And now a word from Down There

Fe Bongolan has taken a brief reprieve from her political column to regain some much-needed sanity and bring down her cortisol levels. In her absence, Fe’s uterus has agreed to take on this week’s Fe-911 column in honor of May Day, also known as Beltane 2012.

We all know Fe has the tendency to blurt out what she really thinks, and lately she’s been blurting and thinking and saying a lot about the cretins out there trying to push her country into a time machine and dialing all of us back to the 14th century. As Fe’s uterus, I agree with her. And I have absolutely no hope that politicians, economists, scientists or engineers will be able to solve the mystery of why everyone, here and abroad, always goes batshit crazy over me every few decades or so throughout the millennia.

First off, I am completely hidden. No one ever pays attention to me except when I need medical care, or when they try to sell Fe products for menstrual bleeding — no longer an issue I might add — or to make me smell nicer. Or, get this — to make my vaginal lips pinker — what is up with that? Billions of dollars paying for expensive spray-on bronzers to tan the rest of the body, yet when it comes to the pussy, you want it bleached?  I am quite happy to say my pussy lips are a soft golden olive with hints of rose madder. And not for one second am I even going to contemplate a hose-down with Clorox to make my pussy look like that of a virgin Caucasian’s. What is wrong with this picture?

Now that I’m up here, I might as well ask this question. Why is it that I am called ‘down there’? I am not Australia (or conversely, for my sister uteri below the equator — NOT Nova Scotia). I am not a location. I am a functioning reproductive organ. My fellow uteri and I agree: What’s up with regarding us as a country? Or as real estate in general?

Yes, real estate. Otherwise known as property. In the game of 21st century political football, we’ve become the investment property over which land usage is now cause for war. Me — the nest, the igloo, the Nipa hut, the yurt for future tenants, sheltered below Fe’s abdomen while occupied or not — is the new cause de guerre. Uterine tenancy is the rallying cry for a Hatfield-McCoy war between left and right. I guess these guys needed some place to put their aggressive energy since the war in Iraq is technically over.

I find this new decade to be very very strange. One hundred years after the Women’s Suffrage Movement and we’re living in a time warp somewhere between the Spanish Inquisition and Facebook. I’ve often fantasized about getting away from it all, de-coupling myself from Fe’s body. Sort of like Star Trek when they released the passenger-carrying saucer section of the Enterprise to allow the main ship to gear for battle, keeping the civilians safe from harm. I’m not talking about a hysterectomy — that’s a very serious business, mind you — but a short-term separation, a vacation of sorts.

Think of it. Me, Vagina and Fallopia out for a fortnight, like a cruise or a road trip with the girls. I imagine us free-floating over Paris, cavorting along the rooftops of the Left Bank like Lamorrise’s Red Balloon. Maybe a few of us uteri can meet for a confab over the Cafe le Deux Magots for some confit, brioche and Beaujolais Nouveau? Maybe we can all join together like Lamorrise’s gathering of red balloons everywhere and lift all of our girls and women up and out and away from the madness over what should be something only for us girls and women to consider?

I am the universe, and I am the uterus — the common thread for the majority of life on Earth. After billions of years of evolution, we have the right to determine what and who we want in us. A baby? Many babies? We’re ready from head to toe, the minute we make the decision. No babies? Fine with me. In fact that was Fe’s choice, making me, in the parlance of valued ‘real estate’, an artist’s live-work space. No definitions, constantly changing interiors, and new ‘babies’ — theater, dance and visual creations coming in with each of my undulations.

In fact that is what I, the uterus, the womb — the Mother of all — am about: creation. Not just of children, though that is an important part, but every last impulse we women have to create beauty, joy, pleasure and works of great importance on the planet. It is not the female equivalent of a guy’s ‘being led by his dick’. It is the right to decide what to receive and produce that which exists. That is some very potent power. Remember that.

I am certain that even though Fe’s Sun sign is Aquarius, my astrological sign is really Sagittarius. I’ve always enjoyed philosophy, travel and religion — as a concept, not a practice. I am here today to wish all of you a very happy and sensual May Day. My vagina, who is often at a loss for words, has asked me to thank you on her behalf. Since Fe has finally given me use of her laptop, I have had so much to say, and still have so many questions to ask of you. I look forward to chatting with you in the comments section.

Please let your uterus speak for you today and everyday, as loudly and naturally as it wants to. It’s Beltane, baby. Time to party!

25 thoughts on “And now a word from Down There”

  2. From: Brendan
    To: Fe’s Uterus

    You shameless name dropper, you! But where was Manolo Blahnik in all this?

