The first time I got my period, I went to Mom, anxious, to ask for money for pads.
Mom was groaning in pain in bed, but she still insisted on giving me her medicine money.
Drenched in sweat, panting, she said, "Even if Mom hurts to death, I won't let my child suffer any grievance."
I cried guilty tears, covered my blood-stained pants, and ran back to school.
From twelve until now, during my period I used tissues stuffed with scraps of cloth.
Those few days every month, I endured the wet, sticky blood clinging to my pants, endured my deskmate covering their nose in disgust, endured the boys' jeering laughter…
In high school, the school stopped providing meals.
The food money my family gave wasn't even enough for bread.
But I never asked them for money again.
Because I knew every dollar I spent was hauled in by Dad carrying cement, saved by Mom from between her teeth.
Already owing so much, I wasn't qualified to talk about dignity.
I survived by picking up plastic bottles on the field and eating leftovers others abandoned in the cafeteria.
In winter, to save twenty cents on hot water, I drank from the tap.