February 14th was V-Day. No, not Valentine’s Day, that’s bullshit. Click the link.
I am a bad feminist in that this weekend I saw the Vagina Monologues for the first (and second) time. I’m way too old to be a Vagina Monologue virgin. But I’m glad I had it twice in one weekend.
I loved both shows. I left each performance feeling secure that I am very comfortable with my own vagina. She’s my girl. I love her. I’m good to her. She’s good to me. I was going to write an ode to my vagina, but y’all don’t need to know all that.
I remember a friend of mine told me that she and her husband went to see the show and they left early because it was “too much”. I was waiting for what could possibly have been too much for, um, married people. Reminds me of a conversation I had with friends last week.
We were talking about some woman not having (my first words) the balls to do something. I said it without hesitation, despite the fact that their kids were in the next room. Then, in an effort to be gender specific (although anatomically inaccurate) I corrected my statement by saying that she did not have the clit to do whatever it was I was babbling about. I’m crass. I’ve warned you about that before. I guess ovaries would have been the corresponding gonads, but that’s not the point.
Everyone was comfortable with me saying balls around the kids, but clit stirred up uneasiness. What’s up with that? Why can we talk (colloquially or otherwise) about the male genitalia, but mentioning the female’s is taboo? Now, granted, I’m not the one to teach anybody’s child about their own anatomy, but socially why can we yell balls, balls, balls all day long, but be considered vulgar to mention vaginas or their respective parts? We have so far to go.
But, for the sake of gender equality, here is the message on the T-shirt I bought this weekend.
Pussycat. Pooki. Twat. Powderbox. Derriere. Poochi. Poopie. Peepe. Poopelu. Poonani. Pal. Piche. Toadie. Dee Dee. Nishi. Dignity. Money Box. Coochie Snorcher. Cooter. Labbe. Gladys Seagelman. VA. Wee Wee. Horsespot. Nappy Dugout. Mongo. Pajama. Fannyboo. Mushmellow. Ghoulie. Possible. Tamale. Tottita. Connie. Mimi. Split Knish. Schmende.The Vagina Monologues
“Until the Violence Stops”
No? Well, can I at least pass out the chocolate vagina lollipops I bought?
On a serious note. This movement is about ending violence against women in all its forms. Gender inequality is the root of all of the atrocities that are committed against my sisters worldwide. It is the root of what is happening right now, this second, as you read this, to hundreds of women and girls–mothers, grandmothers and their daughters– in conflict zones around the globe. It is a tool of war and it is a story the media won’t tell. The violence doesn’t end when our troops come home.
It’s happening on college campuses, in high schools, next door, maybe even in the next bedroom. Violence against women is everywhere. You can’t escape it if you desire eyes to see.
So I urge you to contemplate whatever resistance this post may have instigated in you. What’s so hard about challenging deep seated notions for the sake of equality and peace?
I bid you peace.