The land of euphemisms is a fantasy land. It is awash in pink. It never rains. The houses are made of gingerbread and the clouds of cotton candy. Look! There goes My Little Pony!
It is a safe and happy place that keeps us innocent and pure. Wait? Was that Strawberry Shortcake?
That MUST be the reason the cultural mandate of using euphemisms to describe body parts and bodily functions persists, right?
Don’t forget to wash your private parts, honey!
But I DON’T think we are safer when we refuse to use REAL words to describe our REAL bodies.
Rather, as a big believer of the language-constructs-reality school of thought, I think that refusing to call a vulva a vulva contributes to the dissociation at best, and neglect and even hatred, at worst, of our bodies.
Name it. Own it. Understand it. Respect it.
The Vagina Monologues leads with a hysterical list of expressions for the vulva (NOT the vagina, as we know).
In Great Neck, they call it a pussycat. A woman there told me that her mother used to tell her, “Don’t wear panties underneath your pajamas, dear; you need to air out your pussycat.” In Westchester they called it a pooki, in New Jersey a twat. There’s “powderbox,” “derrière,” a “poochi,” a “poopi,” a “peepe,” a “poopelu,” a “poonani,” a “pal” and a “piche,” “toadie,” “dee dee,” “nishi,” “dignity,” “monkey box,” “coochi snorcher,” “cooter,” “labbe,” “Gladys Siegelman,” “VA,” “wee wee,” “horsespot,” “nappy dugout,” “mongo,” a “pajama,” “fannyboo,” “mushmellow,” a “ghoulie,” “possible,” “tamale,” “tottita,” “Connie,” a “Mimi” in Miami, “split knish” in Philadelphia, and “schmende” in the Bronx.
This list worried Eve Ensler. It worries me too.
Same goes for menstruation, of course. Funny thing, some of these expressions are actually more graphic, bloodier, and more RAW than just saying MENSTRUATION. I mean: “Massacre at the Y?” ” Carrie at the Prom?” So much creative energy goes into NOT saying the words that describe what we have and what it does. Imagine if that energy was channeled into developing body literacy?
Isn’t the shortest distance between two points a straight line?
So when someone takes on one of my pet peeve euphemisms for (I am gonna say it: PUBIC HAIR–which apparently NO decent woman wants to admit she has, but that’s another post), I cheer.
One for the team! One baby step closer to being honest about our bodies and refusing to play the shame game.
Enter Sarah Haskins; she is one of my superSheros. While her analyses are often obvious, she does the work and for that she earns my adoration. She finds the material, and by that I mean, rampant gender assumption-laden advertising, and knits the clips together into a side-splitting package that stirs up a good girlcott or two (or should). And there’s so much HERE…even more than Sarah gets into in her short bit (like the afro and the bonsai tree? Oh PUULEEZ!)
I taught both of my daughters to call their vulvas, well, their VULVAS and I RELISH it when someone in a public bathroom overhears my six-year old shout from her stall, “Almost done, Momma, I just need to wipe my vulva.”
Even better when she walks into the bathroom while I am changing my pad and she declares: “OH Momma! You are menstruating!”
Another one for the team.
