SCRIPT—PLEASE DO NOT SHARE THIS DOCUMENT
ACT I
Roller Derby Got Me Pregnant
Roller Derby got me pregnant. Yeah, I said it. It sounds funny, but it's true.
My entire life I have wanted to have a baby. Not adopt, not babysit, but birth a baby. I
want a baby not because I'm ultra motherly or wanted some deep connection to another
human being, but because I wanted to experience giving birth. I didn't even feel the need
to have a husband or whatever traditional “norm” we all find ourselves trying to fit into.
Sounds selfish, I know.
I am almost 30 years old, am in school and working, and have a serious boyfriend. We
have discussed having a baby because we both would like to at some point in our lives
and, well, we're not getting any younger. We've talked and talked and talked about it, but
the birth control I was taking was getting in the way. We couldn't settle on a good time to
get pregnant, or to even try. But, I digress. Back to roller derby getting me pregnant.
I began skating for the newly founded roller derby team in South Bend, and I was going
to be the most fit I had ever been. I was going to jump into roller derby, embrace the
power of being a woman, get strong and buff, and kick some ass. And I did … for a few
months. That is, until roller derby got me pregnant.
I am not saying the actual sport physically got me pregnant. That is just impossible and
creepy. I am saying that the minute I decided to put the baby making on the back burner;
the minute I decided to continue taking my birth control; the minute I decided to drown
myself in roller derby—I got pregnant.
I am not the first to be impregnated by roller derby. Actually, I am the third. One girl had
been trying for months and months with her husbandand … nothing. The minute she
began conditioning for our league—PREGNANT. Another girl wasn't even trying, hadn't
even discussed it with her boyfriend, and—BOOM—pregnant.
I thought being in roller derby would give me the body I had wanted my entire life.
Instead, I am getting a round belly and a sore back (and not from my derby stance).
Though I’m cringing at the changes in my body, I’m also enjoying them. This whole
baby thing has really made me see the world in an entirely different light. Being pregnant
has made me realize that maybe I'm less selfish than I thought. I am sadder about giving
up roller derby for the duration of my pregnancy than about giving up the rest of my life
for this amazing human being.
Hmmm … Maybe I should get the baby skating as soon as it starts walking.
Chorus: Tell us about your first kiss?
** My best friend. A girl. In her bed. In her dorm room. Her roommates were asleep. Two in the
morning. At a Christian university where homosexuality is forbidden.
** Practicing with the bathroom mirror.
** A blonde boy named Steven. Kindergarten. He left me for a brunette a week later.
** Ha ha, no clue! So many kisses ago …
** At the movie theater. He took my breath away!
I am 50 years old
I am 50 years old. I am an American citizen and South Bend born and bred. I am an
African American on the census, mother of four children—three boys, one girl—and a
grandmother of six. I am a holy ghost filled, Jesus lovin’, Christian woman. I am HIV
positive. I almost made you forget everything else I said, huh? I’m not a poster child for
HIV, just a woman who has it and is trying to deal.
I’m telling you, but I haven’t told my four children yet. It’s only been four years since I
was diagnosed, but I can’t quite figure out what to say to them. So I’m asking you: what
do you think I should do? When you look at me, do I look like I have HIV? It’s a secret I
can’t tell my pastor, my boss, or even my closest friends.
When you have HIV, the doctors request you tell all of your partners and have them
come in and be tested. Them? There was no “them.” The doctors ask you questions such
as, “Are you practicing unsafe behavior like having multiple partners? Using drugs?
Engaging in a homosexual relationship?” No. No. No. They also tell me to inform all my
new relationships of my condition.
You know what is funny—not funny ha-ha but funny still? I stopped having sex a year
before I was diagnosed because I felt guilty about having sex while not being married. I
wanted to make my body a living sacrifice holy and acceptable to God. Ain’t that a kick
in the head? God has a sense of humor. I’m not even mad at the guy who gave it to me.
When I told him, he refused to get tested but calls me up every now and then to have me
pray for him.
I don’t really date because 1) men don’t really want to date a Christian woman who is not
having sex, and 2) I’d have to tell him that I’m HIV positive. I don’t want to hurt anyone,
but I did have to tell one guy because we were getting very close and he had asked me to
marry him. I remember crying over the phone. I knew that as soon as those words came
out of my mouth, I would lose him forever. I imagined him hanging up the phone in
anger. He kept begging me to tell him. All I could do was cry. He asked me if I was sick.
Was I dying? Did I have cancer? What?
It came out in a whisper. “I have HIV.” He asked if I was on meds yet. I whispered, “No,
my T cell count is good.” His response was, “Damn, girl, you scared me for nothing. I
can deal with that. I love you.”
I am 50 years old. I am an American citizen and South Bend born and bred. I am an
African American on the census, the mother of four children—three boys, one girl—and
grandmother of six. I am a holy ghost filled, Jesus lovin’, Christian woman. I’m not a
poster child for HIV, just a woman who has it and is trying to deal.
Learning
I worked days, when the place, like a stage set exposed,
had no atmosphere, just me asking,
“Are you ready to order?”
Francisco was there to teach me
how to make cappuccino.
The machine sat shining on the high bar,
and he watched as I reached both
hands up to steam the milk. As I held the small
cup under the scorching sound, hot milk stinging
flecks onto my hand, he came close behind
and leaned his genitals against me, my flesh
there squashing softly, seeming to accept against
my will. What burns me are the several
moments I stood still like that, unbelieving.
He Said He Loved Me
He said he loved me and I loved him. He made me laugh and told me I was beautiful. We
did everything together.
I lived with my best friend and her mom because my parents were on the verge of divorce
and mama said there was only room for my little brother in her new apartment. Only he
thought of me.
He understood my pain and stood by my side. We dated throughout my senior year. After
I graduated, I found out I was pregnant. He was excited. I was scared. He said he couldn’t
wait for the baby to come. And you know what? He couldn’t.
In my second trimester, I moved into his sister’s house with him. I didn’t want to burden
the family I lived with and my mom said she needed time to heal from the divorce—a
baby would complicate things.
At first, it was exciting. We slept together every night, and he was around when the baby
kicked. It was amazing. But then he started staying out late. I asked if everything was
okay, and he would say, “Everything’s fine. Just being a man, taking care of business.”
Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.
One day a girl knocked on the door, looking for my boyfriend. I asked her who she was.
She said she was his girlfriend. I was his girlfriend, or so I thought.
When he came home, I delivered the message and told him I was done. He punched me
in my face. I fell down and he choked me. I yelled, “STOP IT! I’M PREGNANT!”
He stopped. I started crying and he left the room. Then he came back. “You still
leaving?” When I nodded yes, he grabbed me by my hair and dragged me into the
bedroom. He yanked me up, still holding my hair, and yelled, “STOP CRYING!” and
smacked me. I had never seen him like this. I was so scared.
I needed to leave. I asked him for a ride. He told me to walk. It was fuckin’ winter. I put
on my coat—fuck my clothes—and started for the door. He grabbed me again by my hair
and slung me across the room. I landed on my stomach. He stood over me and said if I
left, it wouldn’t be like that! He went back to the bedroom and got into bed. My dress
was wet, and I saw a little blood. I sat up and tapped my belly. I didn’t feel my baby
move. He always moved when I tapped my belly. I was in so much pain.
I got up and walked to the bedroom. He was watching TV. I said, “I need to go to the
hospital. I’m bleeding and I’m wet.” He told me, “I’ll take you when my show go off.” I
waited for an hour. Finally, he came out and took me.
