Breakable

I shopped every section of REI before my trip to India. I read the blogs and the books. I scoured racks at yoga stores to find tops that would cover my butt and meet local modesty standards.

I spent a small fortune to prepare for a trip to a developing country where the contents of my bag cost more than what its average citizen makes in a year.

I did all of these things and still was unprepared. I never used the solar-powered phone charger a friend gifted to me, a rat stole the durable rubber silverware I bought at the sporting goods store along with a jar of unopened peanut butter, and thankfully the plastic self-defense shiv I packed never got put to use.

What I did use was the boxes of tampons I stuffed in my bag, the menstrual cup which I was was skeptical about, and six months' worth of my birth control.

These items were an afterthought. Yes, I had packed enough antibiotics to fend off several bouts of malaria but my birth control was not packed until last. When my bag was full I filled the remaining space with a couple of boxes of tampons because where in this world can you not buy tampons, right?

The answer is rural India and so many other statistically poor places.

I was not in the market for tampons when I went to the shop down the street from where I was living but I couldn't help but notice the lack of feminine supplies. The shelves were heavy with skin-lightening creams but the only item useful to a person on their period was guarded behind the counter by a middle-aged Indian man.

These pads were as thick as the packing material you would use to wrap a breakable object and nowhere in sight were tampons.

This would explain why when I stood in front of the class I was helping teach and told them about my first period at 15 and that I use tampons, they had no idea what I was talking about.

My colleague translated my words to Hindi and their looks of confusion quickly turned to looks of embarrassment. The room was full of school uniforms and red faces as I told them where exactly a tampon goes.

She explained to me that women in India do not wear tampons because they believe it will break their Hyman and the only thing more breakable than glass in India is a girl's worth and virginity.

We continued to talk to them about how they dealt with their periods and the possible dangers associated with reusable pads.

Girls across India died because they would clean their reusable pads and keep them hidden in the darkness of their rooms where they never quite dried. Sunshine or a hot iron is needed to kill the growth of potentially deadly bacteria, but embarrassment sometimes keeps girls from taking this step.

Eembbaresmant can quite literally kill.

When we talked about how they would get disposable pads they mostly said that they would send an older brother to buy them because facing the man behind the counter and telling him they needed something to absorb the blood between their legs was too embarrassing.

Honestly, I don't blame them. At 15-years-old, I would have much rather been dead than face a fat-bellied 50-something-year-old man to ask for pads.

Now I can conceive why a quarter of all girls in the developing world drop out of school when they get their first period.

I would not feel safe either knowing the only thing separating me and blood-stained pants was a bulky pad in my underwear and that my access to more of these bulky pads was limited if not impossible.

The tower of feminine supplies is stacked against girls in India but what's even more threatening is the idea that her virginity is more important than all other things, health and education included.