From the Barnard Theatre Department listserve comes this invitation from Christina Myers, the director of yet another campus production of The Vagina Monologues:
“So far, the rehearsals have been a blast and the show has a fresh and different presentation this year. Unfortunately, one of our talented cast members was hired by a theater company out of state to star in Romeo and Juliette. We now need to fill the role of ‘My Vagina was My Village’, a dramatic piece about a Bosnian war victim. I have attached the monologue.”
Bwog couldn’t resist taking a peak at the script, but it hasn’t been quite sure what to say since. The opening reads, uh, pastoral enough:
“My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing sun resting sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.”
After that it gets a bit more…grizzly. And literal. Then somewhat metaphorical. Then very, very literal again. The entire scene is reproduced below the jump…if you’re titillated by this sort of thing and feel you have what it takes to audition for the part of the aforementioned Bosnian, contact Christina at chrimye (at) gmail.com. The performances will be Feb. 13th, 14th, and 16th, the tech rehearsals, Feb. 8th and 9th.
MY VAGINA WAS MY VILLAGE
My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing sun resting sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.
There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.
My vagina was chatty, can’t wait, so much, so much saying words talking, can’t quit trying, can’t quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.
Not since I dream there’s a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.
My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bell ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.
Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod canceling my heart. Don’t know whether they’re going to fire it or shove it though my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks and the end of a broom.
My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun-baked stones over stone clit, clit stones over and over.
Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.
My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.
Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like feces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and pus and all the crops died, and the fish.
My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it and burned it down.
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live someplace else now.
I don’t know where that is.