I Am an Emotional Creature by Eve Ensler
He’s too popular.
He’s too Christian.
I’ve known him my whole life.
Maybe I’ll ask him the next time
when we know each other better.
Then I remember this girl in my class.
She was seventeen.
She was really cute.
She was going to marry this guy.
He didn’t tell her he slept with
someone else.
He didn’t tell her ’cause he
didn’t want her to break up with him.
He didn’t tell her
and she trusted him
and he gave her HIV.
So I say
just like that
“Would you mind
using a condom please?”
(I sound just like my mother)
and he says, without even missing a beat,
“Sure, I have one right here.”
and I think
oh my God
that wasn’t so bad.
Kind of easy
and he’s clearly done this before.
So he’s not that shy,
not so insecure,
clearly not a virgin,
clearly prepared.
Maybe I don’t really know who he is.
I do that.
I make people up.
I make up what they think
and how they will respond.
I get so inside him
that I don’t think about me.
Why didn’t he bring it up?
Maybe he was going to put it on
at the last minute.
Maybe he has a way of doing it
so it doesn’t stop the flow.
How many times has he done this?
How many girls has he slept with?
And he says, just like that,
“This is my first time,
I’m kind of awkward,”
and I start laughing
and he says, “Are you laughing at me?”
and I say, “No, I’m laughing ’cause
I’m awkward too and I’m happy
you’re like me.”
And we kiss some more
and then later he takes out the condom
and we laugh at it
’cause condoms are really funny looking
and it ends up being something
we do together
and we’re both protecting ourselves
and each other
and this makes me like him
and me.
WOULD YOU RATHER (III)
GIRL 1
Would you rather catch your boyfriend sleeping with your best friend or your sister?
GIRL 2
Would you rather keep annoying me or let me sleep?
GIRL 1
Wow, you’re so grumpy!
GIRL 2
Would you rather be someone I invite over again or keep asking really stupid questions?
GIRL 1
Why are you so upset?
GIRL 2
’Cause all your questions are totally depressing me.
’Cause I am sick of having to choose between two horrible impossible things.
Living with my mother or my father, being popular or smart, enjoying sex or being called a slut, making money or following my heart.
I want different questions. I hate these choices. I hate my life.
GIRL 1
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was just a game.
(Girl 2 is crying.)
GIRL 1
Are you crying?
GIRL 2
Yes.
(Pause, silence)
GIRL 1
Would you rather I stay over here and let you alone or come there and snuggle up with you?
GIRL 2
The second.
GIRL 1
Come over there?
GIRL 2
Yeah.
(She comes over and snuggles with her.)
GIRL 1
I’m sorry.
GIRL 2
It’s just so hard sometimes. It’s just so hard and sad.
GIRL 1
I know. It is. I hate it.
(They both snuggle and they both cry. Then after a while they start
laughing and laughing.)
THINGS I LIKE ABOUT MY BODY
Being big
My curves
Being petite, my own little shape
My eyes
My smile
My skin—caramel color, smooth and shiny
My Chinese eyes
Dimples—one is deeper
My hairy legs
Curly eyelashes
I like everything
Eyes like the sun
Arms like a stick
Tallness like a tree
Hairy like a monkey
MY SHORT SKIRT
My short skirt
is not an invitation
a provocation
an indication
that I want it
or give it
or that I hook.
My short skirt
is not begging for it
it does not want you
to rip it off me
or pull it up or down.
My short skirt
is not a legal reason
for raping me
although it has been before
it will not hold up
in the new court.
My short skirt, believe it or not,
has nothing to do with you.
My short skirt
is about discovering
the power of my calves
about cool autumn air traveling
up my inner thighs
about allowing everything I see
or pass or feel to live inside.
My short skirt is not proof
that I am stupid
or undecided
or a malleable little girl.
My short skirt is my defiance.
I will not let you make me afraid.
My short skirt is not showing off,
this is who I am
before you made me cover it
or tone it down.
Get used to it.
My short skirt is happiness.
I can feel myself on the ground.
I am here. I am hot.
My short skirt is a liberation
flag in the women’s army.
I declare these streets, any streets,
my vagina’s country.
My short skirt
is turquoise water with swimming colored fish
a summer festival in the starry dark
a bird calling
a train arriving in a foreign town.
