‘Monologues’ a vagtastic roller-coaster

Nicholas Maronese
Editor-in-Chief
‘Vagina’ is not a pretty word, I’d have to agree.
It’s a lot less pretty than ‘pussycat,’ less puffy than ‘powder box’ and less cute than ‘coochie.’
Doesn’t matter – the ensemble that put together the debut York University performance of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues March 24 and 25 took back the word anyway, along with ‘twat,’ ‘cunt’ and, perhaps most importantly, ‘slut.’

It was a veritable roller coaster, a play that left me nearly crying one minute, laughing uproariously the next and moaning in sympathy soon after. The monologues dove and soared, from the heights of virginal lesbian romance to the depths of the horrifying rapes of the war in Bosnia in the early 1990s.
Wherever it went, though, it brought power to the women there; the performers, each of them retelling women’s stories compiled from real interviews, spoke unapologetically, frankly, broke taboos and asked their
audience to do the same.
In fluid movement they weaved in and around the seated masses, at times tossing tampons into the crowds or firing their ‘semi-automatic’,  machine gun vaginas over our heads – “pew! pew!” With perfect timing, they recreated an interview with a 72-year-old woman too embarrassed to talk about her “down there,” shamed by society into not even looking for her clitoris. With soul and seeming sincerity they spun the tale – my favourite – of the dominatrix who topped only women, who explained to us the moans she’d forced from her clients (these included the “Grace Slick moan,” “the tortured Zen moan,” and the “surprise triple-orgasm moan.”)
The cast also broke from Ensler’s script altogether to set up a tableau of their own, with an actress repeating “useless … useless,” until they all said it together. Another broke in with “lonely … lonely” until it echoed. And finally that word: “slut … slut … slut.” Soon the chanting came together, “useless … lonely … slut,” repeated, faster, louder, until it all became one sound – and was pierced by the cry of a woman in childbirth.
Baby delivered, she was pushed with a broom off the side of the stage.
It was a powerful point, an unofficial reclamation of the word that brought the whole performance together.
This debut of  The Vagina Monologues helped raise funds for the North York Women’s Shelter.  According to organizers, though, the production was also meant to prove York “will not tolerate sexist acts or comments.” It was undoubtedly some of the best proof I’d ever seen.