Essay: I wrote a play about vagina dentata and all I got was empathy for men
Essay by Erica J. Brennan
In the middle of the last decade, I was travelling overseas and found myself exhausted by the constant vigilance I had to exercise as a woman walking in public. It's a phenomenally shitty feeling. On this trip, one guy walked next to me for three blocks, skirting in and out of my eye line, repeating:
"Hey, hey, hey, can I take you for a drink?".
I gave him a clipped "No", and bared my teeth in an almost hiss.
As I quickened my pace, so did he. Across the street, a second man was watching the interaction unfold. After a few more attempts, my harasser finally left me alone and the second man approached. As I prepared to tell him, "I'm okay, thanks for asking," he picked up right where the other had left off. He pushed his hand against my chest, trying to slow me down and show me a magic trick. I shoved past him and hurried to the other side of the street.
And then I did something really stupid. I sat in the front seat of a taxi.
I write the word “stupid” knowing that what happened next was not my fault.
Anyone who understands themselves to be a vulnerable member of society knows you don't sit in the front seat of your ride share. This prick of a driver took me the long way home, buying me tea and ice cream from street vendors while I shrank into my seat. Finally, after refusing persistent offers, he reached over and spent what felt like hours adjusting my seat belt across my chest. I haven't worn a bra in nearly fifteen years and his so-called helpfulness was nothing but a chance to paw at my thinly covered breasts. He only drove me home after he had finished.
I don't remember much of how I got out of the taxi and to my front door.
I do remember shaking so much that I couldn't get the key in the lock. All I wanted was to get on the other side of that door. I’d been reminded that men could do whatever they wanted to me, whenever they wanted. I sat down and smashed the on button of my laptop and tried to call someone I knew, desperate to hear a familiar voice.
It wasn't long after I returned home that #MeToo erupted through the collective consciousness. Even now, we still feel the anger that accompanies the grief of being sexually assaulted.
My anger was aware that sexual violence does not fall neatly down arbitrarily gendered lines. For those who don’t identify as women, and have not had the experience of inhabiting a body that feels constantly under threat, these experiences can be particularly horrifying. I had a lifetime’s worth of being violated for existing as a woman and I was mad about it. I wanted those men who didn't understand to walk with the same fear I had.
The Hero Leaves One Tooth is a play born of my rage – that of a cis woman exhausted by harassment and assault perpetrated by men. I thought:
“I'll give you something to fear between our legs.”
“I'll conjure up a hellish nightmare so you can feel, all the way down to your bones, what that kind of intimate violence can do to you.”
“Grab 'em by the pussy? Well, this pussy bites back!”
It didn't take long for my focus to shift to what was going to happen after the collective poison-letting. Was there a reality beyond this where the perceived gender divide wouldn't cause so much grief? Was the thirst for vengeance the endpoint, or was it a step on the way to healing?
From these questions, a play takes over. You feed it enough, shave away the lumps, give it a chance to breathe, and it takes on a life of its own. A few weeks before opening I was sitting in rehearsals, watching the actors stumble through a first run. I was struck by moments of transcendent brilliance when the work truly shows you what it is. And this little prig of a play showed me what might happen after the rage and anger had its chance to be heard. I’m shocked by the feeling that despite my wounds I am not interested in hurting anyone else, even men.
The first person to answer my flurry of calls after the taxi incident overseas was my big, square-bodied, booming-voiced brother. I dissolved into tears explaining what happened to me and without missing a beat, he showered me with love. This love took the form of quiet words:
"You'll be okay," "Look at these online resources," and "Here's what you're going to do in the next hour."
I wondered if I found his image so soothing because he looks like I would if I were a man.
He provided a counterpoint to the violation another like him had inflicted on me. His presence, words, and actions were like medicated mouthwash on a blistering ulcer. It didn’t heal it, but it calmed me enough to take the next breath. The trauma of that day did not disappear, but it did not calcify into fear or hatred. I didn’t know it at the time, but this experience of fiercely masculine compassion lay in wait until I was ready to understand what might be on the other side of all this anger.
In the final, quiet moments of The Hero Leaves One Tooth, I feel unbridled compassion for the men of this world. I feel so grateful to this work for being a container for my rage so that I could experience it to its fullest and then begin to let it go. I feel the same question arising in me:
What do we do after the infected canine of anger is pulled from our mouths?
And then an answer:
We shout a big "fuck you" to those who stole our choices. We write stories where teeth erupt inside vaginas. We bask, if even for a moment, in the glory of that badass fantasy. We sing songs that defy the darkness, sharing our anger with loved ones. We cling to the people who provide a haven for the rage to burn through us, refusing to perpetuate the violence we endured. And we listen to our brothers who offer to understand and lighten our burdens just enough to breathe again.
Let me always remember this. Healing and justice require us to move through vengeance and use its burning energy to forge a path that leads to empathy, understanding, and a shared vision of a world where no one's existence is compromised, and everyone can dream of a future where trauma no longer needs to bite back.
The Hero Leaves One Tooth plays at KXT on Broadway until 29 July. Find tickets here.
Erica is an experienced writer, director and performer. After 15 odd years in the biz she still wakes up every morning wanting nothing more than to tell the best stories she can. Currently her work is centred on exploring classic genre tropes and dark feminist fantasies.
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