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Essays are written and slipped into personalized drop-boxes, never to be seen again. Good riddance!

Saw the Vagina Monologues last night for the first time ever. The seats were hard and uncomfortable, and in my agony I made a solemn vow to myself never to be a rapist or Native American wife abuser. Tudor and Laura were a row in front, all giggly and nimbly-pimbly from whatever X-rated mischief they had gotten up to before the show. Dannyboy Guillemette was a row behind and I told him that tomorrow (today) was a kegger-and-bbq-extravaganza! He took the news with great relish and a side order of pickles.

The monologues themselves were a mixed bag, although generally excellent. Shirley strode the stage, shifting effortlessly between microphone stands, teleporting in her intensity. Alysia was hysterical as she moaned in varying dialects - with the exception of the 'baby moan', which we decided was vastly more disturbing than funny. Liz of That Hole You Punched in the Wall FR!NGE fame pulled out a sassy English accent. Some girl frantically urged us to chant "CUNT! CUNT!" along with her. Some of us complied.

Although there was applause after each monologue, a few ended on a sombre note. I looked Left to Tanya and Right to Allie and Further Right to Rob, trying to figure out whether clapping at this particular time would a) vindicate the performer or b) express my enthusiastic support for violence against women. We decided it was better not to test fate and the Women's Centre.

After the show, I had a cigarette with Alysia and gathered that each of these monologues has a certain history behind it - she shared memories of previous girls who had read memorable roles and what they brought to the performance. The moaning girl from the year before was apparently so hot that every guy in the audience had to cover his wang with a program brochure. I laughed. I wondered if these stories actively evolve, if they shift to incorporate the interpretations of each woman who reads and acts them.

Maybe each monologue is a wall, an incomplete wall bearing a mural about female experience. Each performer is building it up one brick at a time, bringing everyone one step closer to understanding. Maybe the wall will never be done until every single woman in the world adds herself to the Vagina Monologues. Maybe the secret to sharing lies in thoroughness and totality.

Or maybe I just paid 10 dollars and watched a show last night. The only thing I can tell you in certainty is that I liked the bricks I saw.

Posted by Chris at 01:23 PM >> Commentations (0)