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Menstrual Wars
- University of Texas Press
- Chapter
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~ 139 ~ But this was not the time of my life to sense the longings of my mother. It was a time that I was centered on myself and making sure that my friends’ boobs hadn’t grown bigger than mine in the last twenty-four hours. MenstrualWars ~ With time, my sisters and I changed from niñas to mujeres with the start of our menstrual period, what Amá called “la maldici ón” (“the curse”). This affliction came upon us without warning and caused a war that lasted for years. Amá had her hands full, with five fierce and angry women who were at all times ready to pull each other’s hearts out at the slightest provocation. It only took one wrong word, one touch or look, to ignite our years of unresolved anger. We communicated physically and destructively. Handy household items fell victim to our moods, one after another. Each year we bought a new ornament for the Christmas tree, but one particular Christmas we decided to share our money and make ornaments for the tree. Amá was working, so Estella, Mary, and I spent many hours making popcorn and cherry garlands for the tree.When we finished decorating the little pine, we couldn’t agree on the proper corner for it. My sister Estella was beside herself because she couldn’t get the Christmas tree to stand straight in the bucket. After so many tries and one last nasty word from me, she became so angry she grabbed the tree and began swinging it at us as if it ~ 140 ~ were a baseball bat and we were elusive balls.We screamed and jumped from bed to bed as she chased us. She finally flung the humble tree out the door.We stopped running, stunned at the sight of the poor little tree with the shattered ornaments and crushed popcorn and cherry strings on its side beneath a swaying palm. While the Christmas tree incident was explained away to the neighbors, the slingshot incident was something else.This was another example of runaway emotions that came with the monthly “visitor.” One hot summer Saturday, my mother and her gossiping friends stood outside fanning themselves and moving along with the shade of the palm tree while they complained , “When will we get out of this hell?” I was sitting by the open window when I saw Stella in the backyard, poised with a slingshot, aiming at a nest of baby birds. She took a shot, knocking them to the ground. I ran yelling outside and saw that the parched ground was scattered with little dead birds. Stella shoved me aside as I grabbed for the weapon, all the time hollering for her to stop. She cursed back, telling me, “Shut up! If you don’t, I’m going to shoot you!” I turned and ran for Amá, but Stella was quicker. Before I could get to Amá, a Seven-Up bottle meant for me whizzed past my ear and narrowly missed her friend’s forehead. To the woman it was as if the devil himself had thrown it. Her words burned like fire as she spewed out the malediction, “Your hand will wither and die for what you have done!” In her anger, she tripped over a chair, her eyes blazing and her mouth screaming in indignation as though the world was coming to an end. “This generation has lost all respect for their elders!” As she yelled “¡muchacho!” and “¡grosera!” my sister replied defiantly, “I have the devil in me but you have a big mouth!” Poor Amá could only look on in horror and shame. Then there was Mary. Mary and I had one thing in common —we both owned certain possessions that we did not want anyone to touch. Mary’s treasures were her two strapless [3.145.191.214] Project MUSE (2024-04-17 20:28 GMT) ~ 141 ~ bras, which she wore only on weekends with her spaghetti strap dresses. She won lots of attention from the boys, and all of us younger girls were in awe. The only things she seemed to have that we didn’t were developed breasts. So whenever we got the chance, we would sneak her bras to our friends’ houses and stuff them full of tissue. As careful as we might be, she’d discover them missing and would search until she found us. She wasn’t subtle about it—she’d just collar us, grab the tissue...