Thank You, Candy

I got to do a really satisfying thing recently; I got to deliver a long overdue thank you to a friend.

All the way back in tenth grade, Candy and I got into a fight.  I remember arguing in front of my locker.  I remember being stubbornly angry.  I remember us defiantly parting ways.  I have no recollection the reason for any of it.  I do know after that day, it was the end of our friendship in the joined-at-the-hip way we'd been accustomed to; it was always superficial after that.  And I missed her constantly.

A little background:
A couple years earlier, eighth grade started a rough stretch in my life.  Amongst my many turmoils, I gave the rumor mill its first tiny seed, and it blossomed into a beautiful nightmare.  The blatantly false tales of my promiscuous behavior grew to fantastical proportions.  I was challenged to fights by girls who'd heard I was trying to force oral sex on their boyfriends.  There was no shortage of guys willing to say they'd seen or participated with me in public orgies.  Several friends joined the chorus of jokes and jabs.  I was a 13 year-old pariah.

Ninth grade had just begun when I received a visitor who'd heard my place equaled action.  I had the misfortune of being home alone (but spared the full act).  My attacker wasted no time the next Monday bragging he had firsthand knowledge that the rumors were all true.  A friend told the school counselor, the police were called, and my circle of friends shrunk.

More humiliating than having the bruised bite marks photographed, or turning over torn clothes and the vulgar recordings left on my answering machine, was facing my peers at school.  Everyday I was tormented with questions like, "how can you do that to him? He has a girlfriend, and you're a slut." Ouch.

Important Aside:
I don't tell the story to garner sympathy, but to give context for my thank you.  The scars from that time are barely visible now, even to me, but I do know where to look for them.  It is the reason I take great care with the secrets people entrust to me, but live my own life like a wide-open book.  It is also the reason I do my level best to never lead with judgement, and bristle when people speak in absolutes.

When I testified in court, my mother and brother were considered witnesses and could not sit with me.  But I did have one person by my side, holding my hand and encouraging me-Candy.  I remember what all of us were wearing that day.  I remember the questions I was asked.  I remember the answers he gave.  And I remember Candy's voice.

At the time of our fight I was 15, and only in the infancy of my mental recovery.  I didn't yet understand how the events of those years would inform so many decisions and sacrifices I would make.  But I always felt the loss of Candy's friendship.

When I roll around the events of my life, I inevitably come back to those years, and that incident.  I occasionally search the sex offender registry (he's on it for subsequent crimes), but he's not really the point.  I think about Candy.  It has always been deeply meaningful to me that she stood by me during a time it was incredibly unpopular do so.  Candy was a friend when I needed her most.

More than once over the years, Candy and I crossed paths, and I wanted to hug her and tell her I miss her.  And thank you.  But I just couldn't help wonder if we were still fighting?  And what the hell were we fighting about?  (We've since determined that neither of us have any idea.)  My timing was impetuous and odd, but I finally got my chance.

So I told her.  And we hugged and I cried.  And then we relived all sorts of happy memories.  And a gigantic weight was lifted.

Thank you, Candy.

My First Time

This year our family decided, for the first time, to host a foreign teacher for our children's Spanish immersion school.  We were fortunate to be matched with Sarahy from Honduras, and even more fortunate to be a part of many firsts for her as well.  Her first plane ride brought her to Minnesota.  Since living with us she has experienced her first snowfall, her first bowling alley, first roller coaster, first hockey game, and first time internet shopping.  And then there is this one other first for both of us that is near and dear to my heart uterus.

When Sarahy arrived, it was with great excitement that we showed her around our home and introduced ourselves.  When acquainting Sarahy with her space, I had pointed out a drawer in the bathroom with several feminine hygiene items: tampons, panty liners, razors, etc.  A few weeks after her arrival, I learned she'd had someone bring her to the store for sanitary napkins.  She explained she was unfamiliar with tampons, and needed something she understood.  I felt bad I hadn't thought to stock pads, and was perplexed by the idea that she hadn't had experience with tampons.
I thought only people who lived in small, remote villages around the world hadn't used tampons.  Who knew?