  3. TO: Brendan
    FROM: Fe’s uterus

    In response to your question as to where I have been hiding, I actually only escaped the lair of the arch-criminal Dr. Moriarty the Napoleon of crime, a few decades ago, swimming myself to the shores of the Seychelles where I spent my time recuperating from my imprisonment, yearning to return home.

    A French merchant marine ship took pity on me in my isolation and brought me to Lyon, where I ventured forward in a leisurely march towards Paris.

    I met Yves St. Laurent in a fete hosted by Truman Capote where they both took inspiration from my comely shape to design what would become the bubble cloche hats famous in the 1960s. My stint as a fashion icon brought me to London, where my fashion cred made me a perfect mole and spy in the house of pleasure that brought down MP John Profumo.

    I wandered New York for awhile, took drugs with Warhol, and moved back to France where I cleaned out, bought some land in the Rhone Valley and started a vineyard. It was not until the beginning of the second millennium, when Fe came to Paris for Y2K, that I had found her. But it took Fe time to get my visa and papers in order for me to return to America.

    By the time my visa was cleared, Rick Santorum’s candidacy was announced and I was biting at the bit to raise my voice and fight for uterine freedom in America. I had to get here to help Fe in the fight. So I became a stowaway in Jean-Paul Gaultier’s travelling exhibition which was on its way to San Francisco’s DeYoung Museum. There, I took on the guise of one of Gaultier’s fashion accessories. I escaped from the Museum on midnight of opening night.

    This May 1st article is first of what could be many, if America keeps showing its ass on women’s reproductive freedom. It makes me yearn for time in the vineyard, but I promised Fe I would help her in the fight. So here I am now, out of hiding.

  4. Fe, does your uterus have a nom de keyboard yet? There is a good, female, German name that fits perfectly: “Ute,” pronounced OOH-ta.

    Seriously, where has she been hiding all this time?

  6. Manda… trust me when I say IUDs do *not* result in infertility. Let’s see: I had it for 3 years, took it out, had Sarah. Put it back in for 2 more years, took it out, INSTANTLY conceived. Been pregnant 6 times, birthed twice. (Despite awareness of my fertility cycles, both of my husbands had *very* healthy swimmers that lived for more than 72 hours – and several souls who were hell-bound to take birth with me. Too bad. I only had room on the bus for two.)

    Just like today with a snake in the road, you can jabber all you want, but then there’s *that* moment when you connect and you KNOW you’re in communion. It’s like an opening… unmistakeable… in which you really see that your body is an animal all unto itself with which the ego lives and sometimes cooperates, but never (ever-ever) masters.

  7. mysti — thank you for your story. i love the idea of having that sort of conversation. i’ve considered an IUD — i have best friend on the west coast who loves hers. but it seems to really take some wrangling with the ob/gyns these days to get them to put them in a woman under 40 who has not had kids yet.

    i don’t know if it’s just the fear of liability if perchance something goes wrong with its insertion, but i find it frustrating. i know my friend had to work to convince her doc that she was really, truly, absolutely sure she *never* wanted to have children, ever.

  8. mystes:

    Our uteri do have minds of their own, and powerful instincts. I know our wombs do say things to us, and an accord really is necessary. I’m not surprised at all that re-unifying your head and heart with your Australia synced right with her. Not surprised at all.

  9. Back when I was pre-parous (um how many years ago? whoa!) I had an IUD that I loveloveloved. It was one of those serpentine jobs, loved the shape and it fit *just* right. Just before I had it inserted I had a long talk with my womb, explaining to her The Deal. “No babies, muchacha… we simply are not ready yet. So you are going to hold this sweet little piece of sculpture in your throat till that day. Okay?” And she concurred. I never had a single problem, not a moment of pain or infection or difficulty with it. The IUD kept me blissfully fetus-free for 5 years. And I am *sure* the conversations helped.

  10. glad you liked it, Fe!

    and thanks for the reminder to tell my uterus she’s fabulous. i think my vulva definitely gets more attention from me, since i’ve never “used” my uterus to her full potential biologically. i really appreciate the reminder to include her in my sense of creative gestation and artistic birthing.
    🙂

  11. Udderly delightful, Fe! I want to say “you have outdone yoursself” but I know you haven’t, there is more to come from you and #OU.
    To speak the truth with power, clarity, elan, and a great big smile underneath the glare is truly a gift you have perfected.
    Thank you for vivifying my soul with this post.
    And thanks for the link, Amanda.
    xoxo

  12. Yes, brilliant, Fe. “…we’re living in a time warp somewhere between the Spanish Inquisition and Facebook” – just great!

