submitted by Rachel Ament, Washington, DC

It was the first day of my third year of Yeshiva High and I was trying to be good, sweet, wifely.  I sat up straight, with every step of my vertebrate lined up against my chair like so.   My hair-bob bounced exactly one inch up and down on my head like so. I was the girl whose insides were difficult to envisage: did I truly have the same whoosh and whirl of brown digestion inside me as all of the other human beings?

I did.

And it made me feel doomed. That very day, my morning oatmeal was digesting acid-first into my stomach and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It made gurgling sounds, zigzag radio static sounds. I was coughing to try to cover it all up but this did not prevent the other student from curving their heads back to try to catch a glimpse. I thought it was unfair because what is inside your body, under your skin, is supposed to be kept private. Read more »