*About a month* later when she came home with a box of tampons I was curious, and more than a little surprised. She explained that a woman had purchased boxes for the teaching assistants and her peers were encouraging her to try them.  She didn't seem enthusiastic about the idea, but bravely asked me if I could help her understand how to use them.  No one had ever asked me the tampon question before.
I live for this kind of thing. I got this!

I proudly unwrap the tampon and describe how to the hold the plastic applicator at it's neck with your right thumb and middle finger.  With the right pointer finger, I push the thin tube into the top tube, grasping the tampon as it exits the plastic.  I hold up both parts, pull the collapsed applicator beyond the string, and voila, tampon insertion complete!
"Make sense?"
I can tell by her expression that my explanation had fallen short of effective.  Damn.
I say it only once in my head, and then quickly aloud so I don't lose the nerve.
"Put your hands together like this to make a vagina. Vagina (vaheena) manos."
I ask her to kneel down so I can stand beside her to demonstrate the correct angle.  Tampon cued up, applicator inserted into the vagina hands, tampon ejected, success!  Her eyes and mouth turn up into a smile, and I know we've connected the dots.
I'm so good at this!
"Now you try it."
She faces me and fumbles with the applicator with both hands.
"No, no, you'll need to stand next to me.  You won't have that kind of angle when you're doing this to yourself.  And you need to practice using one hand."
That felt weird to say.  Maybe it wasn't that bad. Other people must have said that. 
"I have to use one hand? What do you do with the other hand?"
"Well the other hand kind of clears. the. area."  I'm turning my left hand slowly down to make an upside down peace sign.
Okay, it's weird. I feel weird.
She stands beside me to prepare for her first attempt.
If anyone walks in right now to see me kneeling down making praying hands into vagina hands, I'll die.
Sarahy practices putting a tampon into my vagina hands a few times until she feels confident.
Mission accomplished! I'm an excellent teacher.
I advise her of proper disposal, we discuss frequency for changing them, and when to use super versus regular.
The world is a more educated place. Yeah me! 

I was experiencing a sense of pride and walking away, onto the next thing, when her question comes.
"Carrie, so what happens to the string?"
"The string?"
"When you go pee, what happens to the string?"
Because English is her second language, I often speak with purposeful diction when explaining something unfamiliar, but now I'm in awkward slow motion.
"Well. Sometimes the string. Is already. Curled. Up. In. Your. Vaginal opening. Then it's not very necessary. To do anything."
I feel feverish.
More quickly now. "Sometimes, you do nothing.  It gets wet, and then you can just blot it dry when you're wiping."
I may need to lay down. 
"And sometimes *motions for her to follow me into the bathroom* you can move it out of the way."
Shut up, Carrie.  Stop talking. Some things are meant to be self-taught. 
Nope, I'm doing it.  I'm actually walking into the bathroom to give a full demonstration of how to move the string out of the way.  God, help me. 
I squat over the toilet and reach behind me to show how one might go about pulling the tampon string to the side.
Rock bottom.  I just hit rock bottom. 
She doesn't seem convinced that scenario will ever come up, and I'm not sure it will either, but now the cat's out of the bag that I sometimes move my tampon string.
Does anyone else do that? No one taught me that. I don't know. I don't want to know. 

The learning is complete, and I'm now really happy to be done.  Until I stop, and go back.
"Oh, I just remembered one more thing."
Do I have to say it?  I don't want to say.  I can't help myself because I feel compelled to see this whole lesson through.  I travel out of body to watch the words fall out of my mouth.
"When you take the tampon out, *deep breath* sometimes it will pop out quickly, and swing like a pendulum."
I'm miming a swinging tampon with my forearm.  
I need a drink.
Her expression tells me she wonders why this is significant. 
Well, I'll tell you. 
"If you aren't prepared, it may drop into the toilet water, then wrapping it up to throw it away becomes a horrible mess."  In fairness to my awkward need to relay this information, it is true.  Unless you don't care about causing a plumbing back up, but I do.
"Sometimes it will crash into the side of the toilet and leave blood on the rim.  It would be nice to clean that kind of thing up."
Okay, super gross, but I don't want to clean it up.  
"At this point, I trust you can practice on your own."
 I officially feel faint, and must now remove myself from the kitchen.  The lesson is really done this time.  I will have to assess my teaching skills when I come to.

Tampon tutorial (long version) is complete.
No additional Q &; A at this time. :)