  14. “my astrological sign is really Sagittarius…..Fe has finally given me use of her laptop…”
    A star is born

  15. Artshopluc:

    Thanks for your comment. Uterine, my uterus does need to run wildly and freely on occasion. And the weather right now too perfect to stay indoors, pretending to run silent, run deep.

    Amanda: the Atwood story is fabulous. Thank you again for everything you do. And tell your uterus it’s fabulous as well.

    Xoxo: thank you. I will remind my uterus that she needs to pull her weight in writing arena, now that she’s found her voice!

  16. Loved this! Representing NOT Nova Scotia. Certainly gives new meaning to the “Occupy” movement, doesn’t it. More please!

  17. fantastic Fe!
    Thank you for sharing your uterus’ words of wisdom, insight and honesty. What a wonderful way to bring this day to an end as the moon fills ever so slowly towards her luminous generosity. Who better to speak at this time of the Beltaine season than one’s own uterus? That oft ignored, forbidden, hidden, fecund containment of creation who ushers in the all.

  18. «I find this new decade to be very very strange. One hundred years after the Women’s Suffrage Movement and we’re living in a time warp somewhere between the Spanish Inquisition and Facebook »

    It is not the same revolution one more passive in thought, it prepares the ground for the second which is more active by the acts and the power to say no.
    I have many contacts on Facebook who appreciate me with which I can share a few word in private, all depends on then what is sought

  19. i love it — thanks again, Fe!

    btw, this article by Margaret Atwood probably deserves to be posted on this blog in full, but since it’s NY Times, i’ll just post the link and a couple relevant paragraphs. it struck me as having a lovely harmony with this Fe-911, from a slightly different angle:

    http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/opinion/sunday/hello-martians-this-is-america.html?_r=2&pagewanted=2

    LAST night the Martians touched down in the backyard. They were oval and bright pink, with two antlike antennae topped by eyes fringed with sea-anemone lashes. They said they’d come to study America.

    “Why ask me?” I said. “America is farther south.”

    “You are an observer,” they said. “Please tell us: Does America have a different ‘flavor’ from that of other countries? Is it the center of the cultural world? How does it look to outsiders?”

    . . .

    “How may we best discover the essence of America?”

    “Through its literature, would be my choice,” I said, “but I’m biased.”

    “O.K.,” said the Martians. “What should we read first? Can we have marshmallows?”

    “Let’s start with two stories by Nathaniel Hawthorne,” I said. “ ‘The Maypole of Merry Mount,’ and ‘Young Goodman Brown.’ Here are your marshmallows.”

    Their pink antennae waved excitedly. They stored away the marshmallows as rare American artifacts. Then they read the stories, very quickly, as Martians do. “What do these mean to contemporary America?” they asked.

    “In ‘The Maypole of Merry Mount,’ ” I said, “some people having a fun party in the woods are disrupted by the Puritans, who consider them immoral. Both groups have come to America in search of ‘freedom.’ The Merry Mounters interpret ‘freedom’ as sexual and individual freedom, the Puritans as freedom to practice their own religion while outlawing the behavior of others. This fight is still going on in America: the same issues come up in every election. In my novel ‘The Handmaid’s Tale,’ ” I added modestly, “I’ve included them as ‘freedom to’ and ‘freedom from.’ ”

    . . .

    “I think you should be careful,” I said.

    “Why?” the Martians asked.

    “Forgive me for pointing this out, but you look a lot like diagrams of the human female uterus,” I said. “Complete with fallopian tubes and ovaries.”

    A human being might be insulted to be told this, but it didn’t seem to bother the Martians. Having looked up “uterus” on translate.google.com™, they said, “Isn’t the uterus a good thing? The life force and so on?”

    “In some parts of America,” I said, “the men are obsessed with uteri. They feel that having one is potentially demonic. It’s a hangover from ‘Young Goodman Brown.’ If they saw you hopping around — worse still, eating popcorn — they’d go completely berserk, and pronounce you pregnant, and put you in jail.”

    “Maybe we will go to Radio City Music Hall instead,” the Martians said.

    “Good choice,” I said. “You won’t stand out in New York, or not much. If anyone bothers you, accuse them of being specist. Throw in that you’re vegans.”

    ok — there’s more hilarity and literature where that came from at the link, but i think you get the lovely synchronicity. 🙂

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