My short shirt is a wild spin
a full breath
a tango dip.
My short skirt is
initiation, appreciation, excitation.
But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
is mine, mine, mine.
THINGS THAT GIVE US PLEASURE
When Zena tickles the inside of my arm
all the way to my elbow
Jumping Night Dancer
my legs at his side, the wind,
the rush
Knowing the answer
Warm soapy water
Learning the history of Russia
Speaking Arabic
Rice
Curry
Chicken
Putting on bright red lipstick
Straightening my hair
Curling my hair
Covering my hair
Flan
Halvah
Baklava
Gelato
Macaroons
Pinkberry
Standing on my head
Doing a split
Running faster
Saving minks
Saving whales
Saving plastic bags
&n
bsp; Sushi
My mother’s happiness
Being in the river
The ocean
The pool with my friends
Sleepovers
Fitting into the new smaller jeans
My mother putting a washcloth
on my forehead when I have a fever
Trying on bras
The way the trees rustle
when birds come back
GIRL FACT
More than 900 million girls and women are living on less than a dollar a day.
FIVE COWS AND A CALF
THE STORY
I’m not sure the exact day he decided to sell me. There was a drought. For three months it was like someone erased all the green from the bushes and grass and trees. The earth turned brown. The rivers became stone. Everywhere was dust. In our mouths, our beds, our dreams. The cows. It was all about the cows.
I am a Masai girl. I live in Kenya. My name is Mary. I am fifteen. I was fourteen when it all happened. For as long as I can remember we have moved. I like moving. We move with the cows. They eat and then, when they need more grass to eat, we move again. Our people believe the rain god Ngai gave all the cattle to the Masai for safekeeping. We live on milk and blood.
I was in school. I was smart. I could remember things and I learned to write faster than anyone in my class. The teachers said I could go far.
My father was very powerful. He had many children and cows. At least forty children, but they don’t count girls so it’s hard to tell. He had married off several of my older sisters before me. Sold them to old men and they had each gone far away. Sold them for cows. I knew that before they became wives they were cut with a razor. I knew they were in enormous pain. Their faces changed. And they stopped asking questions. I didn’t want to stop asking questions.
WHEN IT CHANGED
The drought got worse. The cows were so skinny their bones were sticking through their skin. They were exhausted and could hardly move. No grass, no water. Some were dying. My father was becoming poor. He got grumpier by the day. I knew the morning they called us into the field. I could tell by their expressions. Ntotya was dead. That was my mother’s cow. My mother was crying. I don’t remember her crying before. I realized later she was crying for me. The vultures were already there. They are so patient. They can wait forever.
My father did not wait. I heard them talking. An old man was sitting with him. They would pick a date. My father’s voice was harsh. It was about my dowry, the number of cows. The old man was missing an eye. I tried to imagine kissing him. I tried to imagine never reading again. I tried to imagine them cutting between my legs.
RUNNING AWAY
I didn’t even shower. I had three hundred shillings in my pocket. I saved them instead of buying my Christmas clothes. I escorted my friend Sintoyia down the road. Then I just kept walking. I had heard of a Rescue Center for girls. It was far away. At first I felt freedom in my step, but after six hours it grew dark. I tried to rest under a tree. The wild sounds of hyenas and birds wouldn’t let me sleep. It was as if they were screaming at me. I tried to picture the face of a friendly mama greeting me at the house but then I would see my father’s angry face. He had his stick, a gun, and he was killing me. My heart beat in wild rhythm with the thirsty cicadas as I stumbled along the dark road. I walked away from my father’s house, my family, my life. I walked way out in the wilderness, into night. I walked beyond myself.
I was covered in dust when I arrived. Mama Naanyo was laughing, happy. It was like she had been waiting for me. There were so many other girls who had walked long distances. We were the girls who had to go. We were the girls who left our father’s house. We were the girls who changed tradition. We were a tribe and we grew close. We went to school. I learned that even if there was a drought, my father had no right sell me. It was slavery. I learned that my clitoris belonged to me and could bring me pleasure when I got married. I learned that I can be anything and that girls can know as much as boys and we should be counted.
I found out later that after I ran away my father beat my mother but she stood up for me. My three younger sisters fled into the land. My mother went to the elders.
