Menstruation has been in the news a lot lately.
There’s the ongoing movement to eliminate the sales tax on tampons and sanitary pads, based on the argument that these products are essential to women’s health.
So far, eight states — including Minnesota — and the District of Columbia have agreed and repealed the tax.
A national campaign is also under way to make tampons free in restrooms — or, at the very least, in restrooms in public buildings and schools.
As the leader of that campaign told New York Times reporter Roni Caryn Rabin, “Tampons and pads should be treated just like toilet paper — they’re the equivalent. … Menstruation is a normal bodily function, and it should be treated like that.”
And then there are the women who are advocating for painful menstrual periods to be recognized as a medical condition — one that would give them full access to medical marijuana.
Among those women is Whoopi Goldberg, who announced earlier this year that she’s launching a medical-marijuana company with “cannabis edibles, tinctures, topical rubs, and a THC-infused bath soak” designed to relieve menstrual cramps and bloating.
Menstruating in space
One of the more interesting menstruation-related news items that have crossed my desk in recent weeks, however, is a medical review article in a journal called npj Microgravity that explores the options for astronauts who want to avoid menstruating while in space.
In the article, Dr. Varsha Jain, a British “space gynecologist” (her term) and researcher at the Center of Human and Aerospace Physiological Sciences at King's College London, discusses all such options for astronauts, from taking sufficient quantities of sanitary products with them into space to suppressing their menstrual periods with a long-acting reversible contraceptive (LARC), such as an intrauterine device (IUD) or a contraceptive implant.
Although stressing that astronauts need to make their own decision about the matter, Jain seems to suggest that LARCs make the most sense, both practically and medically, at least for long space trips.
“There are no rules or regulations surrounding what a female astronaut should do about her period — it is a completely personal choice,” Jain writes in an essay published online in the Conversation on the same day as the journal article. “Some female astronauts have felt menstrual suppression is not suitable for them and therefore have chosen to menstruate in space. However, when making the decision a female astronaut may want to consider some of the challenges of getting periods in space. These tend to be related to the practicalities of hygiene — wash water is limited and changing sanitary products while floating in space would also be quite a task.”
At the start of the U.S. space program, menstruation was used as an argument for why women shouldn’t be astronauts, Jain adds. Part of that argument was health-related: NASA’s medical experts worried that weightlessness would cause retrograde menstruation, the flowing of menstrual blood back into the body. Retrograde menstruation is believed to be a cause of endometriosis in earthbound women.
But weightlessness does not have that effect. “Studies have shown that women can have periods as normally in space as they do on Earth,” writes Jain.
In a 2010 interview, former astronaut Margaret Rhea Seddon, who joined the NASA space program in 1978, described how she and other women in the program were asked about what should be done about menstruating in space.
“We said, ‘How about we just consider it a nonproblem until it becomes a problem?’” she recalled. “‘If anybody gets sick in space, you can bring us home. Then we’ll deal with it as a problem, but let’s consider it a nonproblem.”
“I’m not totally sure who had the first period in space,” she added, “but they came back and said, ‘Period in space, just like period on the ground. Don’t worry about it.’”
Sally Ride, the first American woman in space, also recalled with some amusement an early discussion she had with NASA engineers, who were clueless about how many tampons a woman would need during a one-week spaceflight. They wondered if 100 would be a “safe” number.
“No,” she told them. “You can cut that in half with no problem at all.”
A menstruation museum?
Certainly the oddest story I’ve read recently about menstruation appeared this week in the Washington Post. Reporter Lia Kvatum learned about the now-defunct “Museum of Menstruation and Women's Health,” a collection of “all manner of tampons, maxi pads, menstrual underwear, pain relievers, advertisements, booklets about menstruation and, yes, douching supplies.”
The collection is now packed in boxes in the New Carrollton, Maryland, basement of the museum’s founder, 73-year-old Harry Finley.
Yes, it is a bit peculiar that a man has apparently devoted much of his time over the past 30 years to amassing and curating these objects. But putting that aside, the items offer a fascinating look at the history of the social norms — and taboos — surrounding menstruation.
Here are a few of Kvatum’s descriptions of items in the collection:
Homemade reusable pad (probably Italian, probably from the late 19th or early 20th century). Once, women fashioned their own products such as these cloth pads, which were meant to be washed and used again and again. The first commercially available disposable pads in the United States were made by Johnson & Johnson in 1896, but they were not popular because they could not be advertised. The product was eventually discontinued.
