Saturdays of Sun and Plays

Last night, after a relaxing day which consisted of walks in the sun, refreshing conversation, an iced green tea, and good books, I went to see "The Vagina Monologues" (to my mother's dismay I have to add). In all honesty there was a small piece of me that was nervous. I'm not sure if it was because I didn't know if could handle the word 'vagina' being said 128 times in two hours or because I knew it would cause me to look within myself and relive some of the past.

To my great delight I was not embarrassed at all and the looking inward wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it might be. Below is one of my favorite monologues of the evening. Beware, it is not for the closed or shallow minded (but neither am I).

MY SHORT SKIRT

It is not an invitation, a provocation, an indication that I want it, or give it, or that I hook. My short skirt is not begging for it it does not want you to rip it off me or pull it down.

My short skirt is not a legal reason for raping me. Although it has been before, it will not hold up in the new court. My short skirt, believe it or not, has nothing to do with you.

My short skirt is about discovering the power of my lower calves, about cool autumn air traveling up my inner thighs, about allowing everything I see or pass or feel to live inside.

My short skirt is not proof that I am stupid or undecided or a malleable little girl. My short skirt is my defiance I will not let you make me afraid. My short skirt is not showing off. This is who I am before you made me cover it or tone it down. Get used to it.

My short skirt is happiness. I can feel myself on the ground. I am here. I am hot. My short skirt is a liberation flag in the women's army.

My short skirt is turquoise water with swimming colored fish, a summer festival in the starry dark, a bird calling, a train arriving in a foreign town. My short skirt is a wild spin, a full breath, a tango dip. My short skirt is initiation, appreciation, excitation.

But mainly my short skirt and everything under it is Mine. Mine. Mine.
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I admire the passion, the rebellion, the openness. I can feel her anger, her sorrow, and her freedom. Whether or not we can agree on the appropriate length of skirt, one thing is for certain: a woman's body is her own and no one else's.

End of story.