When I got to Elkhart General, he told me not to tell our “fuckin’ business” before
leaving me there. I was just worried about my baby.
They immediately did an ultrasound. The doctor came in and told me they would be
transporting me to IU Riley in Indy because I was leaking fluid and dilating. He said they
were better equipped there and could possibly stop my contractions. I was only 27 weeks.
He asked if I had someone to be with me because I would be leaving by ambulance in 10
minutes. I gave my mama’s number, but they couldn’t reach her.
In eight hours, I had my son. He weighed 1lb, 10oz. No one was there.
I watched as my baby fought for his life and all I could think was, “How did I get here?”
Suddenly I remembered why: he said he loved me.
Chorus: What's the most unrealistic standard of beauty?
** The idea that there is a correct breast size.
** Push-up bras for 11 year old girls.
** Someone else’s ideal.
** Sameness.
** Anything that suggests who we are, what we have, or what we wear is not good enough.
** That there's only one kind of beautiful. In reality, there are lots of beautiful women of all
shapes, sizes, colors, ages, and physical abilities.
** No body hair. We're mammals, folks!
** Blond white women. Just about everybody love them some chocolate!
Curves
I am a curvaceous woman, and I had never been appreciated for my curves and valleys
before he came into my life. In fact, he spends quite a bit of time studying and tracing my
curves and valleys. At times, I feel like expensive artwork. I turn into a sculpture at the
Louvre in Paris, a sculpture that is a “hands-on” experience. Unlike other men, he does
not grope—he traces my outline with the delicate touch of his hands. He is like an artist
who is learning and forming a delicate curve instead of copping a feel. Some of you
ladies may know what I am referring to: that caring, supportive, and appreciative touch.
That is his way of showing he appreciates me “as is” and that I do not need to be a
smaller size in order for him to love and enjoy my body.
Missing You
I miss the way you look at me with those soft,
beautiful eyes,
your love shining through them.
I miss the smile on your face, showing the
complete happiness that you feel.
I miss your arms around me and the feel of
your fingertips on my skin.
I miss your breath on my face,
just before you kiss me.
There are times when you're gone that
I miss you
so intensely.
I feel my heart will break,
as though you took a part of me
with you.
The nights, especially,
can be so long.
You always come back, though,
back to my arms,
back to my fingertips,
back to my lips,
back to my skin,
and every time you do,
my greatest desire is that you will never
leave
again.
August 2, 2007
My son was only 22 years of age when he died, and he will be forever 22.
On August 2, 2007, I unwillingly became a member of an exclusive society I call the
Dead Baby Club. Membership into the club is being the mother of a child who has passed
away. As a member of the Dead Baby Club, I measure life in two ways: life before my
child died … and life after. His funeral is pretty much a blur, but I do remember that you
can put people who come to your child’s funeral into two categories: people who say
“I’m so sorry for your loss” with sincerity, and those who also say, “I’m so sorry for your
loss,” but you know they are thinking, “I’m glad it’s not me.” Dead Baby Club members
reach out to each other and say things like: “No one knows what this is like or how
painful this really is.” “No greater sorrow than to bury your child.” “It is not supposed to
be like this.” “A mother should never have to bury her child.”
I never knew my heart could die and yet still beat in my chest. At first, when my son
died, I would see other mothers with their children and be jealous. Jealous that they could
still hear their child’s laughter, could and would have another Christmas, another
birthday. I would give almost anything to feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek right
before giving me a good night kiss. To hear just one more “I love you momma” would be
worth any amount of gold.
The worst part is when I have what I call a “sneak attack.” That is when someone asks
me how my son is doing and I have to tell them that he died. They stand there with a
shocked look on their face and then they stumble and stammer, saying, “I didn’t know,”
in total embarrassment. Usually I have time to brace myself against the crushing blow of
misery, but suddenly there I am, flooded with not only my memories, but also theirs. I
feel myself getting weaker and lost in sadness. It is like drowning.
I flip between wanting to turn back the hands of time and wanting to die so I can be with
my child. I look at his baby photos, my baby …
God, help me … why? … why?
Dear God, my baby …
I replay our last words, my child’s last day.
Iffa … shoulda … coulda … woulda … iffa … shoulda … coulda … woulda …
Members of the Dead Baby Club have a million tears. My child is no longer here. I miss
him so much. He was my friend, as well as my child.
Iffa … shoulda … coulda …
As a member of the Dead Baby Club, I wear my grief and sorrow. It is part of me now.
Sometimes it is exposed and everyone can see it, and sometimes it is hidden. But it is
always there—always. Some say I should get over it already—damn, he has been
dead for more than three years. I’ll get over it when my son stops being dead.
God, can you hold me please?
You said you would not put on me more than I can bear.
Sometimes I struggle just to keep breathing … breathe … come on … come on …
breathe …
Can I tell you something? Yesterday I was at J.C. Penney at University Park Mall. They
had a wonderful sale on South Pole shirts, only $1.97 each. I picked up four, one of each
color: green, dark blue, red, and black. I went happily to the counter to pay for them. I
stopped—my son is dead. I forgot he doesn’t need them any more. I can hear my son
laughing at me, “Momma, you know you love the clearance rack!” I get them anyway.
I’m okay today. I’m a member of the Dead Baby Club, and I just have to live for the both
of us. As long as I shall live, he lives—even if it is just in my heart song memories.
The Words of My Mother
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
Because mental abuse hurts too.
Because some things a person never gets over.
Because my mother has no clue what she's done to me.
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
My mother is a very insecure woman when you look at her.
My mother always worries about what other people think. She spends hours every
morning in the bathroom getting ready.
As a child, she dressed me cutesy and frilly.
At age 12 when I started getting fat,
her interest in dressing me up began to stop.
She always told me to suck my tummy in.
“If you want to lose weight and fit into cute clothes, you’d better stop eating cookies, ice
cream, and candy.”
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
My mother is a very spiritual woman when you look at her.
My mother spends hours every night studying scriptures.
As a child I went to church and led a very sheltered life that made me drastically stand
out from other children.
At age 16 when I started questioning my spirituality,
her interest in who I was becoming began to stop.
“If you want to go to heaven and see all your friends and family again someday, you
better start living God's way!”
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
My mother is a very self-centered woman when you look at her.
My mother always has a way of making everything about her.
At age 18, I got married so I'd have someone to love and take care of me.
Her interest in being part of my wedding was clouded because she was consumed by her
divorce.
“You're too young to get married and I guess you're going to have to learn things the hard
way.”
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
My mother is a poser when you look at her.
My mother always has trouble telling her fraternal twin granddaughters apart.
At age 21 when I had my daughters, my mother didn’t come stay with me for a few days
to ease me into motherhood. My father did.
Her interest in my being a mother is only when she brags about her twin granddaughters
to get the “we have twins” attention.
The words of my mother echo through my mind.
Because the cycle has to stop somewhere.
My interest in my daughters is to give them a better upbringing and future than their
foremothers.
“Mommy loves you.”
I hope these are the words of their mother that echo through their little minds.
Chorus: What was your experience, or lack thereof, with sexual
education?
** I'm 50 and still waiting on the talk from my mother. My Dad told me when I was 11. I told
him my Mommy wouldn't do something like that! That's nasty!
** My parents were always ready to answer any questions. I became the “go-to” girl on the
playground for the facts of life.
