The Vagina Monologues
Ensler repeats “vagina” as often as possible–with deliberate, even excessive emphasis. “I was worried about vaginas,” she says, opening her mouth unreasonably wide around the vowels. “I was worried about what we think about vaginas, and even more worried that we don’t think about them….So I decided to talk to women about their vaginas, to do vagina interviews, which became vagina monologues,” and so on. And every time she says “vagina,” the audience obligingly titters. She acknowledges our discomfort: “Listen to it. Vagina. Vagina. No matter how often you say it, it doesn’t sound like a word you want to be saying.” It’s almost as if she were insisting, let’s get this out of the way right up front (so to speak). Go ahead, look up “vagina” in the dictionary and shriek with laughter the way you did in fifth grade; then we can talk.
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As Ensler explored the experiences women have of our vaginas, from searching for the clitoris to being obliged to shave our pubic hair to enduring sexual violence to giving birth, the repetition of the word had an odd effect. I became light-headed, the way I do when I give blood and make the mistake of looking over at the tube connecting my arm to the bag. The sight of part of myself on the outside makes me feel disembodied. Similarly, under Ensler’s microscopic examination of her subject, my vagina began to seem scarily separate and apart. The experience left me queasy, yet it seemed the necessary first step toward putting myself back together whole.
