The heartbreaking realities of period poverty
Menstrual equality is making strides, but it’s still the next feminist frontier
When you found those first few drops of blood in your underwear, well-meaning adults assured you that it was “a beautiful thing.” You were inclined to believe them: cringe-inducing health class textbooks had waxed poetic about it being an entirely natural process, all a part of the female experience.
But what everyone failed to mention was that menstruation has been subject to enduring gender, health and economic inequities. On the more manageable end of the scale, this translates into people who menstruate discreetly stashing tampons in our sleeves so as not to embarrass others (or ourselves) on the way to the bathroom, but for more marginalized menstruators, it might mean not being able to afford monthly period products and suffering the consequences.
The prevalence of this “period poverty” is staggering: a third of Canadian menstruators under 25 have struggled to pay for these fundamental necessities. In Indigenous communities, where a box of tampons can run from $16 to more than $45, period poverty is compounded by a lack of food security and access to clean water.
Ashare of the blame lands on the often cited “pink tax,” or extra costs charged to female or femme consumers for everything from dry cleaning to haircuts. (Why else would a tiny piece of silicone that is the DivaCup — which still represents much better value than disposable products — cost nearly $40?) Lest we forget, our federal government only lifted the “luxury” tax on period products in 2015, even though incontinence items and prescription drugs were already exempt. (It collected an estimated $37 million on our uteruses the year before.)
These infringements are just a symptom of what we already know: people with uteruses and their bodies continue to be stigmatized, inside and out. This isn’t just about cheaper pantiliners or more widely available tampons: achieving menstrual equity is the next feminist frontier.
A recent wave of civic policy aimed at ending these injustices is promising. On August 30, the Toronto District School Board (among several other Ontario school boards) announced that it will offer free menstrual products in elementary and secondary schools starting this fall.
The TDSB followed the example of British Columbia, which became the first province to require schools to provide free menstrual products for their students in the spring. And this past March, Toronto City Council nearly doubled its financial commitment to funding menstrual product access at city-run shelters and priority community centres.
The new policies will make a measurable difference to kids’ experience at school. “It’s the most demeaning and uncomfortable and oddly shameful experience to not have access to menstrual products at school,” says Sarah AndrewGee, who graduated from Etobicoke School of the Arts this year. At her elementary school, which was in a lessprivileged area of Toronto, a few of her friends didn’t have menstrual products available to them at home or in school.
Until recently, the situation at her former school bred this culture of shame: period products, only provided with uncomfortable cardboard applicators, were hidden in a back cupboard in the guidance counsellor’s office. It’s why Andrew-Gee parlayed a sociology project on period poverty into a campaign to demand that the Toronto District School Board provide free, quality menstrual products in bathrooms — a campaign that recently achieved its goal.
Andrew-Gee admits that it was difficult appealing to such an “enormous institution” and that she had trouble mobilizing her peers without uteruses to support the cause, but after garnering 350 petition signatures and waiting on many unanswered emails, she received a letter from Director of Education John Malloy, expressing interest in opening up a dialogue. It was encouraging, she says, because “we’ve been taught for so long to hate and fear our periods that it’s difficult to broach the subject or advocate for ourselves.”
These headline-making moves are imperative, and perhaps more importantly, they have clued in the masses — menstruators and non-menstruators, alike — who had never even considered this issue. Economic privilege has protected many people from these realities, similar to most ignorance around human rights issues. Period poverty hides in the shadows of bathroom stalls, makeshift shelters and impoverished communities, shrouded in shame and silence.
It’s a dark cloud that Karen* is all too familiar with. As someone who was homeless for 10 years, she has long-term lived experience with period poverty. When we meet at Sistering, one of the Toronto shelters she now works at, Karen describes the demeaning ordeal of getting your period when you’re living on the streets. “I had just started my period and asked the health bus (a mobile health care unit for the homeless) for products,” she says. “They would offer you one pad and one tampon and wouldn’t give you any more.”
Without an appropriate amount of period products at her disposal, Karen had to resort to using what was available. Socks, paper towels and newspapers became her alternatives — the latter resulted in an infection from the ink.
Toronto’s recent boost in allocations has addressed the quantity problem, but mental health issues, which affect almost 50 per cent of the homeless population, add another barrier to adequate hygiene and the self-worth that comes with it. “It’s already hard as it is, and then people look at you weird when you’re talking to yourself,” says Karen, who lives with schizophrenia. “There’s a lot of shame and guilt and remorse.”
Dignity is an important piece of menstrual equity, according to grassroots advocate Jana Girdauskas, founder of The Period Purse, a non-profit organization that collects and distributes donated menstrual products to marginalized people across Ontario. It’s why The Period Purse packs its donation bags with a variety of product options, allowing the receiving person to choose what makes the most sense for them.
While the advent of menstrual cups has revolutionized the ease and environmental impact surrounding our periods, they’re not a one-size-fits-all solution, Girdauskas explains. “Menstrual cups aren’t the best choice for people who are transient. Access to water is limited, so being able to clean them often isn’t an option. There’s also a learning curve to them. These people have no one to ask and no YouTube to figure it out.” Astronomical rates of sexual assault among homeless women may also affect their decisions to use invasive period products, she says. Ultimately, achieving true equity means putting the power to choose in women’s hands.
This idea of agency resonates with Maggie, a mother of four who’s working and living at a Sistering shelter while she’s on the wait-list for Special Priority Housing. “It should be a choice of how you deal with your period,” she says. “Self-respect means staying maintained and knowing that you have more than one product to get you through the day.” Because of the increased product funding, she’s able to offer her peers as many menstrual hygiene products as they need. “For the ladies, it’s Christmastime,” she says, smiling.
Reaching period parity for all people with uteruses and eliminating the emotional toll of monthly menstruation will require a serious societal shift. But the message is very simple: menstruation is natural and normal, period. “My bluesky goal is to walk into public bathrooms, and (free products) are going to be as normal as toilet paper,” Girdauskas says.