I saw The Vagina Monologues for the first time last week; I was tabling for BARCC, and volunteers got in free. It was a good time. There was a vagina cake. I'm not kidding.
The Harvard cast was great; there were poignant moments, there were LOLs, there as a bit of everything. Highly recommended.
There was one piece that punched me in the gut. I'll quote it below. This was staged by two women - an Asian woman in a white dress, midstage right, and an Eastern European woman stage left, foreground, clad all in black. (Everyone else was in red-and-black.)
The lines in italics were spoken by the woman in white; those in bold, by the woman in black. Italics/bold, the two simultaneously. The woman in white was childlike, dancing, playing. The woman in black huddled in on herself, barely moving. And it was her first line that forcefully hit me, that brought the tears down, and her intensity did not let up. It was a very hard piece - rape in wartime, rape as a tactic of war. But... so necessary to tell. We must tell these stories.
My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing, sun resting, sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.
There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.
My vagina was chatty, can’t wait, so much, so much saying words talking, can’t quit trying, can’t quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.
Not since I dream there’s a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.
My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bell ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.
Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod cancelling my heart. Don’t know whether they’re going to fire it or shove it through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks and the end of a broom.
My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun-baked stones, over stone clit, clit stones over and over.
Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.
My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.
Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like faeces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and pus and all the crops died, and the fish.
My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it
And burned it down.
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live some place else now.
I don’t know where that is.
I have a survivor speech Thursday night. Training new volunteers.
It is so important, what we do. So important.