the life and death of tampon jesus
Happy Easter, dear reader, from my irreverent self to you. Is there any day better than today to share the story of one of my mom’s most memorable art projects? I thought it fitting that Easter would be the day I resurrect the past and finally share the story of Tampon Jesus. Disclaimer: This isn’t intended to be a deep reflection on religion, but I do think you need a quick snapshot of my background to appreciate this story.
Like many US-born millennials, I was raised with Christianity. Not one, but both my parents were Lutheran pastors—though, luckily, they were the liberal kind. It probably won’t be shocking to hear that upbringing left me with a complicated and deeply rooted relationship with religion. One thing I’ll never stop appreciating is that I grew up with parents who taught me love was never a sin. My mom’s commentary on parts of the Bible made me question things early. Were King David and Jonathan in a queer relationship? Not a taboo topic in our house, simply a question for literary analysis. Ours was the kind of house with kids who felt comfortable switching the letters in the “Santa” display to read “Satan” instead. We knew we would not be punished for our heresy.
Growing up, Sundays were my parents' busiest work days and my brother and I were left to our own devices. We more or less had the run of the church property. At various points in my childhood, you might find me snacking on pilfered communion bread or breaking into the Sunday school rooms for craft supplies. During the church service, if we weren’t pressed into service as an acolyte or scripture reader or whatever job might keep us out of trouble; my brother and I often sat alone—the pair of us heathens usually tucked into the very back pew. Best for a quick escape and avoiding eyes, we acted out silent movies with our toys, read books tucked into hymnal pages, and scribbled doodles on church bulletins. Only perking up when one of our names was mentioned in a passing anecdote during the sermon. Nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of your name echoing through a church sanctuary and not knowing if you’d be that day’s example of a good Samaritan or if your mom was about to turn an embarrassing childhood moment into a parable.
For the most part, I have fond nostalgic memories of these weekly “take your kid to work” days. But childhood isn’t a bubble, and I was exposed to plenty of negative aspects of religion as well. Enough to shape me into the atheist I am today. My own children are raised without a religion; their education on the history of religion and current events is secularly based. Finding Jesus in our house means literally finding one of the miniature Jesus figurines left over from the time I hid a hundred of the inch-high figurines inside my parents' camper. But that’s not the point of the story.
It was the mid 2000’s, the exact time doesn’t really matter. I was a teenager though, old enough to drive, right in the peak years of not understanding my mother, of “Mommmm stop embarrassing me, omggggg.” This story occurred the year my mother decided to make a representation of Jesus that reflected the suffering of women. She reasoned there were depictions of Jesus with different ethnicities, but she’d noted a lack of representation for women. Though I agreed, I inwardly cringed, rolling my eyes. I fear I missed the point. Or at least, didn’t fully appreciate it. Now, though, I get it. My mom had a damn good point.
One thing about my mom is—she does not half-ass a craft project. This was not an idea to be confined to a 12” by 12” canvas. Not an idea to be made in miniature. This was a life size idea. She made a cross from a couple of two by fours that she modge podged with the rampant sexism of 2000’s era magazines and tabloids. So God created man in his image, so Mom crafted Jesus’ body from sanitary pads. She nailed him to the cross with the heels she broke off the bottom of a pair of stilettos. She garbed him in lingerie: a thong and underwire. His face painted on with nail polish. A tiara placed atop his thrift shop wig in lieu of a crown of thorns. And Jesus’ beard? Well, that was made of tampons.
As a teenager, I did not fully appreciate the true glory of Tampon Jesus. Like I said, his message wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t understand him as I understand him today. He was truly a masterpiece of satirical art.
The fundamental problem with Tampon Jesus, though, was that he looked a little creepy in certain lighting. He was obviously, vaguely human-shaped. He also had a protective sheet to keep him clean and dust-free when he wasn’t on display. We dubbed it the shroud of Turin—we might be heathens, but we’re educated ones. All in all, his appearance tended toward the spooky. And worse, he had a tendency to pop up when you least expected him. He made for a good conversation starter, and my parents are talkers. Word spread, and much like the Jesus of the Christian faith, Tampon Jesus was a traveler: spreading his word and meeting with those who were interested in being graced with his presence.
Imagine it for a minute. He has no permanent home; you might find him anywhere. There’s no jump scare like Tampon Jesus in your face when you flip on the lights of the spooky downstairs storage room after your parents send you to find a can of green beans.
Christmas time. Mom and Dad’s busy season at work, school has just let out for holiday break and you’re gleefully looking forward to abusing your excess freedom to AIM chat with your crushes late into the night. It’s time to decorate the house before your parents are distracted by the advent season. Your guard is down and Jesus is the last thing on your mind as you tug the dangling chain of the lightbulb, illuminating the storage closet under the stairs. You move a box of Christmas decorations, stumbling, as your foot catches and tugs loose the corner of a dusty sheet. In the dim glow of the flickering lightbulb—there’s Tampon Jesus, one eye leering at you, as a basement spider skitters across his face. Heart pounding, you guiltily retuck his shroud. “Happy Birthday, Jesus,” you might mutter, but you don’t consider inviting him to his own birthday celebration, no matter how nicely he’d go with the décor, tucked under the “Satan” stocking holders lined up on the hearth.
Oh well, he was tucked away in a storage closet? That’s not bad, I hear you scoff at me. Alas, not so. Tampon Jesus was trotted out for random outings many a time. I wish I had a full record of his adventures. I know my mom took him places to show him off. (An aside, the person who can send me photo evidence of Tampon Jesus’s existence will have my undying gratitude.)
So back to picturing it. Spring is turning to summer, you have your driver’s license. You wanted to borrow the minivan for an evening drive? Sure, your parents say. But as you look in the rearview mirror to back out of the garage, there Tampon Jesus will be, securely seat-belted into the back seats. “Jesus Christ!” you’ll scream, unsure if it counts as taking his name in vain in this circumstance. Either way, there go your plans for an illicit teenage make-out session. At least if you need Jesus to take the wheel, he’s along for the drive.
I asked my mom recently whatever happened to Tampon Jesus. His story may be the stuff of family legends, but his life was ephemeral as the glue of the sticky-backed sanitary pads that held him together. From sanitary products he was born, and to the landfill with his organic cotton brethren he has gone. While we eagerly await his second coming and hold hope in our hearts for his resurrection in this Easter season, we will honor him by remembering his life fondly.
