I went to watch this last night with a few of the Sayoni girls. It would be a crime for me to miss this when it is finally playing in Singapore. Eve Ensler’s celebrated groundbreaking play was given a local flavour by director Loretta Chen, produced by Zebra Crossing.

The monologues is basically a series of short skits telling different stories of women – of love, of sex, betrayal, relationships, empowerment, femininity. I have never seen the Eve Ensler original, but I suppose that means little when this play is supposed to be an evolving piece that accomodates the changing nature of society, and in this case, was given a thoroughly local makeover. So, free from the comparisons from the original, I would say this is mostly a pretty good production in terms of acting, casting and direction. If it were not the last day, I would highly recommend people to go watch it.

The various skits were alternately touching, heartbreaking and funny. It started off with a monologue by an Indian woman about her vaginal hair which her husband found unpalatable, then going into what can only be described as the Vagina Circle – group of women sitting around examining their vaginas, except they were wearing army uniforms and taking orders. An allusion to militant feminism? Perhaps. Notably, there was the original-but-modified chorus of 12-year old girls describing their first periods, who terrorised the first three rows of the audience by walking among them, and distributing (even throwing) sanitary napkins. There was the older woman who couldn’t say the word “vagina”, but held up her hand in a V-sign instead of verbalising it, talking about the experience where she was finally able to “love” her vagina. A woman ranted about the treatment her vagina was getting from the society (which was really funny and insightful) through tampouns, douches and OG/GYN tools. Then of course, the completely controversial originally-13-but-modified-to-18-for-singapore girl who found healing from her traumatic sexual experiences through an experience with an older woman. A pole dancer pranced around for a few minutes, before a group of women sang about their short skirts. A male-to-female-transsexual talks about her femininity and her trials over it. A female dominatrix waxed lyrical about her experiences with giving women pleasure (which was probably the funniest part about the play), where all the different kinds of moans were enacted out, culminating the famously vocal “triple orgasm”. Finally, there was the monologue about childbirth, from various perspectives.

One of the values of the play is that it is highly gay-friendly. Same-sex relationships are portrayed positively – one of the controversies about the play, of course.

One of my main complaints is that it was discomfitingly tokenised in terms of race – Chinese, Malay, Indian. Furthermore, I don’t find it funny when people spout random tamil phrases for laughs, and especially when it is not in context. No one, and I mean no one, says “Thank you” in Tamil during sex. Secondly, what was the pole dancer about? Yes she was fun to watch, but I don’t believe it added any value to the play except pull in the straight male audience.

All in all, I would say this was a well-done production, especially with the high standards people are going to hold this to.

These three poems were written by Chrystal, read at Contradiction IV. We thank the writers for allowing us to publish these works on our site.

INK ON SKIN

self-expression or self-release?

ink on skin more like blood seeping through

art and architecture colliding

on surfaces and within

the body

is beautiful. her body is beautiful.

a landscape genius with shading

and smooth curve.

an entire canvas – a work in progress

with drawings that misdirect, drawing

attention only to

a gun which recognizes we are all to blame

its nozzle pointing in, its handle open for your grasp

I grasp her arm and she lets me

puts the trigger to my anxious untrained fingers

and I have hurt her

in my defense of expression and release

too many times

her heart once worn, red, on her upper left sleeve

now lower, worn out, perhaps, or still falling with hope in gray flames, still burning

waiting for my silly searching to end where it began -

a nautical star for direction and a banner left blank

with an invisible inscription. her name written in permanence.

this landscape

is genius.

five feet and four inches and the occasional additional seven and a half strapped on

a version of our aversion to the need for heels or height

a little lean and you learn that when it’s all laid down, the world

will slip into reach just right.

but the landscape is genius. in dim light.

a skyline crafted like odd-lengthed crayons in every shade of Crayola’s blue and gray

scraping the night as if god’s ass is bare and daring

the boldest, tallest, to take him on.

fool enough to try and fooled enough to stand

before the lobby

at street level and shrinking.

but away from that city

such erections are mere shadows

cast upon faces like masses of clitoral vindication.

