I Blamed My Sister for My Miscarriage

July 26, 2016May 14, 2018Leave a comment

By Catcall Contributor

Some summer day when I was sixteen, I woke up with blood underneath me.

In the bathroom, I fingered a loose thread on my pajama shorts before pushing them to my ankles. I thought about weighing myself and about the clear fluid that had been running down my legs for some days. I thought about my boyfriend.

Then I saw the tiny gray-white thing, almost pearlescent. It was no bigger than a blueberry and possessed black dots one could only think of as eyes. There was emptiness burning up from my belly. I stopped thinking, and here, I can clearly mark the point at which my memories of adolescence change shape; time bent forward in a drunken, shallow arc, spilling onto the ground and across the walls as it reached forward. How long was it before I woke up, pushed away my blankets, swung my feet over the side of the bed, and found that the situation needed someone to blame? A month, maybe two. It was still hot outside.

Photo by Claudia Soraya

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Tickling or Torture: What It Teaches Us About Consent

June 29, 2016January 16, 2023Leave a comment

By Alyssa Bluhm

I have a vivid memory of being tickled when I was about five years old. My dad and my uncle tickled me to the floor, sandwiching me between the wall and the dining room table. While my uncle tickled me, my dad pretended to pull Cheerios out of my bellybutton and strawberries out of my strawberry-blonde hair, slurping them up like a delicious bowl of cereal. That was one of my dad’s favorite jokes when I was young, and it’s still a fond memory. Mostly.

I also remember that, as the tickling continued, my laughter turned to tears of pain, that my ribs felt close to cracking with every gasping breath, that I felt cornered and helpless, and that nothing I did would get them to stop.

Photo by Caroline Hernandez

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5 Products for Women ONLY

June 15, 2016January 16, 2023Leave a comment

By Addie Whelan

As a woman, I’ve always worried about using pens or even ear plugs that create the urge to put on a flannel and chop down trees. Maybe the pens will suddenly sprout a beard, or maybe as I brush my teeth, my car’s oil will suddenly need changing. Even more, what if those bulky, black pens don’t fit right in small, petite, feminine hands? Or what if I am on the barricade at a Justin Bieber concert—screaming until my voice goes hoarse—and those manly orange ear plugs don’t squeeze into my ears?

Rather than damage my ears and worry about my choice in writing utensils being too masculine, I searched for the best alternatives. Here are five products “made especially for women.”

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