Chapter 4: So I had time to turn in circles

So I had time to turn in circles. So I walked home after school every day. I had told myself I would limit my extra activities this term, as I always ended up too busy, so I told Vday I could “help” only. None of this “in-charge-all-by-myself” nonsense. Besides, the organizers of the previous year’s Vday wanted to make sure Ethiopians had a say in the Vday process. This is an event designed to help Ethiopian women after all, so an Ethiopian director, or co-director, would be ideal, they believed. As such, when a woman who worked with women with HIV/AIDS, Selam Tesfaye, approached the Vday committee, they were ecstatic.

“Great! We encourage you to run with it! This is your performance this year!” last year’s coordinator said. Why they said this to her I will forever wonder, but Selam told them she had seen the monologues the year before and was behind the show.

Turns out, she lied. 

I met with her a few days later to discuss the details and realized quite quickly we were in trouble. Not only had she never seen the show, she’d never read it and didn’t know the first thing about its vision.

My Coochi Snorcher is a very bad place, a place of pain, nastiness, punching, invasion and blood. It's a site for mishaps. It's a bad-luck-zone. I imagine a freeway between my legs and I am traveling, going far away from here.

“So,” Selam said to me at that first meeting. “I hear some of the monologues are bad. I want to get rid of the monologues dealing with homosexual issues.”

“What? Why do you want to do that?” I said, feeling rather shocked. Did she know I performed Coochi Snorcher, about an underage girl who had a homosexual encounter, last year?

“Because homosexuality is illegal in Ethiopia and I don’t believe that’s an issue women here deal with. It’s not cultural,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Well,” I hemmed tentatively. I dug for some diplomacy. This woman sounded very sure of herself, and I could tell already, after knowing her for five minutes, that her smile hid something nasty beneath. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew something wasn’t right. How can a person want to direct the Vagina Monologues and silence such an integral part of a woman’s sexuality? I may not be homosexual, but I know enough to know this has nothing to do with being a “cultural issue” that only “western nations” deal with. “Well, Vday deals with all issues of women’s sexuality. Silencing one part is not so much about culture as it is about womanhood itself. We are sexual beings, whatever our orientations, and traumatizing experiences, such as what the Coochi Snorcher deals with, can affect that!”

“Becca,” she said, “it doesn’t matter what the Coochi Snorcher deals with, it is not appropriate for our culture. Vday is about supporting women’s rights, and we should stick to that. I also want to take out the other one with the moaning. Not acceptable.”

            I gaped at her, flaring my nostrils because I couldn’t help it. How do you even begin to perform The Vagina Monologues without those integral pieces? “Why?” I finally said.

“Because it’s encouraging rude behavior in our women. And because she could also be a homosexual,” she replied, sipping her tea. My macchiato was untouched and getting cold.

“It doesn’t say she’s homosexual! This is art, and it’s open for interpretation, and it’s certainly a hilarious, and also a poignant, part of the show. You can’t perform Vday properly without this monologue!” I tried to tell her she was ridiculous without actually saying those words. Apparently, she didn’t care.

“Well, maybe we can change it, or take out the moaning part. But as it stands, she’s a ‘sex worker’ the text says, and that’s not good. That’s not what Vday was about.” Obviously she didn’t have a clue what Vday was about, and she also obviously didn’t care to be educated by me, some western women who was trying to impose my views upon her.

“Becca,” she continued.  “I am a published author. I work with women who have AIDS. I am very educated in all things women-rights related and I take my work seriously. I want Vday to be a serious affair and one that speaks to Ethiopians. The way it is now is just disrespectful. I plan to write a few monologues of my own to add to the mix.” She sat back with a smile, smoothed her hair, and looked very pleased with her abilities. I kept my eyes averted, as they always gave me away.

“I agree with you that Ethiopia should be considered,” I said.  “But Vday is an international event too. We have a responsibility to keep the text authentic and speak using Eve Ensler’s vision. We need to keep those scripts in, if for nothing else than as a way to begin discussions on women’s sexuality.” I couldn’t say anything else without angering her and her enormous ego.  She shook her head at me a few more times, made sure I knew I had no power in any of this, let me pay her bill, and walked out awhile later.

I walked back out into the bright December sunshine and shoved my sunglasses over my eyes. I put in my headphones and scrolled through my ipod until I found Avril Lavigne. I needed loud and dramatic for my walk home. People jostled me on the sidewalks, but I walked faster. Cars swerved on the busy road, and I swerved around people as quickly as I could. Beggars held out their hands to me, dirty little children ran alongside asking for money. Fancy women wearing heels and hairstyles that baffled walked past me. Men in suits and jackets nudged me. The sun got hotter. I turned my music up. Avril’s “Complicated” blared in my ear. “Uh huh…Life’s like this…chill out, it’s all been done before…”

I felt confused, angry, and at a loss as to how to move forward. After I finally got home and threw off my dusty flip flops, I poured myself a drink and decided to contact the other women coordinating the event in order to call a meeting with Selam. I called Jessica, one of the coordinators, and told her what had happened. “We need to meet with her to get this worked out,” I said.

“Oh. Ok Becca. I’ll talk to Marisa and we’ll get this squared away. No problem.”

“No. I think there is a problem,” I said into the phone. “A big problem. She’s not budging and wants to cut scripts and add random scripts she’s written,” I tried to warn her.

“Oh really? Ok. Well yes, I’ll call a meeting soon then.” She said breezily, totally in control. She sent an email to all involved the next day and we agreed to meet at LimeTree restaurant for dinner on Wednesday. This was Monday.

For the next few days, I taught my novels, listened to my music, walked to and from school, socialized, and I tried to ignore the fact that this woman, this Selam, wanted to get rid of Vday with a few slices, cuts, slashes, and personal additions that had nothing, in the end, to do with Vday’s vision.

NOT-SO-HAPPY FACT

This is a not-so-happy fact found in UNICEF’s 2005 Report, “Female Genital Mutilation and Cutting.  A

Statistical Exploration.”

Female genital mutilation has been inflicted on approximately 130 million girls and young women.  In the 28

countries where it is practiced, mostly in Africa, about three million young girls a year can expect the knife

—   or the razor or a glass shard — to cut their clitoris or remove it altogether.

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