so let’s make art with our bodies

and war with our voices

link arms, build walls so great in front clinics

and around women

exercising a right not given by statute

but by the inherent allowance to choose.

see, that’s the art of creation

each individual with difference

and on that level – equal

in innocence.

guilt implied only by those above judgment

those who have proof of absolute truth

and I will say not even science is very much more than theoretical

but aesthetics are pleasing. unexplained. mysterious.

like favorite colors.

favorite contours.

so the direction of my gazes is, quite frankly, none of your business

specifically if you deal with laws and �infringements’

the fringe of society will always be here where you put it

whether you like it

holding in place the outline of your weak definitions

constraints and restrictions you man-made normality

you nurtured into nature

non-conformity is the frame around your masterpiece

and what’s truly genius

is the landscape

and the escape from textbook terminology

and the noise.

life and art

are the colors of skin and the contours of choice.

In the Streets

recently, with the attention from the random schoolgirl stalkers and the truly crazy girls,

every time we fuck i wonder if this is how they see me.

on top but way too bottom.

more skin undressed in a single frame than anyone else could account.

your seven and a half inches of what it means to be free..

seven and a half inches within me.
and god, do i get loud…

it’s so odd to think about.

i imagine them glimpsing us in that hot clammy wet moment.

can’t feel my toes or grip your hair any tighter.

can’t hear my drippy mucous thoughts

over a voicebox in my throat that switched channels.

can’t stop the tremble in my thighs or press our chests any deeper.

when all i can is come.

butch on the streets and femme in the sheets.

i don’t believe in that.

i don’t believe in gender.

i don’t believe in codes that formulate a system of authority.

they’re just roles we play in the dark.

i believe i cracked the passwords, beat the boundaries, and defeated the purposes we were expected to accept.

without question.

but i came.

and i asked.

who am i if not in some form some way someone i’d be assessed to be?

expression and identity are knit too close.

like my breaths and my gasps when your hand is down my pants.
when i look in the mirror i see what i want to.

what i want them to.

i see a dash of arrogance that means strength in the bulk of male muscle.

masculine terms that i want my chin to speak

before my words have their chance.

when i look in the mirror i furrow my brows.

i am defiance. i am real. i am man. – or boy,

because my dimple charms and jello smile and pissed-pants eyes reveal.

too much.

so i am not defiance. i am not man. that is not real.

and when i look in the mirror i furrow my brows to deny, defy,

a toddler

with cheeks too chubby to know the arch of man constructs…

architecture of the home, the rod, the rule.

the triangle was gold, not pink.

but I never followed the hint.

when i talk to myself, i’m a hundred and twelve percent boy.

albeit sensitive and introspective.

And i don’t know myself any other way.
the day i cut my hair off (it only took me seventeen years)

i stayed in front of the mirror for hours.

negotiating what i saw.

resolving who i had always been.

it was like staring at your twin, separated at birth,

and that internal reconciliation.

putting the parts together.

like always knowing there was someone out there who had stolen your identity and left you with someone else’s.

and then seeing your self walking down the street right across the street from you.

i don’t know myself any other way.

yet you know me that other way.

you know the way my jaw drops and locks, the way i bite my lip, the way my neck throws back.
i’m no actor.

i’m not the best liar.

i guess i’m versatile but you somehow lube up my dichotomies just right…

we’re faggots and toughguys and leather dykes and fruitcakes…

and god knows i love the sounds you make when you’re almost.. quite… there.

My Definition

my mother wants to define this

as if

sex came with

a gender clause.

this uniform skirt is control

exercised by culture

and laws that dictate

over external genitalia, wombs, female fetuses, and the space we�re allowed to exist

in

a norm of petite, polite, post-marital slave

and we carry our heels high

to be crippled

we acquire joy

from the vanity of requiring continuous assistance.

so my jeans will be worn, knowing

the price that accompanies�

this awareness that this world was born

from

a woman�s pain

this responsibility to react sensitively

when

taught his story and his terminology that recites fair game.

my god is my maker; his word is my sin

you are my judges, judge, judgment

qualified by manhood

raised, erected, waving like a wand

your command

but she, she is my conscience

and for that thrust, i will stand.

