We Are Going to America…Bish

I am convinced that the universe is conspiring against me in a very specific way. Not a grandiose conspiracy—just subtle. But the timing? Impeccable. Fucking impeccable.

At 16, how I went from short-haired boarding school student to braids in 24 to 48 hours is a genuine blur. But I do remember getting to the airport. The US government took its sweet time issuing my visa, and when they finally did, I had a very limited window to enter the country before things got even more complicated. So there I was prior to my departure—my clueless ass walking the streets of my boarding school in the Akropong mountains—with no idea that that trip home for a break would be my last time seeing those soils for over a decade.

Anyway, back to the airport. Everything is a blur. It was December, and while it was hot in Ghana, it would be winter in America, so my mother properly layered me up like mfante dɔkono. Again, I think it's a shock that I don't remember when my hair got braided, but I had braids, a tag on my wrist, and a thing around my neck that said UNACCOMPANIED MINOR. Can you imagine? A whole me, tagged as an unaccompanied minor.

Now, being classified as a "minor" doesn't sound bizarre anymore—half my life is in America now. But as a Ghanaian teenager who had been performing adulthood for a while? It felt weird. The concept of a "minor" doesn't really exist in our ecosystem. You're a child or you're an adult. Two classifications. I'm sure somewhere in legal documents the word minor exists, but in the court of public opinion, who the fuck is a minor again? So you can imagine how much I felt like a child having a tag around my neck calling me a child—even though I was a child. It was a weird phenomenon.

Anyway. I'm on this flight going to God knows where for the first time. And then suddenly I start to feel a familiar discomfort in my lower abdomen. Mind you, it is my first time flying to the United States and I am alone… ALONE. I go to the bathroom, check, and—ooh la la—my period has je suis arrive (yes, I know this is not correct French… keep your critiques to yourself).

My first flight to the US. First time on a plane. First time traveling to America. And my uterus is like: We are going to America, bitch! This encounter over a decade ago would set a precedent for what I am convinced is a conspiracy between my uterus, airplanes, and different time zones.

When I think about it, my period has taken on the persona of one of my mini-selves. The very dramatic one. I won't give you her name yet because that one is a problem—sometimes in the best possible way—but if the period is the flipside of that persona? Yeah. We have some questions to dig into.

Why am I writing about this now? Because the universe is playing tricks on me again. As I write this, I am getting ready to fly out of the US to Ghana. And guess who decides to show up the day before my flight? Yes. Ding ding ding ding. My. PERIOD.

Now, if it were only the first time at 16 and now at 32, I wouldn't fuss. But the reason I say it's a conspiracy is that my period seems to always come either on the day of or the day before my scheduled travels. Travels to conferences. Travels to different parts of the US. Travels outside the US. My period just has impeccable timing. A primadonna, I swear!

And mind you—I know the game of plane ticket roulette. I know how to move mountains, dig through oceans, crochet hills, and knit through valleys to find cheaper tickets (though the concept of "cheaper" is relative considering the economic situation we are adulting in). On my grad school stipend, I would have to start either trading very erotic parts on the black market or selling some of my internal organs—and I kind of need those to survive, so we'd probably go for the former, because I am quite sexy, if I do say so myself. In fact, if you disagree, that's between you and your point of view.

Notwithstanding. How is my period able to just gauge, sit in a corner somewhere, and then decide—flight time?—to show up? Bitch. And then she shows up.

Honestly, we can call this a rant session or we can just have a good laugh about it. But I don't understand. There's a conspiracy somewhere. I mean, was there a sin or a crime I committed in a past life that warranted the karma of having to bleed through my vagina right when I'm scheduled to travel?

And that's not even the annoying part. I mean—most female-bodied people (because physiologically there are reasons some don't get periods, but most) have periods. The bleeding itself…

IS (clap) NOT (clap) THE (clap) PROBLEM (clap)

It's all the accoutrements. The decorations. The bells and whistles. The sides and condiments that come with periods. That is the problem.

Cramps are one thing. But when cramps are so debilitating that you start to taste metal in your mouth? When you're salivating like a rabid dog? Your back hurts. Your belly hurts. You're bloated, yet you cannot fart because the gas has formed a ball right up your rectum. Everything feels like a dumbbell sitting on your pelvic floor. You cannot sit. You cannot stand. You cannot move. You don't want to eat. Everything stinks. But somehow you need to eat because you need the energy. Let's not forget the vomiting.

Oh, and add a cherry on top: in my case, I am essentially perpetually anemic for the rest of my life because of a hemoglobinopathy I carry. Gotta love it.

So, do you see why I say this shit is a conspiracy?

Anyway, since I cannot do anything about my period unless either (a) I hit menopause or (b) I decide to take out my uterus, I'm just going to ride this wave and give the universe the side eye because…

Why?

Why?

Mtchewww. lol