Reggaeton Was My Sex-Ed

In fifth grade I received mandatory “sex-ed” at school. We sat, squirming with suspense in a dark musty room, as numbers relating promiscuity to high school dropouts and poverty glowed on a teleprompter. Every single contraception method was portrayed as ineffective — abstinence was the only safe and respectable option. The message delivered in that room: sex is a dangerous drug and the biggest looming threat to a young girl’s value. Sex was something that was taken from you, something you had to give up when the right time came, but it was never for you.

Over the years, abstinence was drilled into our heads in different ways. On one occasion, card-sized pieces of colored paper, pens, and lamination plastic were handed out, the promise to keep our purity, portrayed as an innocent art project. Right above the line for our signatures were the simple terms of our commitment: to remain chaste until we reached the altar. The “chastity card,” as they called it, was meant to be kept in our wallets as a constant reminder that if we were to break this vow, we’d be soiled and unworthy of true love.

At home, conversations about sex weren’t any better because they were prohibited. My parents tried their best to pretend sex didn’t exist, and even at twenty-one, my mother was appalled to find condoms in my dresser and my father felt deeply offended when, in his presence, I uttered the words…