the truth is out there

a simple search, keywords, on the world wide web

take away politics, religion, ignorance and

add a dash of self-worth and

it will be found that the mystery is stellar

and it lies in here.

in these words, this supposed poetry

of language and languor

lies irreverence and love and its stolen midnight motion

if only in respite.

i was told by an artist that art empowers scientists

that laws are enacted by politicians and embellished

by poets

well i write and i paint, but not enough to make change.

canvas does not sound like the alarm, the crash

of three airplanes headed for history.

but we�ll go down on your daughter

before their husbands understand and

we�ll plan our revolution under conservative family tables

by holding hands and

we�ll respect their laws of nature, stare it down like fighting prey

while they turn away from this physics of gravitation

alike to and amore so than theirs, since the anatomy�s the same.

but i digress.

i�ve been inspired, and i�ve been told that this thought is a weapon and its ammunition

is the voice to reveal

it�s some gift of the gap, a trap, I appeal the decision

for you ration your rationalism, spread too thin to comment

but I realize

that guns serve best pointed at the ones holding

and the gap, well it�s a fucking ravine and i�m drowning in it.

having to sleep to a head in chorus and in cry

the alcohol helps it stop, temporarily pause, distill, dilute, comply

but most nights these days

i�m dry

and i�m dreaming

of better times, better places, more liquor in my drawer

but i continue to wake

to our current state and current current events and

the stench

of my un-recycled page and sweatshop-made pen.

and i mention them

because in every torn nation and through every impoverished people

the boys have it better than girls

who bear the brute of an already blunt butt.

and i�m not saying i�d rather none make do

i�m just questioning

the mentality that equates this equality.

and i�m no feminist. i�m barely feminine, in quotes.

but i do hope the first term did not stem from the latter

since that would render both words

unjustified to my vagina.

maybe perhaps that�s my soul agenda

to say the word real loud in public � vagina vagina vagina.

Why I am Still a Feminist

by Adrianna Tan

I am still a feminist because I am no longer ashamed of saying I am one. I have grown tired for apologizing for so many of the things I am: for being liberal, lesbian, anti-Bush and anti-war, a Christian that hates the fundamentalists. Anymore to apologize for, and I may have to apologize for being Chinese.

I was feminist before I was lesbian. I was feminist before I was liberal. I was feminist before I knew feminism had become synonymous with �bra burning� and �aggressive� (I like my bras too much, and I prefer to be passive-aggressive). I was feminist the moment I was acutely aware that being a girl meant there were many things I could not do, and so much more I was expected to.

The first feminist I knew was my father, who taught me I must never bow to the demands of any man, and must never let any man suppress my intellect or free will. He must have known I was a feminist from the time I was 4, when, I did not believe the distribution of potato chips was fair and equal, and demanded he demonstrate by bringing out actual weighing scales, that I had as much as my male brothers and cousins.

In primary school, I was an avid soccer player. About as good as the boys, the boys told me. I played every recess time and after school, every day. I was the midfielder with stamina, who was fast as well and was everywhere and anywhere on the pitch at all times. Good enough, that the boys thought nothing of inserting me into their ambitious tournament plans for the next few years: we were a team. I started the first match in the tournament with the brand new soccer boots I paid for myself. At half time, the referee � his name was Mr Azman � said I couldn�t play, ever again. Even though this was an informal tournament in school, with no rulebook or precedents, he said that�s just the way it is: no girls allowed.

By the time I was 18, I thought I already had a pretty good grip on the �girl� issue. During one class debate, a member of the opposition made a disparaging remark about how sometimes rape victims �were just asking for it�. Livid, I made a comment which led him to say: �Let�s go outside, I�ll show you how good it is to be raped.� This same person is on his way to becoming a lawyer, and I fear.

I�m turning 21 this year and while I don�t play soccer anymore, as a photographer I�m told �they want guys, because they look more like photographers�, as a Mac Evangelist in retail I�m told they �want to consult the guys�, even though I know as much. Guys still hit on my girlfriend in front of me because I evidently don�t count and I�m not the real thing; if I�m opinionated, I�m being either aggressive or emotional, and if I�m stoic, I�m heartless.