After a year Mama Naanyo called me in. She said I have talked to your father and he will see you. She said I think you are that strong. I think he is ready to accept you.
THE RECONCILIATION
My whole body was shaking when I came into his house. I didn’t know if I could stand up. My father was there next to my mother and his four wives. He seemed so old and so much weaker than I remembered him. I held on to Mama Naanyo. It had been a whole year. I knew I looked good. I had pretty clothes and I had changed. I was a strong confident girl. Everyone started crying. Even my father. Then my sisters came in. They had been living outside all year, in the fields. There was this screaming crying hugging that sisters do. Then I saw my father really looking at me. He could see I was no longer afraid. He could see I had walked through to the other side. He stood and slowly hugged me. He said I had done good and he thanked Mama Naanyo for making me respectable, then he spoke a miracle. He said he would accept me back into his family. He said he would not cut or sell my sisters either.
My mother was so happy. She has always given everything. Pocket money and clothes. This time she risked being beaten.
In spite of what was done to her, she asked the elders for my freedom.
There was a ceremony. All our tribe took the day off from the market to welcome me back. I stood in front and talked. I looked at the women sitting on the ground with their gorgeous beads and colorful cloth, shaved heads and open faces. I looked at my mother, my stepmothers, my sisters, and all my brothers. I loved my family. I loved our wandering and our ways. I loved the way we took care of the land. I loved sharing with the elephants and lions and zebras and cows. I loved that our culture had survived. I loved all of this, but I knew our life could be better.
My father was willing to sell me for five cows and a calf and a couple of blankets. That is about thirty thousand shillings. But when I am educated I will make more money. I will build him a house. I will take care of all of them.
I looked at the women in my family who had been sold, who had been cut when they were my age. My auntie was laughing. The rest of them were singing. This was all our celebration. This was all our beginning. Then in the middle of all of this I noticed we were soaking wet ’cause it was raining.
I AM AN EMOTIONAL CREATURE
I love being a girl.
I can feel what you’re feeling
as you’re feeling it inside
the feeling
before.
I am an emotional creature
Things do not come to me
as intellectual theories or hard-shaped ideas.
They pulse through my organs and legs
and burn up my ears.
I know when your girlfriend’s really pissed off
even though she appears to give you what you want.
I know when a storm is coming.
I can feel the invisible stirrings in the air.
I can tell you he won’t call back.
It’s a vibe I share.
I am an emotional creature.
I love that I do not take things lightly.
Everything is intense to me.
The way I walk in the street.
The way my mother wakes me up.
The way I hear bad news.
The way it’s unbearable when I lose.
I am an emotional creature.
I am connected to everything and everyone.
I was born like that.
Don’t you dare say all negative that it’s a teenage thing
or it’s only only because I’m a girl.
These feelings make me better.
They make me ready.
They make me present.
They make me strong.
I am an emotional creature.
There is a particular way of knowing.
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It’s like the older women somehow forgot.
I rejoice that it’s still in my body.
I know when the coconut’s about to fall.
I know that we’ve pushed the earth too far.
I know my father isn’t coming back.
That no one’s prepared for the fire.
I know that lipstick means
more than show.
I know that boys feel super-insecure
and so-called terrorists are made, not born.
I know that one kiss can take
away all my decision-making ability
and sometimes, you know, it should.
This is not extreme.
It’s a girl thing.
What we would all be
if the big door inside us flew open.
Don’t tell me not to cry
To calm it down
Not to be so extreme
To be reasonable.
I am an emotional creature.
It’s how the earth got made.
How the wind continues to pollinate.
You don’t tell the Atlantic Ocean
to behave.
I am an emotional creature.
Why would you want to shut me down
or turn me off?
I am your remaining memory.
I am connecting you to your source.
Nothing’s been diluted.
Nothing’s leaked out.
I can take you back.
I love that I can feel the inside
of the feelings in you,
even if it stops my life
even if it hurts too much
or takes me off track
even if it breaks my heart.
It makes me responsible.
I am an emotional
I am an emotional, devotional,
incandotional creature.
And I love, hear me,
love love love
being a girl.
I DANCE (III)
I dance to be here
I dance to disappear
I dance ’cause I can and I will
I dance with the gypsies
And with those in the churches
I dance with the witches and fairies
and freaks
I dance into the green reaches of earth
I dance with the ones who get left by the road
He’s too Christian.
