September 2019

The menstrual cup is intimidating, to say the least. I come from a community in which many believe that somehow tampons can take your virginity and are thus something to fear and be protected from. It’s easy to see how this might conflict with my desire for the relatively more invasive menstrual cup. Fortunately for me, after my mother laughed at me about the idea of the cup, she encouraged me to try one (I’m suspicious she also believed I’d never go through with it). Now I’m a part of the cup cult.

As I begin my fourth and final year at the prestigious University of Virginia (thank God), I realize I find myself feeling a combination of three ways:

1. Excited
2. Relieved
3. Terrified

I’m excited because I'm leaving. I’m relieved because I’m leaving. And I am terrified because… I have to leave.

From a very young age my father instilled in me a love of cooking. Over the years he tried to teach me the culinary basics: the art of pairing flavors, the five mother sauces of French cuisine, the importance of making sure meat remains tender, and the fact that if you ask any Italian chef they will downright condemn putting cheese on seafood. Thinking back now, I realize that I have encountered fish and cheese before (your classic lox and cream cheese on an everything bagel), but for some reason this “no cheese on seafood” rule always stood out in my brain as an important one.

In fifth grade, as I sat at a lunch table eating with my classmates, a boy at the table over called me “freakishly tall.” When I reached seventh grade, I towered over even my basketball teammates. As a freshman in high school, I was frequently asked by adults what year I was in college. Suffice it to say, I’ve always been tall. I can point to a number of instances in my life where my height has been the subject of jokes, comments, and passerbys’ mutterings.

“In our society, those who are educated sit on chairs and those who aren’t sit on the floor.”