You are watching: I was there in the room monologue
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"I Was There In The Room"Eve Ensler I was tright here when her vagina opened. We were all tbelow her mommy, her husband also and I, and also the nurse from the Ukraine via her whole hand up tbelow in her vagina feeling and turning through her rubber glove as she talked casually to us--prefer she was turning on a loaded faucet. I was tbelow in the room as soon as the contractions made her crawl on all fours, made unfamiliar moans leak out of her pores and also still tright here after hours when she just screamed unexpectedly wild, her arms striking at the electric air. I was tbelow as soon as her vagina readjusted from a shy sex-related hole to an archeological tunnel, a sacred vessel, a Venetian canal, a deep well via a tiny stuck child inside, waiting to be rescued. I witnessed the colors of her vagina. They adjusted. Saw the bruised damaged blue the blistering tomato red the gray pink-the dark; experienced the blood favor perspiration alengthy the edges witnessed the yellow, white liquid, the shit, the clots pushing out all the holes, pushing harder and harder, experienced via the hole, the baby"s head scratches of babsence hair, witnessed it just there behind the bone--a tough round memory, as the nurse from the Ukraine preserved turning and turning her slippery hand. I was tbelow as soon as each of us, her mother and I, held a leg and also spread her wide pushing with all our strength against her pushing and her husband sternly counting, "One, two, three," telling her to focus, harder. We looked into her then. We couldn"t gain our eyes out of that area. We forobtain the vagina what else would certainly define our lack of awe, our absence of wonder. I was tright here once the physician reached in through Alice in Wonderland also spoons and there as her vagina came to be a broad operatic mouth singing via all its strength; initially the little bit head, then the gray flopping arm, then the rapid swimming body, swimming conveniently right into our weeping arms. I was tright here later on as soon as I just turned and also confronted her vagina. I stood and let myself see her all spread, totally exposed mutilated, swollen and torn, bleeding almost everywhere the doctor"s hands that was calmly sewing her tbelow. I stood and also her vagina unexpectedly became a wide red pulsing heart. The heart is qualified of sacrifice. So is the vagina. The heart is able to forprovide and repair. It deserve to adjust its shape to let us in. It deserve to expand to let us out. So deserve to the vagina. It can ache for us and stretch for us, die for us and bleed and also bleed us right into this challenging, wondrous human being. I was tright here in the room. I remember. This originates from Eve Ensler"s play, "The Vagina Monologues", which is percreated in hundreds of neighborhoods across the U.S. approximately Valentine"s Day as a movement to sheight violence versus women. I am in my university"s performance following week and am signing this poem as someone else claims it.