** Millions of sperm are released in each ejaculation. Many of them cannot swim and are pretty
much DOA. The few, the proud, make it all the way to the egg. But only one will penetrate the
wall. I learned this in 7th grade health class. Unfortunately, they didn’t also teach statistics, so by
my calculations there was a one in a million chance of getting pregnant.
** My dad said, “It will feel good to guys but painful to you.”
** My mother, a first grade teacher, was too embarrassed to talk to me face to face. She checked
out videos from her school library and made me a fill-in-the-blank worksheet.
** My mother did not feel it was necessary to talk to me about sex. Before I was even out of high
school, I had gotten pregnant and opted to have an abortion. Because my mother never discussed
it with me, I simply didn't have the knowledge to even protect myself, or make informed
decisions. Sex ed should begin earlier than high school!
Fit to be Tied
“So, are you into any other types of bondage?” A feeling of confusion came over me as I
read the email. Bondage?!? It never occurred to me that a sex swing was a form of
bondage, but when I wrote my friend about how much I lo-lo-lovvvvved the sex swing,
this was the reply I got.
My preconceived notions of bondage didn’t involve anything I thought I would be into.
Images of studded collars and ball gags didn’t pique my curiosity, nor did the thought of
one person striking another with a riding crop. I knew I liked my partner to take charge,
but I didn’t relate this to bondage.
By my mid-thirties, I had fully explored my sexuality, playing with men, women,
couples, and groups. I had safely enjoyed many good experiences, including a loving,
long-term sexuationship. Was there still a leaf I had not turned over?
I knew when I read that email I needed to take a closer look. Not only did I research what
bondage meant, but I researched why people enjoyed it. My preconceived notions began
to vanish.
I created a profile on a dating website and received an email from a good-looking guy
with a great smile. His tone was warm and friendly. His profile alluded to a “wild side.”
“I'm into bondage, consensually of course. If you want me to elaborate on that topic, I
certainly can!” I gasped. Bondage! Exactly the topic I had been researching! But was he
dominant? As fate would have it, he was.
We had a great phone conversation. He patiently and eagerly explained more about
bondage in a professional, informative manner that made me very comfortable. He asked
lots of questions and so did I. I learned that bondage is not necessarily about sex,
although sex can be involved. He explained that the joy for him in being dominant is
seeing his “play partner” react to being unexpectedly stimulated in sensual ways. He said
the partner does not need to do anything to him and that seeing the reaction is how he
“receives.” This made me realize that bondage can be kind and thoughtful.
Our talk also made me think, and I began to realize why being submissive is highly erotic
to me. There is no pressure for me to perform or act any way other than naturally.
I also came to the realization that there is a deep dark part of me that plays the martyr and
tries to say “no” to feeling good and receiving pleasure. That is why I seek a person who
knows this about me and says, “Yes! You will take this pleasure!”
What a far cry from my original perceptions of bondage. The irony of this whole process
is the discovery that for me, bondage equals freedom!
Homecoming
It's always overwhelming, those two days of a different life, a different me. One who
doesn't tell bedtime stories or do the dishes, one who doesn't rub glitter 'fairy powder' on
knees because it will take the hurt away. But the Indiana State Visitation guidelines insist
that every 21 days I assume another identity, that I not look into my own eyes on a
smaller face or marvel at the little girl who has her father’s mouth but wears my smile.
And I don't mind the break, the monthly atmosphere of a freaky holiday. I even look
forward to it sometimes. I go out late. I dress like a brazen hussy. I drink Red Bull, I
watch slasher films in the middle of the day and blare Liz Phair and They Might Be
Giants until the windows shake. I close down bars, sleep until noon, kiss virtual strangers.
And then, I go to bed alone, and I cry a little bit because this isn't me anymoreI am no
longer a girl who hangs out in bars and makes vapid chitchat. I am more (now); my life is
bigger (now). I am a mother first and all else on the side.
But something terribly strange happened to me this week, something I didn't like: I woke
up and thought, “Oh, there were other things I was supposed to do in my time off.”
In my time off.
I have always had great respect for motherhood as hard work, my primary career,
responsibility, life's calling. But never have I seen it as a job. For just a moment, I forgot
something crucial: being my daughter’s mother is not what I do; being my daughter’s
mother is who I am. It's what I was put on this earth to be. It's all I ever wanted.
Tonight, her first night back home, I tucked her in and she held me close and said in halfsleep to me, “I missed you so much. It smells like our house here, mommy. It's different
to be somewhere that doesn't smell like you.” And she held on until she fell asleep, with
one more whisper to me.
“Can you crawl in my ear when I go to sleep, like get really small? Because then you can
always be in my brain since I think about you all the time anyway.”
These were the babbles of an exhausted kindergartner up past bedtime, but that tired little
six year old is smarter than I will ever be. She could never forget for a moment that
there's no telling who really belongs to whom anymore, where one of us starts and the
other one begins.
She smelled like her, and she smelled like home. And I'm madly in love with that little
girl, the very picture of perfection, brilliance, and living poetry.
Her absence during summer break is going to be a fucking bitch.
I…
I was outed today by my shift manager. I found out from a coworker. Technically, it
happened a couple weeks ago, but for me it happened today. My coworker said my
manager told them the Friday before last, talking about it to a group of colleagues while I
was off somewhere working. Apparently she said she saw it on Facebook. I went home
and scoured my page—it’s not on Facebook. My family’s on Facebook, and I haven’t
come out to them yet.
So, I don’t know if she spread a rumor based on assumption, which—surprise—is totally
true, or if she found out from someone else. But no one knows, so it must be the first
scenario, and, god, that makes her a really shitty person.
I didn’t expect this. I never was afraid that this would be done to me.
These were not my terms, this was not my pace. I feel violated, invaded. Robbed. It’s
incredible, the magnitude. I wasn’t prepared.
I wasn’t prepared to tell my mom, who is a devout Christian, and who was a neglectful
parent to a degree I can never forgive. I wasn’t prepared to tell my aunt and uncle, who
opened their home to me when I was seventeen and helped me graduate high school and
get into college. I wasn’t prepared to tell my two younger sisters, whom I adore, and who
look up to me. These people deserve to know first, but they are the hardest people to tell.
That’s exactly why I was staying in the closet, at least for the time being.
I am not prepared to live my life just to educate people. I’m not ready for people to judge
me based solely on my orientation, to “have my reputation precede me.” I’m not ready to
argue that it’s not a phase. I’m not interested in constantly qualifying my orientation’s
existence. But, ready or not, it can’t be taken back now.
I suppose I could have lied and been like, “Whoa, whoa, she said what? Dude, no way.” I
didn’t think about it. When my coworker mentioned it in passing, so briefly and normallike, I couldn’t speak. I’d never had anyone outside of myself identify me this way. It was
bizarre, and refreshing, and scary, and infuriating. I’m glad I didn’t deny it—that would
have been worse, right? But god, what a clusterfuck this is now. Because this is northern
Indiana, everyone knows everyone. I don’t want my family to hear this from someone
else—I don’t want someone else taking this away from me again.
And so I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I’m scared shitless. It would be nice not to
have to pretend anymore—or not just let people think I’m straight.
I guess I don’t want to be judged more than I already am. Because it’s hard in this world
when you are me, and it hurts a lot most of the time. But underneath all of the things we
call ourselves, and all of our experiences, we share a similarity that is irrefutable—we are
human. I hope that one day that will be the only thing we need to know.
All In The Name Of Love
As a teenage girl in high school, I let your standards change my body. I took diet pills to
lose weight so you could show me off to your friends. You were my world even when
you boasted about the loss of my virginity.