I’ve known him my whole life.
Maybe I’ll ask him the next time
when we know each other better.
Then I remember this girl in my class.
She was seventeen.
She was really cute.
She was going to marry this guy.
He didn’t tell her he slept with
someone else.
He didn’t tell her ’cause he
didn’t want her to break up with him.
He didn’t tell her
and she trusted him
and he gave her HIV.
So I say
just like that
“Would you mind
using a condom please?”
(I sound just like my mother)
and he says, without even missing a beat,
“Sure, I have one right here.”
and I think
oh my God
that wasn’t so bad.
Kind of easy
and he’s clearly done this before.
So he’s not that shy,
not so insecure,
clearly not a virgin,
clearly prepared.
Maybe I don’t really know who he is.
I do that.
I make people up.
I make up what they think
and how they will respond.
I get so inside him
that I don’t think about me.
Why didn’t he bring it up?
Maybe he was going to put it on
at the last minute.
Maybe he has a way of doing it
so it doesn’t stop the flow.
How many times has he done this?
How many girls has he slept with?
And he says, just like that,
“This is my first time,
I’m kind of awkward,”
and I start laughing
and he says, “Are you laughing at me?”
and I say, “No, I’m laughing ’cause
I’m awkward too and I’m happy
you’re like me.”
And we kiss some more
and then later he takes out the condom
and we laugh at it
’cause condoms are really funny looking
and it ends up being something
we do together
and we’re both protecting ourselves
and each other
and this makes me like him
and me.
WOULD YOU RATHER (III)
GIRL 1
Would you rather catch your boyfriend sleeping with your best friend or your sister?
GIRL 2
Would you rather keep annoying me or let me sleep?
GIRL 1
Wow, you’re so grumpy!
GIRL 2
Would you rather be someone I invite over again or keep asking really stupid questions?
GIRL 1
Why are you so upset?
GIRL 2
’Cause all your questions are totally depressing me.
’Cause I am sick of having to choose between two horrible impossible things.
Living with my mother or my father, being popular or smart, enjoying sex or being called a slut, making money or following my heart.
I want different questions. I hate these choices. I hate my life.
GIRL 1
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was just a game.
(Girl 2 is crying.)
GIRL 1
Are you crying?
GIRL 2
Yes.
(Pause, silence)
GIRL 1
Would you rather I stay over here and let you alone or come there and snuggle up with you?
GIRL 2
The second.
GIRL 1
Come over there?
GIRL 2
Yeah.
(She comes over and snuggles with her.)
GIRL 1
I’m sorry.
GIRL 2
It’s just so hard sometimes. It’s just so hard and sad.
GIRL 1
I know. It is. I hate it.
(They both snuggle and they both cry. Then after a while they start
laughing and laughing.)
THINGS I LIKE ABOUT MY BODY
Being big
My curves
Being petite, my own little shape
My eyes
My smile
My skin—caramel color, smooth and shiny
My Chinese eyes
Dimples—one is deeper
My hairy legs
Curly eyelashes
I like everything
Eyes like the sun
Arms like a stick
Tallness like a tree
Hairy like a monkey
MY SHORT SKIRT
My short skirt
is not an invitation
a provocation
an indication
that I want it
or give it
or that I hook.
My short skirt
is not begging for it
it does not want you
to rip it off me
or pull it up or down.
My short skirt
is not a legal reason
for raping me
although it has been before
it will not hold up
in the new court.
My short skirt, believe it or not,
has nothing to do with you.
My short skirt
is about discovering
the power of my calves
about cool autumn air traveling
up my inner thighs
about allowing everything I see
or pass or feel to live inside.
My short skirt is not proof
that I am stupid
or undecided
or a malleable little girl.
My short skirt is my defiance.
I will not let you make me afraid.
My short skirt is not showing off,
this is who I am
before you made me cover it
or tone it down.
Get used to it.
My short skirt is happiness.
I can feel myself on the ground.
I am here. I am hot.
My short skirt is a liberation
flag in the women’s army.
I declare these streets, any streets,
my vagina’s country.
My short skirt
is turquoise water with swimming colored fish
a summer festival in the starry dark
a bird calling
a train arriving in a foreign town.
