The Play That Won't Go Away
Jordana Willner
Originally published San Francisco Chronicle
April 15, 2001
PLEASE MAKE the "Vagina Monologues" go away.
Not because I can't bear the word. Honest. "Vagina" might not fit in as many of my daily sentences as "DSL," "BART" and "cat food," but it receives appropriate mention.
The problem is I can’t bear another round of rave reviews that declare pop-culture genius in Eve Ensler's much-trumpeted collection of essays. I have exceeded my tolerance for women who feel empowered by Monologues that left me feeling partitioned, categorized, and minimized to the extreme.
Going in on a free ticket, the theatrical reading of the essays seemed harmless enough. But while I expected some minor embarrassment at the reputably racy material, I hardly anticipated being so deeply offended by the shallow, dated essays as to withhold my applause and resist the predominantly female audience's baffling insistence on standing ovation.
Enslers' premise, I think, is that, without a comfortable daily place in conversational English, the vagina lacks definitive identity. The solution, she contends, is to fit every sentence with triple vagina occupancy, while personifying the region as a simultaneously sassy, girlish, churlish, victimized, neglected and abused entity. Ensler and her fans apparently believe that if women would only talk about our vaginas, we could reclaim our bodies, enjoy our femininity, and embrace our sexuality.
A radical hypothesis -- if the year was 1971. But unless my history degree was a sham, I'm quite certain female reclamation was a burgeoning priority right around the time my mother wore go-go boots and frosted eye shadow. A shame if the subsequent sexual revolution and women's liberation movements were for naught and that after 30 years, the white liberal women with whom I saw the show still need the same buoying slogans they once chanted on university campuses.
If Ensler's message is that the struggle for female equality and expression continues among different walks of female life, new recommendations for action might be more persuasive than old, tired complaints of pigeon-holing and derision. In fact, it seemed downright irresponsible in the dawning days of the 21st century to amass women for a recap of dismal statistics and international horror stories without providing a single solution for protecting vaginas. Body issues, identity crises, sexism, and sexual abuse all persist, but resurrecting the language of old to battle pressing modern problems is an empty promise. A far better use of time might have included a self-defense class and a seminar on responsible behavior.
But then, it is not action but reaction that comprises the "Vagina Monologues." In every tale of maligned, mistreated, neglected vaginas, circumstances beyond the woman's control had caused her vaginal woes. Someone made her shave, wash, defend, acquiesce. Via motivational rhetoric masked as language, the dominant message was that vaginas are passive reactors.
Which implies that Ensler's audience of hooting, howling vagina liberators think women are passive reactors. But while women in some parts of the world still lack freedom and choice, I am fairly confident that the members of the Bay Area's theater-ticket-holding community enjoy relative control over their own vaginal destinies. Yet if they disagree, if they honestly believe they don't have jurisdiction over their vaginas, you have to wonder what hope they have that their daughters can overcome their own modern problems.
Maybe the audience's lack of problems is actually their problem. Maybe the chronic rhetoric of sisterhood and empowerment is just so enjoyable that they are loathe to relinquish it. Maybe the very women who walked the walk the first time simply haven’t yet written their next act. Maybe they haven't moved with the times and don't realize that, thanks to their efforts the first time around, vaginal dialogues are now just trite.
Before I entered the theater, I considered myself well-rounded and un- compartmentalized. I had enjoyed a full day in my full life, made possible by the combined efforts of many of my most sturdy and least political body parts. Yet when the monologues began, the richness of my day as a young professional in a complex world of both sexes was reduced; I was a vagina.
I thought of my mother's struggle to find balance and success in a male business world and of my own professional efforts to be assertive while still feminine. I shuddered to think how some socially-unenlightened men at work might react to the confusing message that, though women have been representing ourselves as robust, fully-functioning people, a thrilled audience was now boiling female identities back down to our sexes. And I shuddered harder as my eyes fell on women who were cheering old language instead of drawing men into a new loop.
Unfortunately, among all those fans who celebrate the Monologues in cities around the country, I am apparently a minority in my boredom, in my irritation that racy language is confused with groundbreaking substance, and in my contention that the essays highlight the feminist confusion over where to go from here.
And so the Monologues do not appear to be going away anytime soon.
Ensler's project was a creative and interesting contribution. But the eager way audiences and the media embrace the essays indicates that women are looking for something to embrace, that the pickings are slim, and that after all this time, there's still an awful lot of power in saying a provocative word.