All in the name of your love.
As a naïve freshman in college, I let your desires convince me not to use a condom so
you could get more feeling. For weeks, I listened to you insist that having a child would
ruin your life. You were still my world, even when you didn’t bother to be with me at the
clinic the day I had an abortion. It was all for you.
All in the name of your love.
As a young woman, I let your happiness take precedence over my own so you could take
the time to do the things in life that mattered to you. You were my hope for happiness,
even when I had to sacrifice my career and financial goals.
All in the name of your love.
But tonight, as a stronger, experienced woman, I will sleep in bed alone. Because I have
silenced the weak part of me that cries out for you, and because I have had enough, I will
take control of this situation and end this long chain of pain. This moment is when I take
back sovereignty and remember, or perhaps even discover, what it means to take care of
myself.
All in the name of love.
Chorus: What was your experience saving or losing your virginity?
** I really like being a virgin. I'm saving myself for that special someone.
** Prom night. Hotel room. Twice that night and set the alarm for round three. Awesome!
** I never knew it would get that hard.
** A soft kiss on the lips, a gentle rub on my exposed breast, heat, heat, I'm burning, touch me,
feel me, I need it, I want it, come on, hurry up—what the hell is that!?!
** Realizing that my hymen didn't define or categorize me.
** My virginity didn't make it through the 9th grade, let alone the altar.
** It was my wedding night. It was quick, awkward, and unsatisfying. But it was also with
somebody I trusted. We knew we had a lifetime to move past the obligatory first time toward
mutual fulfillment.
** How come he doesn’t have some kind of penile appendage that will stimulate my clitoris
while he’s banging away? No intelligent design there, I can tell you that!
** Now I know why the Catholic church demands women stay virgins until legally stuck in
marriage: no chance to compare lovers!
** Fuck marriage! Nobody gets married these days!
A Rocket for My Pocket
“So, dear, we were moving your old bed and lifted up the mattress, and what do you think
we found?”
My heart caught in my chest. I knew instantly what they had uncovered.
“It’s silver … and cylindrical … ,” she prodded. Oh, she was enjoying this. “Do you
know what it is?”
“No.” Damn, I answered too quickly, seemed indignant.
“A … vibrator?”
“I don’t know,” panicked.
“Well, how do you think it got there?”
“I don’t know!” now borderline hysterical.
A pause, then my mother replied. “Well, I didn’t put it there!”
I had spent years hunting for that damn thing in my old bedroom. I recalled having it
there during a brief stint at home after college (one particularly long and lazy Wednesday
when I found myself alone comes to mind), but had searched in vain every time I
returned to my parents’ house after moving out. The mattress did occur to me, but only
momentarily, as I said to myself, “No, Self, you’d never do something so clichéd.”
If only I had checked while at my parents’ house earlier that same day, had just put in the
ten seconds to lift up the goddamn mattress before my mom, dad, aunt, and uncle (my
confirmation sponsor, mind you) embarked on the bed-moving project. Instead, I now
had to imagine their four heads forming a circle as they peered down in disbelief. There
was, undoubtedly, a moment of shocked silence, followed by my aunt asking, “What is
it?”
Slender and silver with a pointed tip and transparent two inches across its middle, my
first vibe was part lava lamp and part rocket ship. A birthday gift from a much less
prudish friend, that mechanical wonder frightened and fascinated me. It sat untouched on
my dorm room desk for a few days as I tried to … get used to the idea. I mean, what
exactly would I do with it? I’d never held a vibrating lava lamp rocket ship hybrid
between my legs, much less inserted it anywhere. Oh man, were you supposed to insert
it?! Could you insert it?!
Curiosity soon got the better of me, and one warm May afternoon while my roommate sat
in her poetry class across campus, I opened the box and pulled out the magic machine. I
crawled under my blankets, chose the lowest setting, and slipped it between my legs.
Holy God.
It was, as they say, the beginning of a beautiful friendship. My eight-inch intergalactic
transportation device and I soon had a regular thing going on. By the next winter, we had
met a serious boyfriend, and together we three discovered the glories of a little extra
“mmmmmmmm” during a sex-filled month in my college apartment. And when that man
and I parted ways, my silver friend stood with me—and in me, for that matter. Because
yes, you can insert it.
Since losing track of that instrument of joy (a loss both painful and anxiety-inducing, as I
knew it had to be somewhere at my parents’ house), I have acquired another. Although
this new one has its good points, like a textured, rotating shaft and a little, bobbing head
for simultaneous external stimulation, it could never compare to the rocket for my pocket.
And now, here was my mother, asking me if I wanted her to save it for me until my next
visit home. “No,” I said scornfully. But my insides screamed, “Yes! I love that vibrator!
I’ve been looking for it for years! Every time I use my current vibe I think of how much I
miss the old one! I mentally cheat on my new vibrator with the lava lamp rocket ship!”
I dodged my parents’ subsequent calls for a week. I mean, seriously, couldn’t they leave
me alone with my shame? When I finally gave in and picked up the phone, my mother
asked if I was okay.
“Of course. What do you mean?”
“Well, you never called us back, and I thought maybe you were embarrassed. But we
want you to know we love you no matter what, and we don’t judge you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Pause. And then, tentatively, “Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“You, you didn’t happen to … save it, did you?”
“No, you said to throw it out.”
“You threw it out?! Really?!”
“Well, yeah, you told us to.” Long pause. “Honey? Honey? Are you crying?”
ACT II
My Cardigan Sweater
(This is a jazzy, bluesy number written when I was working in a library. It's supposed to
be kind of like a striptease. Librarians are sexy!)
I’d like to put on
A cardigan sweater
Although I’m not sure
What color
Or what texture
I’d like it to be
Emerald or sapphire
Velvet or cashmere
Mauve, chocolate
Or electric blue
Silk is slinky for you
Cotton is comfy for me
So
I guess what time of day
Is what cardigan sweater it’ll be
I’d like to put on a cardigan sweater
Although I’m not sure
What color or texture
I’d like it to be
Chorus: What experiences have you had as a woman in the workplace?
** I've done furniture deliveries, and I've actually had a woman complain to the company because
it was supposed to be two men delivering her T.V. I am just as capable of lifting half a 47" T.V.
as a man.
** For some reason, my breasts become the focal point of jokes at work.
** Being sexually harassed in the Little Caesar's pizza shop. The assistant manager would tie and
untie my apron strings every time he walked past me and talk about how I must be a “hellcat” in
bed.
** My female boss at the hair salon had very traditional ideas. Whenever cardboard displays
would come in, she insisted the male owner assemble them. It was back to wiping down the
shelves for me, because, of course, cleaning was appropriate “woman's work.”
** My colleagues and I have worked together for 17 years. We've watched each other’s kids grow
up, supported each other through losses, and withstood the vagaries of bureaucratic nincompoops
who haven't a clue how hard we work. I value, respect, and love these women, whom I am closer
to than my own sisters.
My Vagina Monologue
Seventh grade.
11 years old.
Mom’s at work.
Got to get the dishes done before she comes home.
Dad gets home. “Almost done with the dishes?”
“Almost, Dad.”
“When you get done, do you want to earn a dollar?”
“Doing what, Dad?”
“Let me show you what makes women pregnant.”
I panic. Everything inside of me screams “no!”
I know I didn’t hear him right.
“What?” I ask nervously.
“Let me show you what makes women pregnant.”
“Oh, dear God, please no,” I say to myself.
