Travels

DP #0033

Dear Period,

In the year 2000 I was a young college student studying abroad in Kathmandu, Nepal. It was my first time overseas and I was highly sensitive to the culture and traditions of my host country. Prior to embarking on this journey, I learned of Nepal's garbage crisis - with plastic bags and bottles littering the cities and the high Himalayas - so I packed my suitcase with OB tampons to avoid the extra waste from plastic applicators (Note: this was before I discovered the joy of the Diva Cup). Once in Nepal, I quickly learned that menstruation is a taboo topic for people who live within the traditional caste system. Women, who truly are the workers in all countries all over the world (holla), must stay out of the kitchen during their cycle. I imagined that it was a nice break from the endless labor of preparing meals and making tea, despite the insinuation that women are "dirty" and would contaminate the family's food during their periods. Because we were Americans, we were not expected to adhere to this custom. Nevertheless, menstruation in an underdeveloped nation comes with challenges. For one, tampons and toilet paper could not be disposed of in the traditional squat toilets. So how were we to dispose of these taboo items? My roommate and I struggled through a conversation with our Nepalese host mom in our stilted Nepali. She indicated that we should keep them in a plastic bag and when our cycles were finished, we should toss the bag. Toss the bag? But, where? Where else but at the local "dump," a.k.a. an empty lot that we passed by on our way to school each day. When I was blessed (insert sarcasm here) with my first period while living in Kathmandu, I collected my used tampons in a black plastic bag all week. At week's end, I tied the bag and carried it with me as I walked to school, mortified that everyone knew the contents of my parcel and were horribly offended by my natural proclivity to bleed. When I came upon the vacant lot littered high with garbage, I tossed my bag and scurried off. On the way home from school, my roommate and I discovered the local cows grazing amongst the garbage. Cows, animals revered in the Hindu religion, were eating garbage. These sacred beasts were possibly munching on my crimson cotton rockets. It was a horrifying clash of culture, religion, and hygiene, which repeated every month for the semester I lived there.

Why must you torture women and appall men all across the globe?

Dear World Traveler,

Just like the cow is sacred in many cultures, so am I.  I'm offended that you feel I torture women (not worried about the men).  Yes, I occasionally make you moo-dy and eat like you have four chambers in your stomach, trying to satisy each.  But torture?  No, if you want to put the boxing gloves on my dear, we can spar, but I'll always win. 

Respectfully,

Period