I stood on stage, trembling, and looked out over the audience. My heart was racing. My hands were sweating. I closed my eyes for a moment to ground myself. Then, with a deep breath, I delivered my first line: “My vagina was green water, soft pink fields…”
Let me explain.
This semester I had the privilege of participating in the SMU Women’s Interest Network’s production of The Vagina Monologues. The play is a series of monologues complied from interviews with real women concerning their bodies, sexual experiences, and identities. Participating in this production was a transformative experience, not just because I got to collaborate with amazing performers and activists, but also because I learned a lot about myself.
“We were worried what we think about vaginas, and even more worried that we don’t think about them…There’s so much darkness and secrecy surrounding them — like the Bermuda triangle. Nobody ever reports back from there.”
This line is featured in the opening of the show. It quickly became one of my favorites, partially because it’s funny, but mostly because it’s an accurate representation of the way most women feel about their body. The truth is, a lot of young women really don’t know the facts when it comes to their sexual health. Since fewer than 60 percent of American high schools feature sexual education curriculums that discuss contraception, a lot of women aren’t told how to keep themselves safe. Worse than that, a lot of women don’t even know where their reproductive organs are. In a study of 1,000 British women, 44 percent of participants incorrectly labeled the location of their own vaginas. Only one-third of the women surveyed could correctly label the entire female reproductive system.
So obviously, there’s a problem. Women aren’t connecting with their bodies. And before The Vagina Monologues, I wasn’t either. I grew up in a conservative town where sexuality wasn’t openly discussed. My sexual education curriculum was abstinence only and my questions about my body were often met with uncomfortable stares. So eventually, I stopped asking questions. I figured, when it came to my vagina, I was on my own.
But being in The Vagina Monologues made me realize that we don’t have to go at it alone. We don’t have to leave questions unanswered. One of the most heartbreaking lines of the show is in the piece “My Vagina was My Village” which describes the experience of Bosnian refugees who were victims of war rape.
“My vagina a… village….I…do not visit. I live someplace else now.”
This line has remained with me for one crucial reason: no one should feel like a foreigner in their own body. Part of feeling at home in my own body has been understanding it- every part of it. This requires obliterating the stigmas surrounding female sexuality. We can’t scare young women away from asking their questions, and we can’t be afraid to ask our own.
Vagina is a weird word. It’s a funny word, even. But we can’t let it be a frightening word. Ownership and pride in our bodies begins with understanding them. So, if you’re one of those two-thirds of women who can’t label their own reproductive systems, study up! And it’s okay if you need help. Stop by the Women and LGBT Center on the third floor of Hughes-Trigg for information, guidance, and referral. At SMU, knowing and loving your body is not a solo mission.