlocutor and said in a deadpan voice, “You’re having your period.” His eyes were focused on the scarlet stain on my tennis panties. I looked down in horror as he added, trying to comfort me in the moment of humiliation, “Maybe it’s because they are Mom’s. How true. I thought this must be some collateral damage from not having my outfit ready and grabbing some of Mom’s tennis attire.
Shannon Callahan 