As a member of the majority race and male, you may not believe it when I say that sexism is alive and well, because you have never encountered it. You see female managers and female CEOs, females in positions above you, and you fear for your male superiority. What you don�t see is the sacrifice only women are made to make when they choose career, how they could be similarly qualified and similarly excellent or better leaders, yet climb slower and earn less, how if they are assertive they are aggressive female bosses, how if they are not then they are ineffectual leaders and submissive. What you don�t see is how she had to fight hard for most things that come easily to you.

As a member of the majority race and male, you sat next to me in school today at the library cafe, talking about how your girlfriend is not as loud as pornstars when you �fuck her�, wondering if that�s because �she doesn�t know how to express her pleasure�, then your friends all started talking about blowjobs and said in no unclear terms, that the world revolves around �your cocks�.

I will continue to be a feminist until the day my classmates are not seen as objects, whose pleasure is necessarily held up against porn industry ideals, until the day their pleasure is not dictated by the selfish dicks they date.

As a member of the majority race and male, you fathered one of my closest friends. When your daughter complained to you that she used to be touched inappropriately by your friend�s son, when your daughter discussed with you the topic of male infidelity, you laughed and said, �We�re men, we�re like that.�

I will continue to be a feminist until the day every father stands up for their daughter�s rights, the way my father does.

As a member of the majority race and male, everything you might be culpable for is �because she asked for it.� Can�t have children? She must be infertile. Want to use condoms? Only if she pays for it. She doesn�t seem to like sex with you? There must be something wrong with her. Pregnant? She sleeps around. Sex video spreads on the internet? It�s her morals. Lesbian? They haven�t met the right man, and you just might be the one.

I will continue to be a feminist until the day my friends� fathers stop explaining away their affairs based upon what their wives supposedly lack.

So when you say, those feminists, in the same breath as those nazis, those communists, those crazy bra burning women, you need to know that the object of our hatred is never men � it is what some men do to us.

I will continue to be a feminist until the day my uncle in the flesh and blood stops being an asshole, and his immigrant wife is not afraid to divorce him and press charges.

I will continue to be a feminist until it is realized that while it is best for every child to have his mother and father, if the father is a dangerous man he has to be kept away from her beautiful young children before he does any permanent damage.

I will continue to be a feminist until it is realized the existence of many good men does not mean it is irrelevant to be a feminist. They are our fathers, our boyfriends and husbands, our sons. All it takes is just one man, that isn�t good, to destroy the lives of too many women around the world, and among us now.

This is why I will remain a feminist, I�m not apologetic for it, I won�t burn my bra, I don�t hate you, and no, you can�t watch either.

We shall be publishing the works read by the speakers at Contradiction IV in a series. We thank all the writers for allowing us to do so!

Both these poems are by Zhuang Yisa.

The Tough Guys

It is a serious matter. This spying
from behind a shower curtain,
across the ginger corridor of desire.

It is real business, and only real men
do it: show me what you have, and what I show you
will leave a bittersweet aftertaste

in your mouth. An open mouth
begs the question: what makes us real, as men?
You steal a glance

in the sauna, at the stud’s
towel-clad reserve, to observe the stoic,
unreciprocated silence

that might answer the question for you.
Ask and thee shall receive. A hunter’s credo.
The waiting isn’t ritual; it is mental.

Out of the gym we carry weights.
We are the tough guys. We are the soldiers,
the husbands, the fianc�s,

the boyfriends and the secret lovers
bracing our souls, to march on under
a sky willed cloudless into monochrome, blue as soap

held in a dispenser, pressed disinterestedly by so many hands.

Dog Lover

The best breeders love their dogs
to the point of exclusion

of even the slightest possibility of loving
another human. They are at one

with their dogs; they cannot tell what is worth loving
beyond the merits of their own species

except, perhaps, this potential in the rest: the ease
of being manipulated, bought over

by blind devotion to the superiority
of their breed. Knowing this,

I followed you home. Knowing
what I knew then, I put a leash

over every resistance
in my body, and put it in a cage; I pushed the key

into your hand, then lay next to you: we spent the night
in the hot stench of dogs

not knowing if the night would outlive either of us
should we bare our teeth and bark.