In a way I felt obligated to go. Not only was it one of my favorite books, but I knew a handful of women in the cast. Plus, I had danced on a bar during the benefit to help put on the production. Besides all of these factors, I wanted to see MSU's production of The Vagina Monologues.
My friend and I ended up in the front row, near the center--one of the perks of being friends with a cast member (one, who I might add, did a killer job of nailing the "Cunt" monologue). Throughout the play I laughed, gasped and teared up during different scenes. The women were all talented, engaging and gorgeous. For two hours I was wrapped up in their words, in the power of womanhood, in the bond that can only come from the sisterhood shared from speaking about our vaginas. I knew going in that I would be on an emotional rollercoaster because of the power of some of the monologues. That I anticipated. But what I didn't anticipate was the scene that unfolded once the final words of the play were spoken.
After the curtain call, all of the players sat on the stage (a mere four feet in front of me) and the directors spoke of the organizations that would benefit from the ticket sales: a sexual assault office on campus would be the main beneficiary. They spoke of the pain that women suffer through and the anguish that comes from being a female disempowered.
I sat in the front row with tears filling my eyes, feeling my own personal pain, frustrated that anyone has to go through something so horrendous. The directors continued.
"We've had a chance tonight to hear other women's stories, to give them a voice, but that is not enough. We want to give you, the women of the East Lansing area, a voice, a chance to be heard. This is your chance."
There was silence. I wondered if anyone would speak--was this a time to share, like at vigils? The silence hung heavy over the theater until it was broken by one of the directors. "If you have been abused or hurt--mentally, emotionally, physically, sexually. If you can or wish to, please raise your hand or stand up if you're a survivor."
Slowly a few of the cast members stood. I watched them, then felt myself standing. I couldn't look at them, though I felt many of their eyes on me. I began sobbing, unable to stop, not wanting to, though. My friend grabbed my hand as I continued to cry. Feelings of relief, strength, disappointment, sadness, frustration and pride simultaneously coursed through me. I kept my focus on the floor. If I met anyone's gaze I would have probably crumbled to the ground sobbing. It would have been too much.
The directors then asked anyone who's known anyone impacted by violence to stand up. I managed to look around the theater--nearly three-quarters of the audience were on their feet. Finally the directors asked that anyone who would fight to end the violence to stand. I don't think a single person was left sitting by that point.
I remained standing throughout this, tearing doing free-falls down my face. It felt good to be heard, to be recognized as a survivor. More importantly, I felt safe and supported, like there was a sisterhood behind me, letting me know that it's ok, that I'll be ok.
That was confirmed moments later when my friends from the cast rushed to give me long, strong hugs. While I complimented them on their performances they brushed the remarks aside and said that I was the real inspiration, that I was the amazing one. Cast members I didn't know came up to hug me and let me know they cared. People thanked me for having the strength to stand.
I went to the performance because I wanted to support my friends and a good cause. In the end, though, I was the one who felt supported. And empowered and inspired. Who knew that talking about vaginas could bring about a sense of sisterhood?