My short shirt is a wild spin
a full breath
a tango dip.
My short skirt is
initiation, appreciation, excitation.
But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
is mine, mine, mine.
THINGS THAT GIVE US PLEASURE
When Zena tickles the inside of my arm
all the way to my elbow
Jumping Night Dancer
my legs at his side, the wind,
the rush
Knowing the answer
Warm soapy water
Learning the history of Russia
Speaking Arabic
Rice
Curry
Chicken
Putting on bright red lipstick
Straightening my hair
Curling my hair
Covering my hair
Flan
Halvah
Baklava
Gelato
Macaroons
Pinkberry
Standing on my head
Doing a split
Running faster
Saving minks
Saving whales
Saving plastic bags
&n
My mother’s happiness
Being in the river
The ocean
The pool with my friends
Sleepovers
Fitting into the new smaller jeans
My mother putting a washcloth
on my forehead when I have a fever
Trying on bras
The way the trees rustle
when birds come back
GIRL FACT
More than 900 million girls and women are living on less than a dollar a day.
FIVE COWS AND A CALF
THE STORY
I’m not sure the exact day he decided to sell me. There was a drought. For three months it was like someone erased all the green from the bushes and grass and trees. The earth turned brown. The rivers became stone. Everywhere was dust. In our mouths, our beds, our dreams. The cows. It was all about the cows.
I am a Masai girl. I live in Kenya. My name is Mary. I am fifteen. I was fourteen when it all happened. For as long as I can remember we have moved. I like moving. We move with the cows. They eat and then, when they need more grass to eat, we move again. Our people believe the rain god Ngai gave all the cattle to the Masai for safekeeping. We live on milk and blood.
I was in school. I was smart. I could remember things and I learned to write faster than anyone in my class. The teachers said I could go far.
My father was very powerful. He had many children and cows. At least forty children, but they don’t count girls so it’s hard to tell. He had married off several of my older sisters before me. Sold them to old men and they had each gone far away. Sold them for cows. I knew that before they became wives they were cut with a razor. I knew they were in enormous pain. Their faces changed. And they stopped asking questions. I didn’t want to stop asking questions.
WHEN IT CHANGED
The drought got worse. The cows were so skinny their bones were sticking through their skin. They were exhausted and could hardly move. No grass, no water. Some were dying. My father was becoming poor. He got grumpier by the day. I knew the morning they called us into the field. I could tell by their expressions. Ntotya was dead. That was my mother’s cow. My mother was crying. I don’t remember her crying before. I realized later she was crying for me. The vultures were already there. They are so patient. They can wait forever.
My father did not wait. I heard them talking. An old man was sitting with him. They would pick a date. My father’s voice was harsh. It was about my dowry, the number of cows. The old man was missing an eye. I tried to imagine kissing him. I tried to imagine never reading again. I tried to imagine them cutting between my legs.
RUNNING AWAY
I didn’t even shower. I had three hundred shillings in my pocket. I saved them instead of buying my Christmas clothes. I escorted my friend Sintoyia down the road. Then I just kept walking. I had heard of a Rescue Center for girls. It was far away. At first I felt freedom in my step, but after six hours it grew dark. I tried to rest under a tree. The wild sounds of hyenas and birds wouldn’t let me sleep. It was as if they were screaming at me. I tried to picture the face of a friendly mama greeting me at the house but then I would see my father’s angry face. He had his stick, a gun, and he was killing me. My heart beat in wild rhythm with the thirsty cicadas as I stumbled along the dark road. I walked away from my father’s house, my family, my life. I walked way out in the wilderness, into night. I walked beyond myself.
I was covered in dust when I arrived. Mama Naanyo was laughing, happy. It was like she had been waiting for me. There were so many other girls who had walked long distances. We were the girls who had to go. We were the girls who left our father’s house. We were the girls who changed tradition. We were a tribe and we grew close. We went to school. I learned that even if there was a drought, my father had no right sell me. It was slavery. I learned that my clitoris belonged to me and could bring me pleasure when I got married. I learned that I can be anything and that girls can know as much as boys and we should be counted.
I found out later that after I ran away my father beat my mother but she stood up for me. My three younger sisters fled into the land. My mother went to the elders.
After a year Mama Naanyo called me in. She said I have talked to your father and he will see you. She said I think you are that strong. I think he is ready to accept you.
