I moved to Chicago three years ago with the intent to study improv and pursue a career comedy. Though I still love improv so much, my interests have shifted and somewhere along the way I discovered storytelling. In September, I performed in my first live lit event, Miss Spoken, at the Gallery Cabaret. The theme was "College Years." The experience was magical. Corny, I know. But that's what it was. I am not one to share nonfiction stories from my life to complete strangers (blogs don't count here - haha), but telling them out loud is on another level of vulnerable and real. I am hopeful when people are hungry for stories, and thankful for people who share this gift. Below is the story I read at Miss Spoken's September event.
I thought my mom was soooo cool growing up. She used to tell me stories about when she lived in the Philippines, this hip, hot, 20-something broad in the 70s who stomped through the streets of Manila - always in high heels and lipstick â going to small theaters by herself to see plays like The Glass Menagerie, hanging out in coffee houses, dancing and drinking cocktails at the disco until four or five in the morning multiple weeknights. She was the ultimate working woman. She wasnât the kind of person to clock out exactly at five. When she was in college, she chose to major in psychology and not law or medicine, which was expected of her. She was steadfast in her decision even when her dad called her a failure and said he wouldnât see her graduate. She told me that when that happened to her, she promised herself that if she ever had kids she wouldnât do what her dad did to her.
My mom eventually became my best friend. On the night before my first day of college in Washington, D.C., we shared a queen-sized bed at the Holiday Inn Express in Georgetown. When she heard me weeping and then hiccuping because I was trying so hard to hold in my tears and not let her hear me cry, she hugged me tightly, and started crying too, and we cried together, and told each other weâd miss each other, and I told her Iâd call her every day, until we fell asleep.
And I did call her every day to let her know, yes, I am alive. And did you know they call people from Massachusetts Massholes? Also, a lot of girls here wear Tiffany charm bracelets. ALSO, did you know race is a social construct? Isnât that NUTS?! She loved hearing how my days went and what I learned.
In my sophomore year, my friend Amanda asked me if I wanted to come with her to an open audition of the Vagina Monologues. I had vaguely heard of the show and thought why not? I had performed in the spring musicals in high school and missed that feeling of being on stage. At the audition was a long table with several or so scripts, each script a different monologue within the play. I scanned the scripts and saw The Vagina Workshop, a monologue about a British woman who learns how to give herself an orgasm...something I had not yet experienced.
I chose that monologue because I wanted to speak in a British accent.
(in British accent) âMy vagina is a shell, a round pink tender shell opening and closing, closing and opening. My vagina is a flower, an eccentric tulip, the center acute and deep, the scent delicate, the petals gentle but sturdy.â
I didnât think much of the audition until Amanda saw me a couple weeks later and yelled, âGen! Congratulations!â I didnât know what she was talking about. She told me to check my email.
There it was. My name next to the monologue I would be performing - The Vagina Workshop.
I called my mom later that day, thinking sheâd be so thrilled, so proud. I was going to be that cool broad she was. But when I broke the news to her, there was a long pause.
(in Filipino accent) âThe Vagina Monologues?â
Yeah! The Vagina Monologues. Youâve heard of it!
You know the Vagina Monologues. Itâs a play of different monologues written by this woman name Eve Ensler. Itâs about all the experiences of being a woman. Itâs super popular. I think Terri Hatcher was in the one in L.A.
âBut why does it hab to hab the da word vagina?â
âBut why does it hab to be vagina? Canât it be another word? Why vagina?â
For 10 minutes, she went off on the word vagina. It was all I heard from her mouth. For someone who used the word flower instead of vagina, I found it a little funny, even though I was growing frustrated. We werenât connecting.
âIs der sex? It sounds sexual.â
Yes, but itâs not all about sex. There are other monologues about women who have been abused, and thereâs a monologue about giving birth. And itâs about being a woman! And itâs about feminism!
âYou mean like burning bras?!â
I âŚI didnât know what to say. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks and I had to wipe my phone a couple of times. I was confused. Why didnât she get it? She was a strong, independent woman.
âGen, dis is cheap!â And then she said that thing that always pissed me off, âWell, whatever.â
I told her I needed to get off the phone. We exchanged I love youâs, albeit I said mine half-heartedly, then hung up. My mom sounded more like a mom and less like my best girlfriend.
For the rest of sophomore year, our daily phone calls became weekly phone calls, which turned into every two weeks phone calls, which turned into whenever I could find the time in between classes, homework, and internships. When I participated in the Vagina Monologues my junior and senior year, I told her but I made sure not to share too much. I tended to avoid the subject. If she asked how rehearsal went, Iâd leave it at OK.
Fast forward to last year. I get a call from my mom.
âGen, have you been on Facebook lately?â
She told me my dad made a face when he saw that my aunt - their sister-in-law - had checked in at a production of the Vagina Monologues in the Philippines.
âI told your dad you were in the Vagina Monologues.â
I realized she never told him that I was in the play for three years during college. It took her six years to tell him.
âHe said âWHAT?!â I had to explain to him that itâs not what you think.â
She started laughing. I donât know what changed and when it happened. Maybe she Googled the play? She loves to Google. I didnât ask her. I just wanted to laugh with her. I felt like I had my best friend back.
