My Feminist, Vagina Monologue

By Maria Rubio

Columnist

"There's no one telling us where to stand or where to be/We're just this huge strong mass of feminist fury/Resist, Resist. . . . . Feminist fury/Feminist fury/It was a lifelong dream I had as a child. . .and it's actually come to pass in my adult life."

- Lyrics from Dyke March 2001, by Le Tigre

Memory: 17 years old

My mom tells me in a loud, scary voice to get my life together. I'm graduating from high school, and really scared about the future. The only thing I know I want to do is write, and I know that writing doesn't provide any security. My mom's primary concern is that I'll be able to provide for the children she's sure I want to have someday. I don't really know what she's talking about, since I don't plan on having kids any time soon - but I've already moved all my stuff to my boyfriend's midtown apartment so I understand my mom's concern.

My boyfriend is six years older than me, and we met through a mutual friend. He's the first guy I've ever dated who's established in his personality and career, and it doesn't occur to me in the slightest bit that there's something strange with our arrangement. I'm too proud to accept lavish presents from him, so I bar-tend and waitress some nights to pay for cigarettes and other essentials. This insignificant fact makes me believe that we are equals in our relationship.

Nothing in my life can be regarded as "normal", and I take this as a sign that I'm my own person. I own my walk, I own my talk, and I own my mannerisms. I reassure myself of my identity with the fact that I am an extremist: I smoke at least half a pack a day and go for three-mile runs whenever I find the time. I assume that I am a feminist because I've been able to have two abortions without batting an eyelash.

Memory: Fall 2005, 20 years old

I'm proud because I've somehow managed to wrench myself away from my rough and tumble ways. I don't associate with most of the people from my past, and I've become better acquainted with a version of myself that practically lives on campus and is saturated in radical socio-political theories. 227 NE is my home/office because I work at the Women's Center and I'm an active member of the feminist group, Revolutionary Alliance of Womyn (RAW).

Random male students frequently walk in and try to drum up a conversation with me. "If this is the Women's Center," they say, thinking themselves

smart, "where's the Men's Center?"

At first I am accommodating and try to explain that we need our own spaces to thrive. After the first hundred times of hearing the line, however, I

reply curly, "The entire world is the Men's Center."

Later, during January, a random guy sees meleaving the Women's Center. "Why does the Women's Center only focus on women during Domestic Violence Awareness Month?", he asks.

His question triggers a memory of a good friend who was raped as a teenager. "If that's really a concern of yours," I say, sensitively, "you should make some suggestions to the director of the Women's Center."

He snickers snidely at my response, surprised that I was stupid enough to have taken him seriously.

Memory: Fall 2006, 21 years old

I'm in medical ethics class, and we're discussing feminism. I feel like my feminist ideals have been faltering. Even so, I've single-handedly taken on the task of being the voice of radical feminism, and confidently challenge anyone who is anti-feminist.

A black man raises his hand tentatively. He makes a case that women have always been inferior to men, and therefore should accept their inferiority. The irony of his statement makes the class burn with anger. A black woman responds, "Black people have always been considered inferior to white people- does that mean that we should accept this as truth?"

I think it can't get any worse, that there is no way that in 2006 a person of my generation can honestly be more ignorant. Then a Russian woman raises her hand. "I don't think women should work," she says confidently. Her argument?

"Men feel inadequate if their wives make more money than they do, and someone has to watch the kids."

Somewhere, Betty Friedan is rolling in her grave.

Memory: Spring 2007, 22 years old

"My mother couldn't take me coming of age…"

Hearing an unfamiliar voice recite this all-too familiar line about a girl's first period feels like a stranger mimicking my mother's tone and calling me by my pet name. I sit in the rearranged office lounge of the Women's Center, taking note of the redecorating that has gone on since my absence, and feel the need to put things back to their rightful places.

As if in a dream, I watch the two young women go through the scene and recount the three casts I've watched do the same thing. I've acted in three productions and directed two; I've sat on the committee and broken night baking brownies for fundraising. This is the first time in my college career that I'm not involved in the production, and as I sit in the Women's Center on International Women's Day, a montage of thoughts sweep through my mind.

I'm feeling like I've lost my Feminist way, like this place, this sacred watering hole of my soul, is dry of nourishment - or that it's been taken over by strangers. This makes me angry. I hear on the grapevine that a self-proclaimed feminist is taking the time to drag my name through the mud, that issues I hold dear have been stomped on, that the groups I once associated with are now dwindling in membership and influence.

And then, as my ego expands, I start airing my personal grievances: the fact that people are disrespecting me left and right, the helplessness I feel when I realize how much work I have ahead, the difficulty of finding beauty and hope where I used to find them. And these women, these strangers who I was sure would not could not did not know me - they laugh with me and bitch with me. They offer suggestions and support.

I had once staked claim to Feminism and the Women's Center as refuges, insisting that they were my special places where I could go whenever I had to let sleeping dogs lie, or let go of external pressures and expectations, or let loose all of my inhibitions and insecurities. Thankfully, as I let my frustration subside, I realize that both are still here for me, growing, changing, and better than ever.

For tickets and info about the 2007 production of the Vagina Monologues, visit the Women's Center (227 NE) or call (718) 951-5777.