THE RECONCILIATION
My whole body was shaking when I came into his house. I didn’t know if I could stand up. My father was there next to my mother and his four wives. He seemed so old and so much weaker than I remembered him. I held on to Mama Naanyo. It had been a whole year. I knew I looked good. I had pretty clothes and I had changed. I was a strong confident girl. Everyone started crying. Even my father. Then my sisters came in. They had been living outside all year, in the fields. There was this screaming crying hugging that sisters do. Then I saw my father really looking at me. He could see I was no longer afraid. He could see I had walked through to the other side. He stood and slowly hugged me. He said I had done good and he thanked Mama Naanyo for making me respectable, then he spoke a miracle. He said he would accept me back into his family. He said he would not cut or sell my sisters either.
My mother was so happy. She has always given everything. Pocket money and clothes. This time she risked being beaten.
In spite of what was done to her, she asked the elders for my freedom.
There was a ceremony. All our tribe took the day off from the market to welcome me back. I stood in front and talked. I looked at the women sitting on the ground with their gorgeous beads and colorful cloth, shaved heads and open faces. I looked at my mother, my stepmothers, my sisters, and all my brothers. I loved my family. I loved our wandering and our ways. I loved the way we took care of the land. I loved sharing with the elephants and lions and zebras and cows. I loved that our culture had survived. I loved all of this, but I knew our life could be better.
My father was willing to sell me for five cows and a calf and a couple of blankets. That is about thirty thousand shillings. But when I am educated I will make more money. I will build him a house. I will take care of all of them.
I looked at the women in my family who had been sold, who had been cut when they were my age. My auntie was laughing. The rest of them were singing. This was all our celebration. This was all our beginning. Then in the middle of all of this I noticed we were soaking wet ’cause it was raining.
I AM AN EMOTIONAL CREATURE
I love being a girl.
I can feel what you’re feeling
as you’re feeling it inside
the feeling
before.
I am an emotional creature
Things do not come to me
as intellectual theories or hard-shaped ideas.
They pulse through my organs and legs
and burn up my ears.
I know when your girlfriend’s really pissed off
even though she appears to give you what you want.
I know when a storm is coming.
I can feel the invisible stirrings in the air.
I can tell you he won’t call back.
It’s a vibe I share.
I am an emotional creature.
I love that I do not take things lightly.
Everything is intense to me.
The way I walk in the street.
The way my mother wakes me up.
The way I hear bad news.
The way it’s unbearable when I lose.
I am an emotional creature.
I am connected to everything and everyone.
I was born like that.
Don’t you dare say all negative that it’s a teenage thing
or it’s only only because I’m a girl.
These feelings make me better.
They make me ready.
They make me present.
They make me strong.
I am an emotional creature.
There is a particular way of knowing.
It’s like the older women somehow forgot.
I rejoice that it’s still in my body.
I know when the coconut’s about to fall.
I know that we’ve pushed the earth too far.
I know my father isn’t coming back.
That no one’s prepared for the fire.
I know that lipstick means
more than show.
I know that boys feel super-insecure
and so-called terrorists are made, not born.
I know that one kiss can take
away all my decision-making ability
and sometimes, you know, it should.
This is not extreme.
It’s a girl thing.
What we would all be
if the big door inside us flew open.
Don’t tell me not to cry
To calm it down
Not to be so extreme
To be reasonable.
I am an emotional creature.
It’s how the earth got made.
How the wind continues to pollinate.
You don’t tell the Atlantic Ocean
to behave.
I am an emotional creature.
Why would you want to shut me down
or turn me off?
I am your remaining memory.
I am connecting you to your source.
Nothing’s been diluted.
Nothing’s leaked out.
I can take you back.
I love that I can feel the inside
of the feelings in you,
even if it stops my life
even if it hurts too much
or takes me off track
even if it breaks my heart.
It makes me responsible.
I am an emotional
I am an emotional, devotional,
incandotional creature.
And I love, hear me,
love love love
being a girl.
I DANCE (III)
I dance to be here
I dance to disappear
I dance ’cause I can and I will
I dance with the gypsies
And with those in the churches
I dance with the witches and fairies
and freaks
I dance into the green reaches of earth
I dance with the ones who get left by the road