This piece was published in coordination with Zealous, an organization working to amplify the perspective of public defenders.
Editor’s note: A response from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice is included at the bottom of this op-ed.
When Pinball, whose name has been changed for the sake of privacy, saw blood between her spindly adolescent thighs, she panicked. She was alone in her cell in the detention center. She looked at her scarred arms, recalling the harm she’d inflicted on herself, and wondered what injury had caused her to bleed down there?
She called the correctional officer (CO), who then called another. She tells me she waited, worried she would die from blood loss.
When a CO arrived carrying a narrow cylinder wrapped in purple plastic and said, “Separate your labia,” fear gripped Pinball. She often stuttered, but this time she couldn’t even get the words out to say no. Frantically, she shook her head.
“'Put her in ad seg till she cooperates,'” Pinball recalls one CO said to the other, referring to administration segregation, or, as it’s better known, solitary.
Five years later, Pinball still sits in adult solitary confinement, like me.
Texas isolates over 5,000 incarcerated people. Texas's lack of meaningful sex and health education means the many prepubescent girls who enter prison are often completely unaware of how their body works. I’ve spoken to girls who don’t know how people get pregnant. Some don’t know what pain is normal and what pain isn’t. Or they don’t know about menopause, which I’m currently going through. Women who were locked up as girls are in danger of being made deliberately ignorant about their own health.
Our warden assures us that we have an ample supply of pads, tampons, and pantyliners — all we have to do is ask. But as with the criminal legal system in general, a sizable gap exists between what is said and what is practiced.
A Texas Criminal Justice Coalition survey of incarcerated women in Texas revealed that 54% do not have access to basic hygiene items as needed. This is indicative of a broader problem: A 2022 report by Ms. Magazine found that incarcerated populations across the country “are given an insufficient supply of quality menstrual products and must pay for, beg, and humiliate themselves for more.”
In 2017, the Bureau of Prisons, which oversees the federal prison system, announced that federal prisons would provide pads and tampons free of charge. In Texas, the state claims to provide an unlimited supply of free menstrual products; from what I’ve seen, though, we get a half pack or handful of pads at most, or sometimes no pads or tampons at all. These items can be purchased, but Texas doesn't pay incarcerated people to work. All the money we have comes from our families on the outside.
Even when women do receive tampons, they can be exceptionally painful to use. While working at the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ), attorney Lindsey Linder conducted a "blue ink" test on TDCJ’s standard-issue pads and tampons, comparing them to their most popular counterparts. The predominant differences between TDCJ products and popular brands were comfort and absorption.
Throughout the month, there is begging and bartering, when the cement block of solitary cells transforms into an open market. Haggling fills the air and price gouging begins:
“A pad for Ramen!”
“Five pads for a shampoo!”
One month when our cell block is provided with extra tampons, the group of “youth offender” transfers from juvenile starts complaining. I'm confused — maybe they didn't hear the announcement?
I raise my voice so it can be heard in the other cells on the block: “Hey! We’re getting extra tampons.”
The now 19-year-old Pinball responds: “We ain’t had no babies yet! Not using no tampons. Mess you up down there.” Despite having a lengthy sentence, Pinball craves motherhood. She dreamily creates lists of names for her future children and asks me to repeat the same stories about my children over and over.
Typically, women embark on our menstrual rite of passage at home or while in school, among a supportive network of mothers, sisters, and aunts who can explain things and dispel misinformation. But my young neighbors started their periods in a prison for children. Given how the Lone Star State has been culling public libraries, they probably didn’t even have Judy Blume to guide them. I try to help.
I stand at my steel door shouting instructions for tampon use and debunking myths. After my voice begins to crack, a female guard gives me permission to show everyone. Handcuffed and fully dressed, I enter the indoor-recreation cage clutching several tampons in a bouquet. Cuffs off, I raise the tampons like Lady Liberty, announcing, “Tampon time — grab your tampons!”
I remain fully clothed, wasting four tampons as I demonstrate use and answer the following questions:
“Which hole?”
“Are we gonna get in trouble for this, cuz it’s kinda close to masturbation?”
“Why we still wear pantyliner wit it?”
I discuss how to prevent toxic shock syndrome and reassure the women that tampons are not going to cause infertility. As I return to my cell, I mentally pat myself on the back. I can’t let them stay so confused. I send Pinball five tampons.
Days later, Pinball isn’t herself. She’s laying around, quiet and still. Her friend says she’s having bad cramps and the tampons hurt. If she can feel the tampon, I say, she probably doesn’t have it in properly. I send her a packet of ibuprofen. Her friends make a prison heating pad by pouring hot water in water bottles, then insulating them in a sock.
As a former nurse, I launch into an investigation:
“Are you bleeding heavy?”
“No,” Pinball says. “When it’s on pantyliner, I put another tampon in.”
“Okay, how often is this?”
“I don’t know, but it really hurts.”
I don’t even bother suggesting the medical clinic. Pelvic exams can be traumatic for survivors. The Texas Criminal Justice Coalition reports that 82% of people in TDCJ women’s prisons have a history of domestic violence or dating abuse.
“Are you using the yellow, purple or green tampons?” I ask.
She doesn’t remember. I try again: “When you remove them, is it thumb- or pinky-sized?”
“Remove them?”
“When you take them out.”
Pinball shrieks, “You never said to take them out!”
“The string!” yells the entire block, apparently eavesdropping.
“I pushed it in!” Pinball screams.
“You got to get all those out of you!” I say, trying to keep calm.
She begins a long, painful process of digging out the tampons. Unsure if she has gotten them all, Pinball asks if she should use a spoon or tweezers to check.
“Neither!” the block collectively answers, amid laughter and teasing.
This chastisement worries me. Incarcerated women are disproportionately affected by mental health problems. Many of the young women I know living in solitary confinement have a history of self-harm.
“Story time!” I yell, and start recounting embarrassing period moments of my past. I tell them how I placed my first pad on sticky-side up. I rehash the event that led every girl in the eighth-grade class to wear tampons: When a mean nun swiftly scooped up a soiled pad from the floor during a school dance she was chaperoning. (Shout out to Sister Mary Frances — I never thanked you for claiming that, but you saved me from humiliation in that moment.)
They laugh at me. I feel better about Pinball, but it’s short-lived. These women shouldn’t have to be ignorant about their bodies and lack access to proper care. And the obstacles aren’t limited to a lack of supplies or health education. When they’re checking our pads and tampons during cell searches, male guards often ignore or chastise us for asking for hygiene products; they act as if merely touching tampons or pads threatens their masculinity.
Women and girls are the fastest growing demographic in carceral facilities. In just the past four decades, according to a 2016 study, there’s been an over 800% increase in women who are incarcerated — more than double the rate of men. Our state legislature slashed $306 million from our adult prison budget, while approving $200 million to build more prisons specifically for youth with acute mental health needs.
This crisis is only going to spiral.
In an emailed response to Teen Vogue, Amanda Hernandez, director of communications for the TDCJ, says that, as of at least 2021, the department “provides free feminine hygiene products (pads, tampons and pantyliners) to women in our custody. There is no limit on the amount that can be requested and provided. The availability of these products is something we take seriously.” She says the department launched a campaign to educate inmates about these products in 2022, and is working on a new one “to educate on the importance of doing mammograms.”
Additionally, according to Hernandez, since 2005, TDCJ has hosted “a peer education course called Woman to Woman that all female inmates take upon arrival. This course focuses on all aspects of women’s health.”
“To assist in our efforts of enhancing processes, we are coordinating with an independent consultant to look at the policies and procedures related to our female inmates,” she says in the email. “We are constantly making improvements in this area.”
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