--Jordana Willner wrote a monthly "Next Generation" column for the San Francisco Chronicle in 1999, 2000, and 2001
Originally published San Francisco Chronicle
April 15, 2001
PLEASE MAKE the "Vagina Monologues" go away.
Not because I can't bear the word. Honest. "Vagina" might not fit in as many of my daily sentences as "DSL," "BART" and "cat food," but it receives appropriate mention.
The problem is I can’t bear another round of rave reviews that declare pop-culture genius in Eve Ensler's much-trumpeted collection of essays. I have exceeded my tolerance for women who feel empowered by Monologues that left me feeling partitioned, categorized, and minimized to the extreme.
Going in on a free ticket, the theatrical reading of the essays seemed harmless enough. But while I expected some minor embarrassment at the reputably racy material, I hardly anticipated being so deeply offended by the shallow, dated essays as to withhold my applause and resist the predominantly female audience's baffling insistence on standing ovation.
Enslers' premise, I think, is that, without a comfortable daily place in conversational English, the vagina lacks definitive identity. The solution, she contends, is to fit every sentence with triple vagina occupancy, while personifying the region as a simultaneously sassy, girlish, churlish, victimized, neglected and abused entity. Ensler and her fans apparently believe that if women would only talk about our vaginas, we could reclaim our bodies, enjoy our femininity, and embrace our sexuality.
A radical hypothesis -- if the year was 1971. But unless my history degree was a sham, I'm quite certain female reclamation was a burgeoning priority right around the time my mother wore go-go boots and frosted eye shadow. A shame if the subsequent sexual revolution and women's liberation movements were for naught and that after 30 years, the white liberal women with whom I saw the show still need the same buoying slogans they once chanted on university campuses.
If Ensler's message is that the struggle for female equality and expression continues among different walks of female life, new recommendations for action might be more persuasive than old, tired complaints of pigeon-holing and derision. In fact, it seemed downright irresponsible in the dawning days of the 21st century to amass women for a recap of dismal statistics and international horror stories without providing a single solution for protecting vaginas. Body issues, identity crises, sexism, and sexual abuse all persist, but resurrecting the language of old to battle pressing modern problems is an empty promise. A far better use of time might have included a self-defense class and a seminar on responsible behavior.
But then, it is not action but reaction that comprises the "Vagina Monologues." In every tale of maligned, mistreated, neglected vaginas, circumstances beyond the woman's control had caused her vaginal woes. Someone made her shave, wash, defend, acquiesce. Via motivational rhetoric masked as language, the dominant message was that vaginas are passive reactors.
Which implies that Ensler's audience of hooting, howling vagina liberators think women are passive reactors. But while women in some parts of the world still lack freedom and choice, I am fairly confident that the members of the Bay Area's theater-ticket-holding community enjoy relative control over their own vaginal destinies. Yet if they disagree, if they honestly believe they don't have jurisdiction over their vaginas, you have to wonder what hope they have that their daughters can overcome their own modern problems.
Maybe the audience's lack of problems is actually their problem. Maybe the chronic rhetoric of sisterhood and empowerment is just so enjoyable that they are loathe to relinquish it. Maybe the very women who walked the walk the first time simply haven’t yet written their next act. Maybe they haven't moved with the times and don't realize that, thanks to their efforts the first time around, vaginal dialogues are now just trite.
Before I entered the theater, I considered myself well-rounded and un- compartmentalized. I had enjoyed a full day in my full life, made possible by the combined efforts of many of my most sturdy and least political body parts. Yet when the monologues began, the richness of my day as a young professional in a complex world of both sexes was reduced; I was a vagina.
I thought of my mother's struggle to find balance and success in a male business world and of my own professional efforts to be assertive while still feminine. I shuddered to think how some socially-unenlightened men at work might react to the confusing message that, though women have been representing ourselves as robust, fully-functioning people, a thrilled audience was now boiling female identities back down to our sexes. And I shuddered harder as my eyes fell on women who were cheering old language instead of drawing men into a new loop.
Unfortunately, among all those fans who celebrate the Monologues in cities around the country, I am apparently a minority in my boredom, in my irritation that racy language is confused with groundbreaking substance, and in my contention that the essays highlight the feminist confusion over where to go from here.
And so the Monologues do not appear to be going away anytime soon.
Ensler's project was a creative and interesting contribution. But the eager way audiences and the media embrace the essays indicates that women are looking for something to embrace, that the pickings are slim, and that after all this time, there's still an awful lot of power in saying a provocative word.
--Jordana Willner wrote a monthly "Next Generation" column for the San Francisco Chronicle in 1999, 2000, and 2001
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