Chapter 3: The Vagina Monologues changed my life.

The Vagina Monologues changed my life. Or at least, I’m pretty sure they will. You see, I am a woman who believes in equal rights for all, and I have annoyed those around me with my independence since I first learned to talk (you doubt me? My first sentence was, “I dude it mineself!”). As such, when a woman approached me to direct The Vagina Monologues in Ethiopia, I thought the opportunity could prove fabulous. I am easily excited by women’s issues and just as excited when given ways to say something important, something that matters. I tell myself I’m into what matters, but I admit that sometimes I also like to stir the gender politics pot.

“My vagina’s angry.  It is.  It’s pissed off.  My vagina’s furious and it needs to talk.  It needs to talk about all this shit.  It needs to talk to you.  I mean what’s the deal — an army of people out there thinking up ways to torture my poor-ass, gentle, loving vagina.  Spending their days constructing psycho products, and nasty ideas to undermine my pussy.  Vagina Motherfuckers.”

The Vagina Monologues

In my spare time, I’m a teacher at an international school in Addis Ababa. I go through phases where I love what I do, love my teaching, but lately I’ve wondered why I do it. Why do I spend my energy teaching kids stories they tell me they care about? I just finished teaching Soltziniszen’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denesivich, a book so powerful in the eyes of the Soviets that the author lost his right to his Russian citizenship. But I found it hard to help students sink that into their brains. My students form the top ring of Ethiopia’s elite individuals. Their parents know how the system works, and as a result they are rich and powerful. I am not rich, and I’m not powerful. I’ve just got a loud voice, a somewhat educated, very opinionated, sort of world-traveled voice. I use it in the classroom, though the power seems sometimes nonexistent. “You’re just a teacher,” my students tell me sometimes. “Does it really matter?” “Yes!” I tell them, waving my arms in exasperation. “You’re learning about the human condition! Through these stories, you get to see the world through someone else’s lens! What’s more important than studying humanity and its motivations?” I’ve usually lost them by this point, but at least they’re quiet.

I use my remaining energies in the extras. Like an appropriately geeky teacher, I stay after school and do the programs designed “for student success!” I overachieve because it makes me feel like I’m making a difference, regardless of whether I actually am. And then this year, I took on what I thought was the relatively small task of helping to direct Ethiopia’s eighth edition of The Vagina Monologues. I was too busy, I told the coordinators, to do it all myself. “I’ll help, but I can’t direct on my own. I have too much else going on.” Famous last words.

I bet you’re worried.

We were worried.

We were worried about vaginas.

            Every day after school, I throw my laptop and books into my black bag and get out my ipod. I walk home most days, which takes about forty minutes and, if I don’t listen to my music, all my patience. Some days I choose Dixie Chicks and stride home to “Earl Had to Die!” and “I’m not ready to Make Nice” because after the day I’ve had, I need to feel in control for a few minutes. I ignore any man who dares look at me and brush past those who harass me meanly. “Men!” I think disdainfully, and I continue down the roads. The sun shines almost every day here and the breezes and altitude keep it cool. I love that I can keep a tan year round, and I lift my face upward and try not to smell the sewage that wafts up my nose intermittently.

            Some days I don’t walk home to Dixie Chicks, or any country music for that matter. I don’t want to be reminded of my years in the Southwest because on those days, I feel one hundred percent a part of Ethiopia. Someone listened to me on those days, or I to someone else. Something that mattered happened on those days and I choose my lyrics accordingly. India Arie or Sarah Bareilles, Corine Bailey Rae or Colbie Collait, with their soft voices and strong poetry inspires me and reminds me that potentially, maybe, I do matter. For me, it’s all about the artistic expression of the moment. I get all-dramatic and literally turn myself in circles and giggle until I suddenly lose my energy and decide to stop. Usually nobody catches me at this, but sometimes a teacher walks by and looks in, or a student who gets embarrassed and pretends like she didn’t see me dancing and singing to myself. What can I say? I’m an emotional creature. When I started directing Vday, I found a new channel for these emotions, a new vision for these moments of inspiration. And with that, suddenly I could dance in front of a room of women and, because we were defining “the rules” anyway by daring to talk about our vaginas, it was okay! I think they might have even liked me…