The Dough of Cunt Reclaimers

SafeHouse was blessed to be a beneficiary of Cal Berkeley's Vagina Monologues this February. As an intern of SafeHouse who lives in the East Bay, I was given the opportunity to table at the show. During these three hours I mostly sat around and waited for individual donations, but occasionally someone would ask me about SafeHouse's mission. Thrilled to talk about the organization whenever I can, the moments of inquiry pushed me into a fundraising role that I usually despise, but in this case, just loved. Unfortunately only 4-5 people actually inquired. Aside from the proceeds from the ticket sales, we only made around $50 in donations. $50 is actually a pretty cool amount, but when I put that number into conversation with other money being handed around, I had a different perspective.

As activist art, The Vagina Monologues openly challenges violence against women. I am in full support of V-Day and Eve Ensler's project. Thank Goddess someone finally started bringing pussy stories out into the light! The venue usually attracts feminist women, queers, and allies of female causes. Being all the aforementioned things, I have high expectations of that crowd because I consider them "my people." I was sorely disappointed, however, this weekend as I watched all the supposed hard-core dykes and dread-lock sporting hippies drop cash on T-shirts, propaganda buttons, jewelry, scarves and genitalia-shaped chocolate candy while my donation jar came up empty. I know most of their purchases will help the Vagina Monologues in its future, but i wonder why people are so reluctant to give cash when they don't receive some propaganda receipt to boot. No material evidence, no money?

SafeHouse does restorative justice. It moves beyond the 'calling out' of patriarchy by actually working with and for women in a concrete way. This is the kind of feminism and humanism we need. I love the Vagina Monologues and I by no means wish to deconstruct their approach to activism. In fact, non-profits and the arts/entertainment industries need each other to survive. I am merely calling the Vagina Monologues audience into question.

Ending violence against women goes far beyond Ivory Tower theatrics the week prior to Valentines Day. The minute we begin looking at our currency--where it comes from and where it goes--is the minute we have stepped outside the matrix of oblivion. Economic realities are first and foremost the ground of violence against women. If we maintain economic structures that benefit the rich and neglect the poor, we are pimping, period. When you yell and scream cunt, do you implicate or place yourselves in the process of reclaiming? If so, how? Holler.

The "Journey"

Know this:
Noise.

Most days my sink is full of dirty dishes I don't feel like touching;
Buddhist wisdom tells the one seeking enlightenment:
"After you're done eating go wash your bowl."

I'm still on the path.

The Nickname Your Mother Gave Me

I haven't done anything beautiful
except inhale and exhale
in what appears to be
ours.

An hour ago you left for the train;
you might not be back
except by night, which is
ours.

Ours are nothing but
minutes and seconds
and little trinkets of
breathing and going
and coming,
yet they concretely pass by me
and through me,
making a mockery of my doing.

Years from now
I will remember this time,
recalling nothing but you,
wondering: what did i do?

Your mother calls me E=Mc2.
How profound and absurd
that a nickname came
from einstein's space time continuum theory
and fits perfectly
onto a woman who cannot differentiate
ours from the hours.