Fax tampons. Homemade tampons have been around for centuries. Fax tampons were some of the first commercially marketed tampons, probably from the late 1920s or early 1930s. These beauties were made of an absorbent material wrapped in gauze; they had no applicator and no string. Packaging information reminds readers that using a Fax tampon does not interfere with urination, as they are indeed separate orifices for menstruation and urination, and tampons are appropriate for “young or unmarried girls.”
Menstrual (or “sanitary”) apron. Menstrual aprons were worn under a dress or skirt as barrier protection. A 1922 ad from the Venus Sanitary Service enthuses that barrier products are “Indispensable for Travel, Automobiling, Athletics, Emergency Uses.”
Kotex sanitary belt. If you’re a woman younger than 40 or a man of any age, you will likely be mystified by the so-called “sanitary belt.” Before self-adhesive menstrual pads of the 1970s, disposable pads had tabs at each end which were attached to a belt like this one. Such words as “sanitary,” “fresh” and “dainty” frequently were used to describe products because, as [Elizabeth] Kissling explains in her book “Capitalizing on the Curse: The Business of Menstruation,” “one must keep menstruation concealed, to present one’s carefully constructed front of femininity from becoming damaged by the stain of menstrual pollution.”
Breaking the taboos
“There is something uniquely taboo about menstruation, much stronger than norms around reproduction or women’s bodies,” Chris Bobel, an associate professor of women’s studies at the University of Massachusetts and the president of the Society for Menstrual Research,” told Kvatum. “We have a very uncomfortable relationship with women’s bodies, and we see menstruation as a problem that needs to be hidden or fixed.”
If all this recent media attention on menstruation is any indication, however, today’s young women are not worried about hiding the fact that they menstruate (perhaps because their baby boomer mothers threw them a party to celebrate their first menstrual period?).
That’s a welcomed change. All too often, menstruation has been treated in the media and elsewhere as a kind of “eew” topic, one that shouldn’t be discussed in polite company — or anywhere except in women’s magazines.
It’s also been used all too often to deny women opportunities or to demean them — as demonstrated by Republican presidential frontrunner Donald Trump’s “blood coming out of wherever” comment about Fox News Channel anchor Megyn Kelly after a televised debate last year.
Kvatum reports that Finley is looking for someone to take over his museum and its collection.
Maybe he should ship it to the Trump Tower.
FMI: You can read Varsha Jain’s review article in full at the npj Microgravity website. It’s a sluggish read, however. Her essay in the Conversation is more accessible and offers more background information.
Meg is a lawyer-mom in suburban Washington, D.C., where lawyer-moms are thick on the ground. She’s asked us not to use her last name to prevent mortification to her son Doug. He is quite mortified enough already.
Doug is one of several hundred thousand high-school seniors who had a painful fall. The deadline for applying to his favorite college was Nov. 1, and by early October he had yet to fill out the application. More to the point, he had yet to settle on a subject for the personal essay accompanying the application. According to college folklore, a well-turned essay has the power to seduce an admissions committee.
“He wanted to do one thing at a time,” Meg says, explaining her son’s delay. “But really, my son is a huge procrastinator. The essay is the hardest thing to do, so he’s put it off the longest.”
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Friends and other veterans of the process have warned Meg that the back and forth between editing parent and writing student can be gruesomely traumatic. “But I tell them, you can’t scare me,” she says. “I’m already there. I mean, I was an English major, I’m a lawyer, I write for a living! And I’m panicking already.”
The panic is arriving early this year. Back in the good old days—say, two years ago, when the last of my children suffered the ordeal—a high-school student applying to college could procrastinate all the way to New Year’s of senior year, assuming he or she could withstand the parental pestering. But things change fast in the nail-biting world of college admissions. The recent trend toward early decision and early action among selective colleges and universities has pushed the traditional deadline of January up to Nov. 1 or early December for many students.
If the time for heel-dragging has been shortened, the true source of the anxiety and panic remains what it has always been. And it’s not the application itself. A college application is a relatively straightforward questionnaire asking for the basics: name, address, family history, employment history. It would all be innocent enough—20 minutes of busy work—except it comes attached to an incendiary device: the personal essay.
“There are good reasons it causes such anxiety,” says Lisa Sohmer, director of college counseling at the Garden School in Jackson Heights, N.Y. “It’s not just the actual writing. By now everything else is already set. Your course load is set, your grades are set, your test scores are set. All that’s done. But the essay is something you can still control, and it’s open-ended. So the temptation is to write and rewrite and rewrite.” Or stall and stall and stall.
The application essay, along with its mythical importance, is a recent invention. In the 1930s, when only one in 10 Americans had a degree from a four-year college, an admissions committee was content to ask for a sample of applicants’ school papers to assess their writing ability. By the 1950s, most schools required a brief personal statement of why the student had chosen to apply to one school over another.