“No, Dad. I don’t think so.”
A few weeks go by with no mention of this incident.
Dad’s fixing the car. He calls me out to the garage. Mom and my sister are gone. I get
nervous.
I like to work on cars, so I go out to the garage.
There he is with his penis in his hand, the head of it in a rag. It’s hard and ugly.
I had never seen one before.
I try to run back into the house, but he catches me and makes me watch his ejaculation.
I think I am going to be sick.
He is so proud. He looks at me and says, “That’s what makes women pregnant.”
I run from the garage into the house. My world is collapsing around me.
A few more weeks pass. Nothing is said.
Dad’s a trucker. He leaves the house before my sister and I wake up.
Mom, the ever dutiful wife, is downstairs cooking breakfast for him.
I wake to the feeling of a mouth on my right nipple and a hand touching and stroking my
vagina.
I panic. I try to push him away, but he is too strong.
“Please don’t do this!” I cry.
“Sshshshush” I hear. “I am only doing this because your mother isn’t good to me
anymore.”
I really don’t care what his reasons are; it is so wrong! Someone get him out of my room.
He strokes and touches me. He rubs his penis on my vagina.
I lie there like a rag doll, hoping it will end soon, tears running down my cheeks.
It is too dark for him to see them.
He leaves and goes downstairs to eat his breakfast.
I can’t go back to sleep. My body still burns where he touched me. I want to go shower,
but I know Mom will wonder why I am showering at 2 a.m.
This scenario repeats itself—sometimes two to three times a week.
I am in the living room watching T.V. Mom and my sister are going to the store.
Mom wants me to stay home and finish up the laundry. I beg her to take me. She doesn’t.
He comes into the living room and starts trying to touch me. I don’t have to be afraid of
waking anyone up, so I fight him. He wrestles me to the ground. I am crying. He slips his
hands into my pants and begins to rub my vagina while he is lifting up my shirt to lick
my breast.
I am kicking and screaming, doing everything I can to stop it, until he says to me, “Do
you want me to do this to your sister?”
Everything inside of me dies. I don’t want my baby sister to go through this.
I stop struggling. I learn to leave my body. I can disassociate myself from this.
Two years have passed. I am in the ninth grade. I have to tell someone. I am dying inside.
My school counselor is nice; maybe he will help me. I set up an appointment and tell him
everything.
My mom, sister, and I just finished dinner. Dad is gone on another run.
There is a knock on the door. Mom answers it.
A deputy is standing there. “Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes,” my mom says.
“I need to talk to you about your daughter.”
“What about her?”
“Can I come in and talk to you in private, ma’am?”
My sister and I leave the room. I am so scared. Is he there because of what I said?
I hear my mom’s voice getting angry.
She comes out yelling at me. “Why are you making up such terrible lies about your dad?
Why are you such a rotten little liar?”
I start to cry.
“There is no way your dad would ever do that ugly stuff to you. You are jealous of me.
You want to be the wife. You seduced him.”
“No, Mom, I didn’t. Why don’t you believe me? I hurt so badly, Mom. Please hold me.”
“Get to your room this minute.”
She assures the officer I am safe in the house, that her husband would never do all those
ugly things.
It kept happening until I was 17. I hated him, but I had to protect my sister.
For years, my vagina didn’t know what was wrong with it. It craved to be touched, but at
the same time, it hated being touched. Why did what he was doing feel good but also
gross me out so much? Because it was wrong. My brain knew it, but my body didn’t.
He never touched my sister. I did my job and protected her.
Now, I control who touches my vagina.
I have learned not to hate it and the memories associated with it.
I remember the good times my vagina has had, the fun it has experienced over the years.
If I don’t want anyone to touch it, then I can when I want to.
Nowadays, I love my vagina, and it is happy. It rarely remembers those ugly things, and
when it does, it releases those memories fast.
Can’t hang on to them. They will make you hate. They will make you bitter and angry.
My vagina trusts me again, and I trust my vagina.
Metamorphosis
30 Minutes Afterward: I am in disbelief. How could this have happened? I am shaking
and scared. I can still taste the steely flavor of blood and can feel the side of my face
starting to swell. You keep trying to hug me, and I do not have the presence of mind to
run. I can't believe you are walking me home after what you just did. I see the lights of
home come into view, and I run as fast as I can, trying to get away from you and what
just happened. I reach the porch steps and fall. I cry until I vomit.
The Next Morning: I have been up all night, most of it spent sitting in the bathtub and
sobbing. I keep going over what I shouldn't have done. I shouldn't have snuck out to meet
you. I shouldn't have worn boxer shorts; they were too short. Maybe they tempted you. I
shouldn't have drank; I don't have much tolerance, and the night got fuzzy too fast. I
shouldn't have let you kiss me, and I definitely shouldn't have kissed you back. This is
my fault; it has to be my fault. You are my friend, at least I thought you were, so why
would you hurt me like this if I didn't do something to lead you on?
The Next Three Months: I am constantly terrified. If a man so much as looks at me or
touches me in a platonic way, I cringe. I can feel you all over again, your fist crashing
into my mouth, you holding me down. I can feel you inside of my body, and I want to
die. One day, a male coworker walks into the cooler while I am in there alone. I panic so
badly I run out and almost knock him over. All I can think is, “We're alone, and back
here, no one can hear me scream.”
The Next Seven Years: Alcohol, once my enemy, has now become my beloved best
friend. It blurs the sharp edges and dulls my pain. Promiscuity abounds—I will give it
away before I let someone take it again. I refuse to be alone with a man unless I know
ahead of time I will have sex with him. I do not want to have to fight like that ever again.
It is a dangerous spiral, but I don't know how to stop.
The Saving Grace: I find a book by Inga Musico called Cunt: A Declaration of
Independence. In it, she talks about rape in a real way and says that silence is rape's best
friend. In that moment, she is the best friend I have ever had. She assures me that what
you did to me was not my fault. I weep tears of sadness for the destruction of the naive
girl I was and the lost woman I have become—and tears of joy because, for the first time,
I see a light at the end of the tunnel. It is far away, but, at least, I know it is there.
Now: After finding a wonderful therapist, I can now say what you did to me was not my
fault. I trusted someone I thought was my friend, and you betrayed that trust. The only
thing I did wrong was not report the rape. Yes, I said it, you raped me! I will no longer be
silent about that. Yes, I am angry, but it is a healthy anger now. Best of all, I can look
myself in the eyes and know I am going to be okay. I am strong; I am a survivor. And as
hard as you tried, you could not take that from me. This is my victory.
The Many Things I Drank Out Of
There are an estimated 13.8 million alcoholics in the country, and about 3.9 million of
them are women.
As one of those alcoholics, local statistics in my neighborhood might include the 12 times
my neighbors witnessed me running the streets in a blackout looking for my daughter
whom I had left next door with the sitter, the 29 times I have stumbled into the house at
5:30 in the morning with hair askew and missing shoes, and the 128 times I walked back
from the liquor store already drinking from the bottle in my purse, often more than once
in the same day or night.
These are, of course, all unofficial estimates.
At 27 years of age, I had to drink every day. I shook when I did not drink and had bottles
hidden all around the house. I was 95 pounds soaking wet, which I almost always was
because no one bothered me if I was drinking in the shower.
In April 2007, I walked into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in a church basement. I
have come to know that basement well. These meetings are a driving necessary force
today, something I cannot, will not live without. There is a saying: “Drinking gave me
wings, but it took away my sky.” I cannot deny the truth in this statement.
