I already knew about the period. The process that was going to happen in a girl’s body to turn her to a woman. The reason behind that, how surprising it was for me to find out my body would go on a monthly cycle ending with discharging painful residuals just to maintain the possibility of reproducing. What a waste! Well I was prepared, at least scientifically. But as a Persian proverb says “hearing in no way can be like seeing” or in this case experiencing. 

Seeing my mom smiling was not the best reaction an 11 yr old girl expects when she tells her mom there was blood on her underwear, already frustrated by all the hardness an 11 yr old may have. Although years later when I read about different culture’s reactions, I found hers wasn’t the weirdest. At least no one pinched my cheek or worse slapped me on the face.

My mom bought me a few panties that had a layer of nylon/plastic supposedly to be leak proof and of course some sanitary pads. There were no pads with wings at that time, at least in Iran. 

It was during the Norouz holiday and schools were closed, so at least the awkwardness of having your period trying to hide it from your classmates could wait for another month. 

I can describe a lot about how I felt. Probably similar to all other women’s stories, more or less. But there is one vivid picture in my mind. Such a lifelike picture that I can smell the humidity in the air, and feel the coolness of spring nights. 

I was checking my underwear in a damp and dark closet in my grandma’s in the north of Iran. An old house that used to have big rooms which provided almost no privacy. The room we used to put our stuff in when we travelled from Tehran had one large window opening to the yard and other than its main door to the living room, it had one three slab wooden door with small diamond shaped windows on each slab, connecting the room to a large balcony. Traditional architecture, influenced by the common culture used to enjoy hosting sunlight to the house, resulting in big windows and several doors. So in order to get undressed one had to shout to let other residents, who could be anyone! A cousin, uncle, or your old granny who didn’t care for luxuries like privacy while changing clothes, knows her plan and asks them to be cautious roaming the house.

It was almost late at night. We were back from a family gathering. A ritual of New year celebration of course. It was toward the end of my period and I was just using the leak proof underwear by then. My mom had told me the first periods were going to be irregular and light, flow wise, and thus it was ok to wear just those panties. I was bending my torso as much as I could to push my back into the closet to hide myself from the balcony and the window, as it was my dad’s habit to smoke in the backyard and then of course deny it. 

My father was passing the balcony going to the small toilet in the yard. I was leaning on a pile of clothes and was checking my underpants. My mom was standing not far from the closet to check on me. I was super annoyed and overwhelmed already and I was ready to explode and I believe she was sensing that as well. 

It was dark in the closet, but I could see a small blood spot on my blue underwear. A small pasty spot. And before thinking about it, I touched it instinctively, maybe to check if it was really blood… I don’t know. 

“Don’t touch it” said my mom disgusted. 

But I’d already done it. I touched the blood and was looking at it on my finger tip. That tiny nasty pasty thing I was beginning to learn was going to be there every month for so many years that in a 11 year old’s literature world can be considered as a lifetime, and I was supposed to get accustomed to it, and practice various ways to hide it. 

I’m 37 now and my 11 year old days seem so far that I feel like periods have been always with me. I’d reckon if that’s the reason in some cultures they use the word “monthly habit”. Since then I have added several chapters to the book of “menses and other unpleasant experiences of womanhood”. Weird disgusting feelings of having blood clots discharging from you in the middle of an exam, or sitting in the backseat of your parents car while travelling. But from that first time, the only image I remember now is that small pasty blood stain on my underwear in that dark damp closet in that room with a large window opening to the yard in my grandma’s during the new year holiday of my first year of middle school.