Things I Still Remember #3: Why I Hated Boys My Age

I was probably 12 or 13, that messy, middle-school age, when everything feels a little too loud, a little too weird, and a little too important. It was recess, and I was walking with my two friends around the playground. The break was nearly over, and we were heading back to class when we noticed something unusual: a trail of blood drops on the floor.

We paused. Curious and a little concerned, did someone fall? Was someone hurt?

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But as we walked down the hallway, we heard laughter. Not just any laughter, the kind that makes your stomach drop before you even understand why. A group of boys from our class was huddled together, snickering and whispering, casting glances toward the classroom.

That’s when we found out: a girl from our class had gotten her period. On a Wednesday. In an all-white school uniform.

When we stepped inside, the air was thick with awkwardness. Everyone knew. They kept laughing like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen, like someone bleeding was a joke. No sympathy, no maturity, just giggles and mocking looks, like someone had peed their pants.

How can someone laugh at this? How is seeing blood something so human, so normal, funny? Was it because they saw a stain on her white skirt? That somehow made it entertainment? It didn’t concern them. It didn’t happen to them. So instead, they laughed.

How insensitive can you be?

That moment stuck with me. Not just because of the shame the girl must’ve felt, but because I realized something: this could happen to me. And if it did, I’d be laughed at too.

I wasn’t prepared for any of it, not the biology, not the social pressure, and definitely not the cruelty.

From that day on, something shifted in me. I began to fear the boys in my class, not in a dramatic way, but in the subtle, always-watching, always-hoping-to-be-invisible kind of way. I hated how they made us feel small. I hated how they treated something natural like it was gross or funny. I hated how they never showed an ounce of respect.

It’s not that I thought all boys were bad but the boys my age? They were just…stupid. Careless. Clueless. Cruel, even, in their immaturity.

Looking back, I know they were just kids. But so were we, and we deserved better.

I don’t hate boys anymore. I’ve met kind ones, the ones who would’ve stood up, who would’ve offered help instead of laughter. But back then, I didn’t know they existed.

What I did know was this: that one moment in a school hallway shaped how I saw myself and them for years. And while I’ve grown since then, I still carry the lesson with me.

What I Learned

That day taught me how quickly shame can be planted and how long it can take to unlearn.

I already knew periods weren’t the problem. The real problem was how unprepared we all were not for the biology, but for the humanity it demanded.

And most of all, I learned that kindness isn’t automatic; it has to be taught, chosen, and practiced, even (especially) by the loudest ones in the room.