After one meeting, I was stopped in a parking lot by an enthusiastic attendee. She
suggested to me that I write a novel, because something I had said 20 minutes earlier
sounded like it should be the opening line: “I was a woman who drank out of many
things.”
I am not the kind of woman who could write a novel. I am, however, a woman who
writes lists, and this is the list of …
The Many Things I Drank Out Of
* A Pine-Sol container. It is hard to tell the amber color of spiced rum or whiskey from
the tone of the actual cleaning substance.
* A sippy cup, carefully marked with a bunny sticker to distinguish it from the one my
daughter used. Luckily, there was never any confusion, at least on her end; many was the
time I braced myself for the strong burn of apple juice hitting the back of my throat.
* A Water Babies doll. You know, the ones with the plastic bodies you fill with water, or
sometimes Grey Goose Vodka, to give it a realistic, squirming, jiggling, new baby feel?
This was nice, since there was no one but me who would ever drink from it.
* A bug spray bottle. It felt just like bug spray going on, and once people were wearing it,
they could not smell my breath nearly as easily.
* A mouthwash bottle. In fairness, I was just drinking mouthwash out of these. Usually.
* Travel toiletry containers. Sometimes, surprisingly, these came in a large enough size to
fit an entire pint of liquor while still looking perfectly appropriate in my purse.
* A hot water bottle. This was the same basic principle as the Water Babies doll and good
for times I wanted to drink in the privacy of my own bed while holding a nicely chilled
bottle of Ketel One against my abdomen to nurse phantom cramps between nips. I
usually got caught doing this.
* An oversized rubbing alcohol container. This needed no explanation until the time my
boyfriend called me from work and mentioned that earlier he couldn’t find it. He
wondered how I had used it all in under a week. I told him everyone knows rubbing
alcohol leaves no streaks on glass, which he would have figured out some time if he had
ever bothered to pick up a goddamned rag. But that would have been a disaster if he had
ever wanted to use the Pine-Sol.
Of course, these are not by half all the things I drank out of—it's just that some of the
other ones, well … they might be embarrassing.
Across the Room in Class
She would look at me across the room in class. We’d only spoken once when she sat next
to me for a small group discussion. I liked her voice. And her smile. I was nervous the
whole time, every nerve tingling with her so close. Then, after class, I’d drive home to
my boyfriend, feed the cat, make dinner, watch T.V., and go to bed.
I’m a bisexual woman. I didn’t realize it for a long time. Or, rather, accept it—that would
be a better way of putting it. Because how are you to accept something when no one
offers acceptance as an option? As a virginity- and first kiss-saving Christian teenager, I
hated myself. Not only did I struggle with impure thoughts about men but also women. I
spent most nights on my knees trying to repent and cope with my supposed brokenness
until I finally left the church when I was 17.
The summer after, my friend came out to me as gay, and we went to a pride festival
together. My confusion and curiosity formed a tightly wound ball in my stomach as I
found myself drawn into this environment of openness. For a moment, I let myself realize
how attracted I was to these women milling about with their spiky hair, piercings, and
suspenders sliding over small breasts.
That night, I met my friend’s brother. I remember this night fondly as the beginning of a
beautiful, crazy, and wonderful summer with him. We fell into bed and into love and
have been together ever since.
But then there was the girl in class. Confronted again with confusion, I went through a
small crisis of sexual orientation. I loved my boyfriend, but I found girls attractive? I
thought about leaving him, but I wanted to be with him. I didn’t understand the
seemingly different signals my body and my mind were sending.
Then, one day, it finally clicked: I’m bisexual. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been that
hard to figure out, but I can understand why it was. Our culture is homophobic, sure, but
it’s even more biphobic. We like to put things into categories: masculine, feminine; dyke,
fag; straight, gay. I didn’t fit into one.
I am proud of myself for finally accepting who I am and for understanding it. I want to
tell my family, but they won’t understand. I’m not strong enough to see their faces look at
me like that. One day I hope to be able to tell my mom and have open conversations with
my family and friends. One day I hope not to be so afraid.
You cannot laugh or brush me off as insignificant. I face opposition, anger, and defeat
from all sides. I feel like there is no place for me. Where do I belong in gay and lesbian
communities? Am I an ally? Am I one of them? I feel shut out. People who say they’re bi
are called attention whores and cowards. I don’t want people to think that about me.
Unspoken pressures make it feel like a copout to be in a heterosexual relationship when I
also have the option to be in a gay one. But I won’t let anyone tell me how to love, and I
love my boyfriend. We’re building a life together, a life that makes me happy, and I’ll be
damned if anyone makes me ashamed of that.
I am a bisexual woman. I am here. I am not going away. I exist.
Chorus: When did you realize you were attracted to women?
** I never really knew being with a girl was an option. Fortunately, my heart figured it out on its
own and fell in love with her anyway.
** Am I bisexual if I think women's breasts are enchanting?
** I think I always knew I felt the same way about guys and girls, but I didn't actually learn to use
the label bisexual until I read it in a college psychology textbook. I thought bisexuals were men.
** The first time she held my hand.
** In eighth grade, when I loved my girlfriend with such passion that I felt we were almost like
one person. And again in college when my crushes on boys were shallow, while my crushes on
girls were deep and undeniable.
** When I found her, I found me.
** I didn't figure it out until I was 14 and had sex with my best friend. That's when I realized I
never want to stop being with women but want to be with guys, too. I like to call it being an equal
opportunity employer.
Thoughts for Her
I am always thinking of you
When I think of you, I smile
When I see you, my heart swells
And when we kiss, it skips a beat
I love you, my dearest
With all of myself
My heart, soul, mind, and body long to love you.
You are in my soul, you have my heart
Can I live without my heart?
But here is what I know
I am happy when you walk in the room
I know my favorite place is lying in your arms
I know the best things I’ve ever felt are your touch and your kiss
I know I want to wake up next to you
I can’t tell you how long we’ll be together, love
I can’t see where life will lead
All else passes away
I can never stop loving you.
Blighted Egg, Empty Nest, Long Day of Complaint
The first thing that needed to be taken care of was the empty sac inside me. I had this
residue of love that had to be sloughed off. Vacuumed out. I knew I did, because when I
got to the hospital, he wasn’t there—as I knew he wouldn’t be. I cried a little, scaring the
nurses. It was just a little, but people are somehow either under- or oversensitive to
seeing other peoples’ tears. “Just get this shit out of me,” I wanted to scream at a nurse,
feeling suddenly like I was stuffed with garbage.
The first news, that we had reproduced, made me inordinately happy. I thought of us as
only temporarily extramarital. At 42, I also thought I wanted one last baby, especially if it
were the product of this great new love. He never offered to wear a condom, and I never
requested it. I didn’t think I needed any form of protection from the happiness he seemed
to be offering. The affair was lifting me straight up and out of a teetering marriage.
But I couldn’t ignore his silence when I told him I was pregnant, nor could I ignore his
disappearance from my life when I refused to get an abortion. I wanted the baby, though
the husband and the lover were gone. I carried it around inside me for almost two months
before I found out it didn’t exist. I held on to the pregnancy out of love for who it would
be and as evidence that, since the machinery still worked, I was still viable. I was still that
far from death, a feeling that middle-aged men might have about their erections.
The second news, that the baby was no baby at all, was a relief to him but not me. The
doctor was almost crying as she roved around on the surface of my belly during the
ultrasound. I think she knew pretty quickly there was nothing there, but she kept looking
for a little while, as if with more effort she might find something more than that lone sac.
