There is a day for gifts, and a day for love, a day for terror, and a day for pride. There is also now a day for the women, the creative women and the women of color and the queer women and the trans women.

It occurs once a month, on the day of the full moon. On that day, women (and men) across the world celebrate by expressing their feelings. The collective spirit of creative potential hangs in the air. We celebrate who we are.

Women in particular take the time to honor themselves and their siblings. The YMCA hangs portraits done by little girls in gilded frames. The schools showcase a woman of the Full Moon Day in the morning announcements. Student council is responsible for organizing the celebration every month. Some churches hang pictures of Mary up; the mosques showcase Maryam’s goodness in calligraphic scrolls, and the temples remind us of the female bodhisattvas. There are poetry readings and open mic at the cafes. Women-owned businesses often get many customers around the Full Moon, and the Etsy artists are always dreaming up decorations for Full Moon parties.

My best friend found her girlfriend on Full Moon Day. Her parents were the the type who don’t celebrate it. The woman of the day was J.K. Rowling, and so student council was explaining her groundbreaking status as the highest-grossing female author. The two women bumped into each other in the library after the announcements. My best friend made a passing comment on the nature of the Patronus, and the other girl had a different interpretation. They became friends, but two Full Moon Days later, they were dating.

“Why are you hanging up those paper moons?” asked my best friend’s mother. “Surely you’re not celebrating that gimmick.”

“They’re just for my room, Mom. I like astronomy these days.” Her voice shook.

“Great.”

My best friend cried hot tears, and her girlfriend snuck over to her house, climbing into her room from an open window. “Come on,” she said.

They took the bus into the city, and the cafes and the YMCA and the churches and the bakery across the way were lit up. You could hear female voices echoing down the avenues. A gay chorus was singing on the street, collecting donations. A group of people with rainbow moons in their hair and on their lapels sat outside on an apartment stoop, talking animatedly. Somehow, amidst all the chaos, people could be who they were.

“See,” said her girlfriend. “You’re not the only one.”

They kissed under the moon, and the stars winked down at them.

—By Emma B. ♦