periods.

I never wanted my period. In a previous essay, I revisited the classroom that educated me and my fellow middle schoolers on the basics of sex and heterosexuality. Using the animated aids from the hippie influenced 70s, these shorts mentioned that my cycle, what seemed like a heavy emotional and physical burden to take on monthly as an augment to my daily ablutions, I prayed to be a late bloomer. There was nothing I wanted more in the world was to have my period come in my late teens or bypass me so I would not have to endure the hormonal flood and clear emotional weight that being physically able to carry a child added to the social duties of the gender label of female.

And like the double edge sword that is life, my 11th Christmas brought the gift of my first cycle. Clearly my hard-won knowledge and observations needed to be put into practice. Ugh, my teen brain bemoaned. Gifts can be unwanted. Even more when I had to explain it to my mother and she went all wide-eyed as I told her I was being molested instead of just growing up.

It took a few accidents in bed to get the handle of pads. I am and am not ashamed of the accident that left my father’s bed looking like a murder occurred overnight but his choice to shame me while enduring the trials of puberty, well he is another problem.

But why do I bring this up? Because of transgender women.

Black transgender women have been killed in all this COVID19 and race protesting. The sisterhood lost two hundred years of knowledge and experience during a month that is celebrated by and built on the backs of other transgender women. And to make it worst, it was a murder not committed by a police officer or a violent john but an enraged group of Black men that see Black women as their property to damage before anyone else does. And that makes the levels of self hate we harbor in my community kill my faith in rebuilding my community a little. Well, more than a little.

It makes me think about being regarded as property by my parents. For some reason, many minority communities view their children as an extension of the self instead of a gift to the world that they are awarded the joy of stewardship. So it is bizarre that former property is choosing to raise their own offspring as property. It may have some relation to the cycle of poverty but I would need more research to develop opinions in that space. But to my father, I am a prized woman that by coming from his genetic loins, all my accolades should reflect on him through me. If we return to my essay on escaping my father’s space, I will sum it up- he would want me to figuratively blow him after every bite I took despite being the chef in the first place.

For my mother, she wanted to have a puppy in my place. She always wanted me to come to her like I did as a child and seek her approval on my accomplishments as a reminder that without her sacrifice of bringing me to term was everything. It is a curious way to weave a leash. With that constant need for approval being the requirement, who would tie themselves to that leash owner? Her need to be assured that she is a good mother is akin to me needed to remind the family dogs that they were good dogs today. And that kind of relationship between a mother and daughter is fucked up. No matter what, I would have not given up enough to match her sacrifice.

So when I heard that a mob of Black men attacked these women because they were born men, it brought up how we culturally fail each other when it comes to our own transitions. When we go from curious toddlers to snarky pre-teens to moody teenagers, we evolve naturally. And some of us need to change the physical body to match who we are internally. That kind of transition is fine with me. It is change and change occurs constantly. For these Black men to say what makes a woman is being born in a female body makes me question if having a penis enough to be a man?