The 'V' Word
by Anne Kobori
“Let’s just start with the word ‘vagina.’ It sounds like an infection at best, maybe a medical instrument: Hurry nurse, bring me the vagina. Vagina. Vagina. Doesn’t matter how many times you say it, it never sounds like a word you want to say. It’s a totally ridiculous, completely unsexy word. If you use it during sex, trying to be politically correct – ‘Darling, could you stroke my vagina?’ – you kill the act right there.”
Eve Ensler’s Introduction to the Vagina Monologues held truth, especially for a sheltered Asian girl who was oblivious to any additional meanings in the number 69. I shuffled into that avant-garde production with hesitation, blushing over words like “clitoris,” “pussy,” and of course “vagina.” This, unfortunately, constituted somewhat of a problem, since I had to say the unapproachable word about 20 times in my monologue, entitled “My Vagina was my Village.” (Okay, only ten. But it seemed like 20).
Our rehearsal space was the Green Room. Which was blue. Of course. Small, and box shaped, with awful acoustics and the occasional office “rolly” chair. I sat cross-legged on the cold cement floor, next to –
“Alice!”
“Oh my god, Anne!” She stretches out her gangly arms to give me a hug. “I totally didn’t expect to see you here. How’s skating? Are you still on team?”
“Yeah, we qualified for nationals.”
“Nice!” She leans back, munching on a whole wheat muffin.
“Um…Alice?” I say apprehensively.
“Yeah?”
“I’m kinda nervous…about being the only freshman, you know? Especially cause I’m not exactly outgoing-”
“Oh, you’re not the only freshman. Elena Wagoner got in too.”
“She did?”
“Anne!!” A whirl of scarves and wheat colored locks propels me into the floor. “I’m so excited we’re finally in a show together! Dude, check out my monologues – one is an acknowledgement of a sensitive, caring man, and the other totally embodies feminine empowerment – it’s called ‘Reclaiming Cunt’!” Her smile can’t contain her excitement; it spills over into her turquoise eyes.
I laugh. It’s hard not to laugh when Elena is so impassioned.
“I’m just glad you have it. I could never do ‘Reclaiming Cunt.’”
“Oh, Anne, don’t be so depressing.”
“My monologue is so depressing,” I say dejectedly. “It’s about a Bosnian refugee who gets raped by seven soldiers and then is operated on by cruel doctors.” I never have a problem memorizing lines – the words of my monologue were engrained in the depths of my brain. But whenever I settled into a corner of the Green Room to rehearse, the intense emotions I was supposed to be conveying felt forced. I would occasionally succeed in squeezing a few tears from my eyes, but they would be invisible to the audience, and using eye drops seemed like a cheap parlor trick.
“Just stop working on it for a while,” Elena advises, leading me to where the rest of the cast is hovering over Alice’s brownie pan. We edge our way into the conversation, and I stuff a brownie in my mouth to avoid talking.
“Nipple piercing?!” Squeals Ezar, her mouth contorted.
I choke on my brownie.
Our director, Alexa, adjusts her chic rectangular glasses. “Wait, Amy, did you get both done?”
“Hell no, girl.” Slender, fine boned Amy has skin like dark chocolate and a proud fro. “The first one was way too painful.”
“Man, I wouldn’t want one,” says Katie, who, in addition to being a busty brunette, is also a BHS wrestler. “I mean, if it gets caught on something-”
“Girl, Amy’s boobs are too small to catch on anything.” Lashonte has finer toned muscles than I’ve seen on anyone, guy or girl, and long braids.
“Don’t worry Amy, I’m with you there. 34-A,” puts in Alice.
“Yes! Me too.” Elena gives her a high-five.
I know which category I’m in, but I’m sure not going to volunteer it. I cringe inwardly, feeling guilty for my silence when the rest of them are throwing their personal secrets in our faces. It reminds me of a reality TV show, where you are offered a million dollars to lose your dignity.
“Anyway, your partner will dig it. Me and my partner were having sex last weekend-”
“Amy! You shouldn’t be talking about that in front of freshman!” Yajide purses her lips and points to Elena and me. “Are you two virgins?”
“I have to admit, I am,” laughs Elena.
“Um, yeah,” I say, fighting the urge to apologize for it. “But it’s okay if you talk about it. You’re not going to corrupt me or anything.” Ha ha.
