Have you ever heard of the Condom Fairy? Legend has it she flits around at night sneaking condoms under people’s pillows, a mythical guardian angel with a mission to promote safe sex.
The Condom Fairy is real, and she’s a brown high schooler from Ann Arbor. The reality is that she is far from a solely nighttime spirit; this fairy works her magic during the day, her main sphere of influence being the dark and secluded corners of high school hallways. She hands out condoms free of charge — the promise of safer sex is enough.
***
The first time someone called me the “Condom Fairy,” I toppled out of my rocking chair in the library, wincing at the sting of my shattered pride and the librarian’s stern shushes. It was my first day on the job as a Planned Parenthood peer educator and I proudly displayed my beige messenger bag adorned with bright pink and red pipe cleaners spelling out “peer-ed <3” to my friends. Blissfully unaware of the treasures my bag held, my friends were in for a surprise when I fished out a bright pink banana-flavored condom for my first customer, a curious freshman waiting to be graced by my presence and expertise.
Like a fairy with a magic wand, my peer-ed bag was my source of magic and the culmination of forty long hours of sex education training. It didn’t contain just regular old condoms; it was a treasure trove and physical manifestation of my acquired knowledge. Latex-free, flavored, pre-lubricated and even XL varieties (because everyone deserves a good fit!) found their home in my bag. I also had dental dams, Plan B and lube packets — enough to stock a small pharmacy.
Months ago, I could never have imagined myself wielding a bag full of contraceptives. Truth be told, I stumbled into peer education by accident. I was scrolling through Instagram and a post about Planned Parenthood’s sex education program caught my eye. At the time, my knowledge of sex and how to navigate the challenges it brings was extremely limited. Receiving an informative sexual education in the Indian community is nearly impossible. Asking your parents sex-related questions means awkward silences and vague warnings. The slightest encounters in exploring your self-expression and sexuality — be it wearing crop tops or talking to a boy — meant becoming an overnight sensation in the aunties’ WhatsApp group chats.
Growing up in southeast Michigan, I found myself immersed in a vibrant Indian community that felt like an extension of my own family. There was a strong sense of community, whether I was at school or at our cherished family-friend gatherings.
I vividly remember one Marathi gathering at my family’s place. The living room was packed with aunties fussing over the spread of food and gossiping about whose son or daughter was doing what.
“Did you hear that he got into Michigan?” One auntie indiscreetly whispered.
“Of course, what else did you expect from her son?” Another replied with an air of practiced disinterest.
As the adults chattered away, the teenagers escaped to the designated “kids’ corner” to get some reprieve. That’s when one of my friends brought up her crush on a girl at school.
“She’s so cute, but I don’t know how to tell if she … you know?” She said, her voice trailing off.
We all nodded in understanding. The negative stigma surrounding these conversations was palpable, but, at the kids corner, the conversations continued.
Amid the lively small talk, there were more sparse moments of vulnerability like this. In quieter corners, away from the adults’ prying ears, we’d share our thoughts on sexuality, identity and the challenges of navigating these topics in the context of our cultural heritage. The discussions often revolved around day-to-day topics — from what everyone was up to in school to whether the food at the gatherings actually tasted good. But we made space for the deeper stuff, too.
I remember a time in middle school when my mostly-of-Color friend group first discussed the topic of sex during lunch. It was the first conversation where we weren’t chattering excitedly, opting to speak softly as if saying the word “sex” out loud would get us crucified by the nearby teachers. The big question of the day was how we all learned about sex.
I shared how my glorious enlightenment was via a not-so-glorious read of “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” and subsequent searches for half-baked definitions on Urban Dictionary. My friends had similar answers of coming-of-age novels, hilariously bad fan fictions or, even worse, Reddit. To no one’s surprise, our answers shared a common theme: the lack of parental guidance.
This was our reality. You can see the flaws with how your parents raised you, but you know how hard they worked to get here. To immigrate to America in hopes of a better life for themselves and you; to give you the lifestyle, education and freedom you deserve. So, who were you to turn your back on them by challenging their parenting?
The stigmatization of sex and related topics in my community was a bitter pill to swallow. I was 11 when I got my first period, and I remember walking out of the bathroom, determined to quench the curiosities I had about my blood-splotched underwear. When I asked my mother, her eyes darted away before she handed me a pad with minimal explanation. Another time and at the same age, I mustered up the courage to ask my father about the “birds and the bees,” but he recommended that I ask my mother instead (which, spoiler alert, also led me nowhere).
My parents’ discomfort was evident, a reflection of the generation-spanning cultural reluctance to openly discuss sex. Growing up, I had other Indian friends who shared the same experiences — their parents would clam up or change the subject anytime questions about sex arose. It was a pervasive hush that blanketed our community.