“Is it because of my age?” I asked.
“Most likely,” she said, her face towards the monitor.
She was about my age, so I knew she understood the feeling of being a carrier of aging
eggs, of surviving the death of our reproductive machinery. The factory shuts down,
though we go on talking, laughing, and even having sex.
I didn’t see her again until the scheduled removal of my non-baby. My anembryonic
pregnancy. My “blighted ovum.”
There was an inordinate amount of waiting to be done in that little room. I waited in my
stupid frayed double gowns, one in front and one in back. I shivered from the double
slivered entry of chilly room air and the IV in my arm feeding me cold water. I was
dilating and cramping from the pill I was told to insert high up in the vagina.
The vagina. My vagina. A place for fools to wander.
Later, I’m bleeding. I can’t sleep. I’m thinking. There’s something disgusting about a
useless apparatus of flesh like what I had in me. I feel like I have been reduced to a
bloody sac. Sad sac, saggy sac, baby-less nest.
I know what I’m supposed to do to continue to feel any joy in this life, to go on talking,
laughing, and even having sex: I need to embrace my recovery and look past the
mourning to a period when I no longer depict myself as the blighted carrier of an empty
future.
Chorus: What was your experience getting your first period?
** I started at school in the seventh grade. I felt so proud and womanly when I asked my friend
for a pad. She handed me a mattress-sized one. When I got out of class, I rushed back to the
bathroom to check the amount of blood I had on it. I was expecting a lot, but it was only a touch
of blood. Even so, I asked another friend if she had a pad. I then proceeded with the pad changing
ritual I now despise every month.
** I woke up that morning. It started in my sleep. I thought someone had stabbed me.
** My mother had talked to me about it ahead of time and told me we'd have a special women's
night out to celebrate. We went to a Chinese restaurant, my choice, and I got the Pu Pu Platter.
The night out with mom. The flames engulfing the platter. The blood and the pain. It was all a
mixture of fear and excitement.
** Horrified that I could not control what was going on between my legs.
** My mom said, “Just throw on a pad and call it day.”
** I saw a flash of red on my underwear as I tossed it into the hamper. Mom moved out the year
before but had left instructions and supplies at my dad's, and I knew exactly what to do. No big
deal.
** I remember the first time I read the instructions for tampons and realized what a vagina was—
it goes where?!?
Trains
Elkhart is a city of trains. The crossroads of America, they call it. I don’t go a day
without hearing their whistles in the distance or up close as I am delayed by their passing.
The sound reminds me of many things.
My first serious boyfriend lived near the tracks. When the trains went by his house, you
could feel them. I remember lying in bed with him and hearing the shrill call of them
passing by. I thought I could see the books on his shelves shake. I loved being in that
room with him in his arms. Safe.
Not many months after that, I wanted to cry every time I heard the trains whistle. My
boyfriend had broken up with me. If only I hadn’t been so fucked up, he said in so many
words. If only my problems hadn’t caused him to “burn out.” If only I had been a
stronger person and not so dependent on him.
As I slipped into a deep depression, every time I heard the train whistle I felt drawn to the
tracks. I just wanted life to end. I thought, “If only I weren’t so fucked up, then maybe I
could have done something useful with my life. Maybe I would have been able to keep
the relationship from ending.” I had lost myself so completely I no longer had any idea
who I was without that man. It seemed easier to just lie down on the tracks and let the
wheels of the train wrap me up, since the arms of my now ex-boyfriend never would
again.
Thankfully, I had a loving community surrounding me to keep me from taking that walk.
I had friends who would sit in my room with me and assure me I wasn't alone in my pain.
Sometimes, they would even jump on my bed in the morning to make sure I actually got
up. Other times, they would listen for hours as I tried to speak the intensity, confusion,
and despair I felt inside. Their love and their willingness to walk with me and support me
in my time of greatest need saved me.
And ever so slowly, I began to hear the train whistle in a new way. It beckoned me to
travel, to meet new people and learn about new places. These trips, beginning in Elkhart
and bringing me back home safely, expanded the world that had become so small. I
began to believe I had something to share with the world. I began to believe I could make
a difference with my life, whether or not I was in a relationship.
The train now whistles the notes of freedom and movement, shrill at times but with a
confidence that the journey of life will continue. I will continue to find a home within
myself, whether alone or with others, whether on the road or in northern Indiana.
The train whistles remind me now of why I’m so glad to be alive.
Hola Amiga
Hola amiga:
Sé lo que estás sintiendo. Sí, él decidió agarrar sus maletas e irse. Quizá se fue con otra
mujer, quizá con otro hombre, o quizá te pasó como a mí y sólo se fue. ¡Lo peor que
puede hacer un hombre antes de irse es decir, “Yo te amo”! Sus palabras aún en este
instante están retumbando mis oídos. ¿Por qué carajo me dijo eso? ¡No había necesidad!
¡Coño si te vas, date la vuelta y ya! ¡Lárgate! ¡No me digas que me amas!
Para más desgracia me dijo, “Es solo un tiempo, lo último que quiero en este mundo es
que terminemos” (ja). ¿Qué es un tiempo? ¿Un año? ¿Un mes? ¿Un día? ¿Hasta la
noche? “Sé más especifico, chingado”. Mientras tanto mi mente divagaba en cuando me
llamaría, cuando volvería, si vendría a mi trabajo como en las estúpidas películas de
amor, o si me traería serenata como en las malditas telenovelas. Y así pasaba un día y
otro, y otro, miraba yo por la puerta, oía carros, pensaba que todo el mundo sería él.
Pero no volvió. ¡Ya no lo espero! ¡Me cansé! ¡Más bien me fortalecí! ¡De pensamientos
bonitos acerca de mí! Me he dado cuenta que si él no está conmigo no es porque no lo
merezco; ¡no señor! ¡Es porque ÉL no me merece a MÍ! ¡No sé cuantas veces lloré para
que no se fuera! ¡Pero lo hizo! Quizá por eso me dijo que no estaba terminando conmigo
para que no le rogara. Hoy en día al único que le ruego es a Dios. “Él que te quiere no te
hará llorar, y él que te hace llorar no te quiere”.
¡Amiga, fuerza! Si se fue, déjalo ir, entiende que no volverá. SÉ que duele, sé lo que se
sientes. ¡Eres tú pero no estás sola! No señor, hay otras mujeres extraordinarias para
ayudarte, amigas que seguro te tomarán en sus brazos cada vez que quieras llorar. Y
llegará el punto en que serás tan fuerte que cuando él vuelva le podrás sonreír mientras
tus labios mencionan un “adiós”, y ¡no por un tiempo! ¡No más tiempos! ¡No más te
amos! ¡A menos que sean para ti misma!
¡Con cariño!
¡Tu hermana de corazón!
Chorus: What made you realize you were a feminist?
** Joining hundreds of thousands of men and women in Washington, D.C., for the March for
Women's Lives. When I saw the giant uterus puppet with boxing-glove ovaries, I knew I was part
of something amazing.
** In second grade, when I decided it was bupkis that female teachers had to be known by Miss
or Mrs. depending on their marital status.
** When I was told I couldn't be on the wrestling team. I would have kicked some ass!
** At age eight, holding an “ERA is the American Way” sign and marching with my mother, a
feminist housewife who refused to let Phyllis Schafley convince her that promoting equality for
women would undermine respect for mothers and families.