“See, Yaj, they’re mature, why do you think we let them into this show?” Asks Lashonte.
“Oh, maybe cause they can act?”
“Act one monologues, you ready to go?” Yells Alexa. Shooing us downstairs into the Little Theatre dressing rooms, she looks like a plump mother hen.
“No!” We all yell back.
“Too bad, we’re starting in five!”
Those of us not in the first act crowd on the moth-eaten sofa, or peer into cheap mirrors, applying make-up. I put my blush brush back in the powderbox and flop onto the couch. Yajide squeezes next to me.
“Uh, I just started my period,” she groans.
“That sucks. It always happens to me too, right during a show.” I giggle nervously. “I get apple cravings.”
“Hah, that’s cute. I get really cranky. So watch out.”
“Watch me, okay?” I whisper to Elena just before I go on. I smooth my plain, borrowed black dress, and inhale slowly during the lights out. The familiar theatre smell, dark and somewhat musty, is soothing, and I open my eyes to my single spotlight. It’s going to be great. You can even say vagina without blushing. Don’t try to cry, just be in the moment. This is a kick-ass monologue.
I soften my face and let the river of words flow gracefully from my lips. “My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing sun resting sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.”
Pause. Deepen the voice, harsh and staccato. “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.”
I go on, alternating from the gentle, innocent village girl to the traumatized victim of rape and war. The audience is deadly silent, and I can hear my own voice quavering with emotion.
“Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like feces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me.” A chill ran down my bare arms, and my voice was haunted. “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.” My voice is strained like I am about to cry, but I don’t. Holding back tears is more powerful than crying. “I do not touch now. Do not visit. I live someplace else now.” I pause, and the last line comes out somewhere between a confession and a question.
“I don’t know where that is.”
Lights out.
“They’re out!” Ari posts the audition sign-up sheets for Vagina Monologues 2007 – or as we vaginas fondly call it, “Vagimons.”
Kacey, Molly, and Naomi crowd around with me. Faking an orgasm for the directors is optional, but it does show the directors your willingness to take risks and lose your inhibitions, which increases your chances of getting in. All three confess their nervousness at having to fake an orgasm in front of strangers. I can sympathize. My first attempt sounded like a cross between a dying cat and a squawking chicken. But after two years of moaning practice with my more experienced cast members (for the benefit of the girl performing “The Woman who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy”) I felt fairly confident in my moaning ability.
“If you guys want, I can help you moan.” We all laugh at the absurdity of my offer. “Okay, that didn’t come out right. I can teach you how. We can have a moaning class.”
We agree to meet next Tuesday in the A-building locker rooms. A soft rain is falling outside, and we shrug out of our heavy jackets. I claim the dark-blue rolly chair, and wheel over to the center of the room, dragging my impossibly heavy backpack. “Come on, let’s form a circle.” I am joined by Molly, Kacey, Ariel, Naomi, and Nicole. Pulling a packet of Lindor dark chocolate truffles out of my lunch, I begin.
“Okay, so…we’re going to start moaning.” I pause, staring at the dirty windowpanes above us. “Wow, this is awkward. Hopefully no one walks in on us.”
“Or hears us,” adds Ariel. She got into Vagimons the year before, but came for moral moaning support.
“Hah, yeah, that could be bad,” laughs Nicole. She leans back, and the rhinestone pussycat on her shirt sparkles.
I pass around the chocolates, and there are just enough to go around. “Now. Moaning is actually really easy. We’re going to start with the clit moan. It’s sort of soft and croony. First, everyone close your eyes.” I close my eyes, and the tension in the room alleviates. Yeah, much easier in the dark. No pressure from other people not to screw up. “Now eat one of the chocolates.” I pause and pop one in my mouth. Sweetness erupts on my tongue, and teases me with pleasure that melts way too fast. “Mm. That was good, right? So what do you say when something tastes good? Mmmmmm.” I roll the sound in my mouth. “Now you try.”
The room hums with “mmms” in various pitches, punctuated by the occasional giggle.
“That was really good. Now, we’re going to eat another one.” I do, and then continue. “This time, I want you to do the same thing, but open your mouth. Ahhhhnnnnn.” More giggles. “C’mon guys, wasn’t that good? Tell me how good that tasted.” They do, and I smile.
“Good. But we’re out of chocolate. And it was good chocolate. You really want that chocolate. You want it hella bad. Ohhhhhhh,” I sigh, and they repeat the sigh.
