<Incredible to see this in a storybook! This part is an Indian origin American teenager talking to her American teenager friend.
Via Farah Ahamed >
“Yes they are,” she counters, “because this Friday we are hosting the Banerjee First Moon Fest.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“A #menstruationparty,” Maya says. “We are celebrating womanhood and only womanhood and not only will my lesbian mothers condone this, they will probably cater the food.”
I am not so sure. Maya’s parents are notorious for being easily upset. Last year, when Maya brought home some of Asher’s mom’s honey, Sharon had a meltdown because it was a bee product in a vegan household.
Plus, there’s the obvious.
“You are throwing a period party,” I clarify.
“Come on, Lily. It’s about time we got something out of it that’s more
This is how, two weeks after Asher stops speaking to me, I find myself
hanging streamers to transform Maya’s living room into a living womb. We have stuck maxi pads to the windows; Maya’s mixed up some god-awful red punch. Her mothers are so excited about her celebrating the female reproductive system that they’ve all but canceled her grounding and have made plans to go out so that Maya can have the house to herself and her girlfriends.
She’s texted about fifteen girls from school—some I know from orchestra, and some I’ve never met. Everyone thinks the theme is hilarious. One of the first girls to arrive dumps a bottle of vodka in the punch. An emo playlist beats through the speakers like a pulse. Within a half hour, that tight knot in my belly that’s been there for two weeks begins to unwind; it turns out a party without guys is like a quiet sigh. No one is checking out their reflection in the window; no one is hooking up in a dark corner. We are just women, draped over couches and pillows, feeling safe. We don’t have to talk about the things that hurt us, because we’ve all been there before.
I like this, I realize. I like being part of the crowd.
Mad Honey, by Jodi Picoult
24 Jan 2023 ( First posted on Facebook on 7 Dec 2022)