** Watching my mom take back her birth name nearly a decade after changing it for marriage.
The marriage was solid, but the name never felt like her own. The more I explained her decision
to others, the more sense it made to me. “Boys don't change their names. Why should girls?” That
shut my friends (and their moms) right up.
** The first time I heard someone making fun of my little sister's body.
** When I took an IUSB gender studies class, learned what the “F” word meant, and realized
feminists weren't the scary Nazis I'd been told they were.
“So, When Are You Going to Have Kids?”
I will never feel a baby move inside of me. I will never physically experience the miracle
of childbirth. I will never feel a tiny hand grasp my finger and know she’s on earth
because I created her. I am a married woman who will never be a mother.
The truth is, though, I chose not to become a mother. Yes, I’m childfree by choice. But
people don’t know how to respond to that. What kind of married woman doesn’t want to
be a mother? Can I even be called a woman?
During my teenage years, I was bothered by the realization I think babies are ugly. I’m a
woman; I’m supposed to adore babies. It took several years for me to acknowledge the
decision I knew I had made in my heart. Fortunately, though, I made the choice before
becoming pregnant. Some women aren’t so lucky.
Almost immediately after marriage, the question started being asked: “So, when are you
going to have kids?” Why do you assume I am going to have children? Womanhood and
motherhood are not synonymous. Why isn’t the question, instead, “Are you going to have
kids?” Or, better yet, why don’t you just mind your own damn business?
You tell me I’ll change my mind or, worse, that I’ll regret it. It doesn’t even occur to you
that my decision might be the right one.
When people ask me why I’m not going to have kids, I usually tell them it’s because I
don’t want to. But I’ve found this reason generally isn’t sufficient. I guess people have
kids all the time without wanting them. But why do I even have to defend my decision?
Why does it have to be explainable?
Quite frankly, I think the world would be a better place if more women realized that
motherhood is an option.
Childbearing is viewed as a natural and expected part of a woman’s life. You grow up,
get married, and have babies. I’m aware my decision isn’t culturally acceptable, and I
quickly learned to pretend to be a “normal” woman, especially around new mothers. You
show up at the office with your new baby in a stroller. You look so proud, so I say,
“Aww, look at her! She’s getting so big! And look at that cute little outfit. She is just
beautiful.” Then, I pray to God you don’t ask if I want to hold her, because I sure as hell
don’t.
After this exchange, you look even more proud. But me? I’m exhausted from mustering
up the energy to make my lie sound utterly truthful. And I’m angry. I’m angry you expect
this response from me, that you expect me to adore your baby. Newsflash: Not everyone
thinks your baby is adorable. And that’s okay.
My intention is not to attack mothers. I see many women who find motherhood
immensely fulfilling. I simply ask that you consider the possibility that my choice is just
as fulfilling for me.
I admit I’m uncomfortable with my decision when I talk to people who desire to have
children but are physically unable to. I imagine it must be very hard, even painful, for
them to try to understand me. I still don’t question my decision, but I do question God.
And I don’t think it’s fair.
I am a married woman, who, by choice, will never be a mother. I am not a monster.
Women are not valuable because they are mothers—women are valuable because they
are women.
I am loved, and I love. I don’t need a baby for that.
Change
During the last year I owned my restaurant, I realized that my manager, who had cost the
business a lot of money due to laziness and lack of commitment to financial goals, was
never going to improve despite countless talks and meetings. So I fired him. Then I
divorced him.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as all that. I continued to work the restaurant, which was all
but out of money. He did not find work to take up the slack in our household bills, and
things went from bad to worse as his spending addiction reared its ugly head. He begged
me to try to salvage the marriage, though, so we agreed to separate and try to work things
out.
I learned that even though he resented me for taking care of him and every aspect of our
lives, he didn’t know how to react if I stopped doing it. Why did the two of us try to hang
on for so long when we argued so much, when we had so much bitterness and resentment
toward each other? As I searched for answers with the help of a therapist, I realized that
in my childhood home and as a result of sexual abuse, I had learned controlling behavior
to protect myself. In his childhood home, he learned addictive behavior and a need to be
taken care of. It was a perfect match for disaster.
One day, he called me at work. “AEP was just here and shut our electricity off. They said
if we pay it by 5:00, they can turn it back on today.”
I took a deep breath as I felt my usual urge to take care of everything creep up. It was
time to do something different. I told him I didn’t have a way to pay it, and that’s why I
had told him about the disconnect notice weeks earlier. He was not used to paying bills or
being responsible.
He said, “I have that money my mom sent me, but I can’t use it because I need it to move
out.”
My blunt reply rolled swiftly off my tongue, “Well, then, I suggest you move out during
the daylight hours so you can see.”
He left with friends as soon as I came home from work and returned to pick up his car
shortly after dark. I held the baby and watched out the front window as he started to drive
away. Our daughter watched and excitedly began saying, “Da Da! Da Da!”
I called his cell phone and told him we saw him arrive and that she was calling to him. He
said, “I thought you guys were in bed.”
I said, “It’s only 10:00.” In our line of work, the three of us were usually up until the
middle of the night.
He said, “Well, all the lights were off.”
I spoke slowly and evenly, “We don’t have any electricity.”
He asked why I was picking a fight, and I said, “I’m trying to find a crumb, something,
anything, a reason not to file for divorce.”
His reply is one I will never forget. “I thought you would have already filed by now.”
A deep sense of peace and calm came over me. I stopped arguing. The handwriting was
on the wall, and I was finally ready to read it. In that moment, I had distinct clarity that I
must, indeed, file for divorce. I did so the next morning.
On top of losing my marriage, I eventually lost that house. And my restaurant. And my
car. Even the dog died. My father-in-law passed away while we were waiting for our
court date. I started all over. The only thing I didn’t lose was the only thing that mattered:
my child.
That was eight years ago. I’d like to think that leaving him was the best thing that ever
happened to both of us. He is remarried, and even though he moved to another town, he
does a great job picking up our daughter every time he is scheduled for parenting time.
Although it took awhile, we are now able to talk about what happened like civilized
adults. More importantly, we are able to co-parent as a team, and our daughter knows she
is loved and is not a pawn between us.
I have changed so much since then that telling you this feels like it happened to someone
else. When I tell people who know me now that I used to be a control freak, they have a
hard time picturing it, which I take as a testament to the work I have done. If I can
change, anyone can change.
The Department of Clitoral Happiness
(Off-stage voice) We now pause for a public service announcement from the Department
of Clitoral Happiness.
(Spotlight on actress) Everyone, raise your index finger in the air. (Pause until everyone
raises their fingers.)
When approaching the clitoris, one must use small circles. (Demonstrate in the air.)
No moving up and down. (Demonstrate a rushed, up- and- down movement.) You’re not
grating cheese.
Small, steady, circular motions. (Demonstrate)
Has everyone got that? (Check the audience’s technique.)
Ladies, are we in agreement here? This is preferred? We’re going to leave this
(Dramatically demonstrate going up and down quickly over your crotch.) for the rock
concerts and not for when you’re in the sack. ‘Cause let me tell you, none of you are
Eddie Van Halen.
Everyone, remember: when it’s your time to perform, think S.S.C. Small. Steady.
Circular. (As you say each word, still demonstrating the technique in the air, your voice
reaches a crescendo as if about to climax. Take a deep breath of relief, smile, then give a
thumbs up with an exaggerated wink to the audience.)
(Spotlight off)
(Off-stage voice) This has been a public service announcement from the Department of
Clitoral Happiness. We ask that you pass the word, and a good lay to you.