“You guys just moaned. Now, just make it louder. Add some screams and groans. Moaning happens when you get something you’ve really wanted for a long time. It’s a release of tension. Ahh, ahh, AHHHHH!” I scream.
The tiny room is echoing with deep moans, and they bounce off the walls and past the chairs, longing to get out.
I sincerely hope no one can hear us.
“Dude, are you hearing this?” Danny adjusts the camo hat perched on his buzz cut agitatedly. The sub glares at our table, and I guiltily focus on my history class work, tuning out the conversation.
“…yeah, he wouldn’t do it. And I was like, dude, don’t be such a fuckin’ pussy.”
Pussy.
The word hit me repeatedly like rounds from an uncontrollable machine gun. I had heard it before, but never in this connotation. Never spat out like a dirty word. My face blazed with righteous fury and I almost slapped him. But suspension wasn’t on my to-do list, and I had a feeling that Gandhi and MLK Jr. wouldn’t approve. I grudgingly settled for a nonviolent approach.
“Excuse me?” My words would have melted cold steel. I pursed my lips and looked him straight in the eye.
“Huh?”
Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole. “Don’t say ‘pussy’ like that. That is not okay.”
“Man, whatever.”
Whatever? Hell no. I am not about to let this slide. “No. Shut the fuck up. Don’t say ‘pussy’ in a derogatory way. You make it seem like ‘pussy’ is a bad thing. It’s not.”
“Hey, the problem isn’t-”
“The problem is that male chauvinists like you encourage sexism in our society. You associate pussy with weakness when that’s not even what it means. It means vagina, okay? So don’t say pussy unless you’re saying it with respect.” I turn back to my work, still disgusted.
Kyle, perched on the countertop next to us, laughs nervously. “Damn, you went off on him.”
“Yeah, well he deserved it.” Despite my contemptuous retort I felt a twinge of guilt. Okay, so you went on a self-righteous feminist rant and made sweeping generalizations. Obviously you don’t believe all men are chauvinistic bastards. Just a select few. Like Danny. Besides, if you hadn’t ranted he would keep saying it and keep putting down women.
Women deserve more respect (from both sexes), and they deserve more people working to empower them and end sexism. I realized that after I “went off” on one of my classmates for saying “pussy” like it was a dirty, negative word. I had performed in the Vagina Monologues and communicated the injustices done to women all over the world, but I had never experienced it firsthand. I have not been sexually abused or forced to wear heavy cloth over my entire body. It is difficult for me to directly and personally help those who are suffering from these oppressions. But preventing someone from associating pussy, and thus women, with weakness is something I can do. And it is something that must be done. I will continue to do this, empowering women through theatre, protest, or simply comfort.
“We are sorry, Comfort Women.”
“Say it to me.”
“We are sorry to me.”
“We are sorry to me.”
“To me.”
“To me.”
“Say it.”
“Say sorry.”
“Say we are sorry.”
“Say Me.”
“See Me.”
“SAY IT!”
“Sorry.”
A beat of silence, then we all breathe. I open my eyes, still holding hands with the members of my group piece, “Say it, for the Comfort Women,” in our huddled circle outside the Little Theatre. February winds are blowing fiercely, but we are all flushed with success. We have finally completed our piece perfectly, each person saying their lines rapid-fire one after the other.
The Comfort Women were young women forced into sexual slavery by the Japanese Government, during WWII, who still haven’t received reparations or an official apology from the government acknowledging what was done to them. In our piece, we recite simple but powerful accounts of what these women experienced.
I turn to look at the women around me, at the powerful statement we have created. Whatever our backgrounds, whether outspoken or shy, naïve or experienced, we are all strong women, and we all somehow ended up in the Vagina Monologues. Suddenly, I am filled with a deep longing to freeze this moment in time. I am surrounded by women who are trying to spread the same message as me, a message of equality, love, acceptance, and women empowerment. And whether or not we succeed, we will never stop trying to inspire change.
My vagina wants change. It wants depth and truth and cool rains and lingering kisses and wild nights. It wants chocolate. It wants hope. It wants vaginas to stop being silenced. It wants to dream. It wants to laugh. It wants to love. It wants love. It wants passion and freedom and dark secrets and bold promises. It wants to touch. To breathe. To live. To be.
My vagina…
…wants…
… infinity…