Today nearly 70 percent of graduating seniors go off to college, including two-year and four-year institutions. Even apart from the increased competition, the kids enter a process that has been utterly transformed from the one baby boomers knew. Nearly all application materials are submitted online, and the Common Application provides a one-size-fits form accepted by more than 400 schools, including the nation’s most selective.
Those schools usually require essays of their own, but the longest essay, 500 words maximum, is generally attached to the Common App. Students choose one of six questions. Applicants are asked to describe an ethical dilemma they’ve faced and its impact on them, or discuss a public issue of special concern to them, or tell of a fictional character or creative work that has profoundly influenced them. Another question invites them to write about the importance (to them, again) of diversity—a word that has assumed incantatory power in American higher education. The most popular option: write on a topic of your choice.
“Boys in particular look at the other questions and say, ‘Oh, that’s too much work,’?” says John Boshoven, a counselor in the Ann Arbor, Mich., public schools. “They think if they do a topic of their choice, ‘I’ll just go get that history paper I did last year on the Roman Empire and turn it into a first-person application essay!’ And they end up producing something utterly ridiculous.”
Talking to admissions professionals like Boshoven, you realize that the list of “don’ts” in essay writing is much longer than the “dos.”
“No book reports, no history papers, no character studies,” says Sohmer.
“It drives you crazy, how easily kids slip into clichés,” says Boshoven. “They don’t realize how typical their experiences are. ‘I scored the winning goal in soccer against our arch-rival.’ ‘My grandfather served in World War II, and I hope to be just like him someday.’ That may mean a lot to that particular kid. But in the world of the application essay, it’s nothing. You’ll lose the reader in the first paragraph.”
Other no-nos: family trips to Europe or Asia, especially by children from ritzy ZIP codes. Ditto the year Ashley spent as an au pair in France, and the leadership seminar Grayson attended in Washington, D.C., paid for (natch) by Mom and Pop. And tales of community service, according to the pros, are fast becoming overripe. Hemmed in by so many taboos, is it any wonder that kids and their parents are so anxious?
“The greatest strength you bring to this essay,” says the College Board’s how-to book, “is 17 years or so of familiarity with the topic: YOU. The form and style are very familiar, and best of all, you are the world-class expert on the subject of YOU … It has been the subject of your close scrutiny every morning since you were tall enough to see into the bathroom mirror.” The key word in the Common App prompts is “you.”
College admission contains the grandest American themes—status anxiety, parental piety, intellectual standards—and so it was only a matter of time before it became infected by the country’s culture of obsessive self-esteem, sometimes called narcissism. It is revealing that essay questions are called prompts, a word suggesting that all a healthy, red-blooded American high-schooler needs is a little nudge to start yapping about himself without pause till he hits the 500th word. Even essay questions ostensibly about something outside the self (describe a fictional character or solve a problem of geopolitics) invari-ably return to the favorite topic: what is its impact on YOU?
A system that places its highest value on the comfort with which a young person can expose—or pretend to expose—his inner self will be to the great advantage of such people. What this says either way about a student’s ability to perform academically is anybody’s guess.
Amid all the Sturm und Drang, one important fact is seldom mentioned to applicants or their parents.
“For all the angst the essay causes,” says Bill McClintick of Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania, “it’s a very small piece of the puzzle. I was in college admissions for 10 years. I saw kids and parents beat themselves up over this. And at the vast majority of places, it is simply not a big variable in the [college’s] decision-making process.”
Many admissions officers say they spend less than a couple of minutes on each application, including the essay. According to a recent survey of admissions officers, only one in four private colleges say the essay is of “considerable importance” in judging an application. Among public colleges and universities, the number drops to roughly one in 10. By contrast, 86 percent place “considerable importance” on an applicant’s grades, 70 percent on “strength of curriculum.”
Still, at the most selective schools, where thousands of candidates may submit identically stratospheric grades and test scores, a marginal item like the essay may serve as a tiebreaker between two equally qualified candidates. The thought is certainly enough to keep the pot boiling under parents like Meg, the lawyer-mom, as she tries to help her son choose an essay topic.
For a moment the other day, she thought she might have hit on a good one. “His father’s from France,” she says. “I said maybe you could write about that, as something that makes you different. You know: half French, half American. I said, ‘You could write about your identity issues.’ He said, ‘I don’t have any identity issues!’
“And he’s right. He’s a well-adjusted, normal kid. But that doesn’t make for a good essay, does it?”
Ferguson is the author of Crazy U: One Dad’s Crash Course in Getting His Kid Into College.