For our parents, their response was likely ingrained by their own upbringings under more conservative cultural norms. Just as they were shamed into silence, they inadvertently passed that shame onto us, the next generation. We were left to confront the same barriers of stigma and judgment they had faced, repeating the cycle.
Each time I faced this wall of hesitation and judgment, I’d give up, feeling both frustrated and resigned. What else could I do? The taboo was so entrenched, so woven into the fabric of how we grew up.
The only solution was to consume all the trashy media that was out there. I watched movies and read romance novels containing all the skewed, glorified and dramatized versions of sex I could find; so did my friends and many, many other kids out there like me. It was hard to feel safe, confident and informed about sex, especially when navigating the unspoken taboos associated with it. So, I jumped to become a peer educator when the opportunity presented itself. The search for sex ed meant proactively putting in the work to seek and create your own safe spaces, so the chance to learn and challenge the stigma was too good to pass up. The rest was history.
The reality of peer education wasn’t what I expected. Our weekly meetings took place in a cozy, cluttered basement, complete with colorful bean bags and penis plushies, walls decorated with reproductive anatomy posters and a carefully curated “gay pop hits” Spotify playlist. However unconventional, it was a sanctuary. Peer education comprised a diverse group of high schoolers from all over Michigan, and we bonded over our shared learning experiences and silly stories from our respective peer education journeys.
I’d walk into our meetings not knowing what to expect but leaving inspired and warm every time. Some meetings consisted of fun activities, like blowing condom balloons or making sex pun posters (I still have my “We can dap it up if you wrap it up” poster!). However, a large portion of meeting time was dedicated to reflecting and discussing. In peer education, the number of AP classes or flashy extracurriculars you did was more insignificant than sex and, if anything, “taboo”. Here, you could share all your stories about getting bad sex ed as loud and clear as you wanted and ask every dumb question you had about sex. It was a space where you could feel comfortable discussing, listening, learning, growing and sharing jokes.
Speaking of jokes, the majority of ours stemmed from our attempts to get students to participate in our condom-on-penis wooden model demonstrations during health class presentations. It was my new normal to see these wooden models everywhere, and I had about a dozen standing tall on my dinner table. My brother’s friends once came over when I had forgotten to put the wooden penises away, and I just smiled and said they were special Indian decorative figures when they asked. Peer education moments like this seeped into the most mundane aspects of my life, and I relished the power it gave me to desensitize the stigma surrounding sex education.
Stories like this also brought me closer to the rest of the peer education team, and it was so validating and supportive to learn from one another as we simultaneously learned how to navigate our bodies and sexualities. It became the safe space I have always wanted and sought to cultivate, filled with other Condom Fairies who were on similar journeys to educate young people.
Beyond my training and teammates, becoming a peer educator meant stepping out of my comfort zone to shatter the silence surrounding sex in my community. Doing peer educator duties at school was awkward at first, but friends started approaching me as whispers turned into questions. I became a confidential advisor for others — dismantling shame, dispelling myths and empowering my peers to take control of their sexual health.
The transition to college signaled the official end of my peer-ed career, but the mission remained. As I moved on, I couldn’t help but reflect on the broader implications of the work: Access to comprehensive sex education and services is especially disproportionate in communities of color suffering from poorer social determinants of health. This conclusion transformed my understanding of sexual health disparities from a personal struggle to a societal issue that demands attention. The lack of proper education perpetuates cycles of ignorance and stigma, leading to adverse health outcomes and a continuous sense of shame and confusion.
My role as a peer educator illustrated the power of empathy and social responsibility. It taught me that education extends beyond information dissemination; it’s about creating a safe space for other kids of Color, like me, who craved answers to their questions and sought to gain a more complete picture of sexual health. Here, the awkward stories from high school became life lessons that solidified my deep-seated commitment to working for communities in need.
Now that I’m older and wiser (in the field of sex ed!), I still find value in the background of who I am and what brought me here. Although my parents and school system weren’t key contributors to my sex ed knowledge, they’ve grown to support my endeavors as a peer educator. Culture and society play pivotal roles in our choices – both motivating and hindering — but the passion I’ve cultivated to shake the norms, even just a little, has made the journey worth it. Not just in becoming the resident Ann Arbor Condom Fairy (a title I wear with pride) but also in challenging the stigma, speaking the unspoken and sharing that confidence and clarity for others to take control of their own sexual health and well-being.
MiC Columnist Arya Kamat can be reached at agkamat@umich.edu.
The post The Chronicle of the Condom Fairy appeared first on The Michigan Daily.
Leave a Reply