Tampon | Alexandra Neuman

At age seven I found one in my mom’s cabinet. I sat cross-legged on the icy marble flooring of her bathroom and eagerly stripped the plastic wrapper off of what I thought was advanced candy. What I found inside left me quietly stunned; the shiny plastic bullet was the symbol of a world of tiny things that I was not allowed to know of yet, and its blatant uselessness mocked me. Inedible, impenetrable—it shared some relationship with my mother, maybe my father, their mere owning it upheld my growing suspicion of all that they were hiding. It was there in my hand yet wholly out of reach; it hinted in that moment of some gross reality that I was ashamed to not yet understand. Continue reading “Tampon | Alexandra Neuman”