Mimi

by Lucy Ellmann

  “While you guys were finishing your Senior Year, taking SATs, and getting laid… ” Chortles; coughs. “Ripping up your prom gowns, or mending them with safety pins… ” Laughter. “My sister… ” Throat threatening to seize up. “My sister Bee, Bridget Hanafan, a sculptor, also a former student here… ” Deep breath. “Maybe you heard about it on the News. A guy in England went berserk and started shooting people, complete strangers mostly, and… my sister was one of them.” Gasps; women fanning themselves with programs. “After he’d killed twenty people, he came up with a better idea and killed himself.” Vast, attentive silence.

  “What this event has left me with is: one, no sister… and two, a sense of how badly we treat women in general. We treat ’em like shit, my friends!” Harrumphs from the School Board behind me.

  “Like shit, I tell you. Every single day, the girls in this very hall have to hear about women being beaten, stoned, raped, and murdered. Every day of their lives they hear this stuff!

  “And we just throw up our hands in surprise at the latest male atrocity and say, Yeah, it’s a pity, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Right?… ” Murmurs. “right?” Vague assent. “Nothing we can do, nothing we can do… ” Inaudible heckle.

  “All my life this has been going on and I thought there was nothing I could do: some men are idiots, some are scary bastards, just forget about it… But now my sister’s dead and I can’t forget about it!” Silence.

  “I have a confession to make.” Butterflies in stomach; take fresh breaths whenever opportunity allows. “Yes, a confession.” Pause.

  “I am a terrorist.” Gasps. “I am a terrorist!” Pause. “All men are terrorists!” A few feeble boos. “We may not be active members of the terrorist movement, not knowingly anyway, but we all have links with terrorism, with fellow terrorists, and with terrorist organizations.

  “The whole world is run by terrorists. And those terrorists are men. The fathers, brothers, uncles, and grandfathers who’ve gathered here today are terrorists.” Muffled sighs and growls. “We’re all terrorists!” Giggles and throwing of programs. I pace the stage thinking, whatever you do, don’t jingle the change in your pocket!

  “We are all part of a war against women. Women are on the front line, getting beaten, raped, murdered. They try to work their way around it, they try to avoid such fates, while fearing for their lives every day.

  “Every day. This is the society we live in! America is not a safe place for a woman. The enemy is all around her: in the bushes, in the bedroom, in the boardroom and on the boob tube.” Giggles. “TV provides our daily dose of propaganda, it’s like a kind of night school for violence against women. And then there’s pop music, advertising, fashion demands, the so-called Beauty Industry, and porn. Is this all we can think up? A nonstop diet of disrespect?” Isolated claps; wolf whistles. “Because, you know? Disrespect paves the way for violence—they’re old pals!

  “The war against women isn’t fought in the open. It hasn’t been officially declared by Congress. (Or not that kind of congress anyway.) No, we fight dirty! Most of the hostilities are conducted underground. We try to keep it quiet, keep it subtle, keep things private… We isolate women so we can grouse at them. We get them on their own and undermine them.” Snickers; an idiotic clap; some distant heckle involving “underpants.”

  “Yep, we’re pretty clever about it. But it’s a fight to the death—and the dead lie all around us!” Silence. More fanning with programs.

  “We terrorize women through violence, always the threat of physical attack. But we back it up with ideology, literature, history, religion, tradition, a whole way of life. We intentionally misunderstand women. We ignore them—don’t tell me you never tried that trick! We misrepresent them. We mislead them. We silence them. We refuse to give them what they ask for. And we criticize them—god, do we criticize! We never let them do or be or say or have what they want.” Clapping from some girls.

  “We will not leave women be. Be whatever they want to be. No, they gotta be this, they gotta be that. They gotta be fun, they gotta be sexy, gotta be thin, be glamorous, be cheerful and good-looking and tolerant of us. They gotta cook, they gotta clean. And they gotta work! Yeah—women now have to bring home the bacon, and COOK it as well!” Cheers from the girls; claps from mothers. But a heckler yells, “Hey, men cook too!” Always acknowledge what’s going on in the audience, Mimi said. Anticipate criticism.

  “I know a lot of men cook these days,” I replied. “But it’s usually voluntary. That’s the difference. Or they’re making money at it, as TV chefs.” Laughter.

  “The point is that through our constant sniping, griping, and mockery, we keep women down. Through plastic surgery too! Yeah, I never had to actually hit women: cutting them up was good enough for me!” Claps; laughter.

  “As a result, women aren’t having a very good time… And they’re so tense!” Big laugh. “As someone said to me recently, we don’t even know what women are yet, they’ve been repressed for so long.” A few isolated claps. “Well, aren’tcha curious?” Nervous laughter.

  “Oh, we pat ourselves on the back in this country because we don’t stone women in the street, or stop them becoming doctors. Sure, we let girls go to school… for what good it does them!” I gesture at the audience. Cheers; whistles.

  “But do we honor and esteem women in America? Oh, sorry. I meant to say, do we honor and esteem our bitches?” Big laugh.

  “What’s going to happen to the women graduating today? These beautiful, hopeful, vulnerable young women, who’ve probably already encountered all kinds of sexual discrimination from their friends, their boyfriends, their fathers… ” Grumblings and mumblings. “The school system, college application system, the softball coach, the job market, strange men who follow them down the street…

  “Lambs to the slaughter, lambs to the slaughter… These women sitting here today have already been hammered by sexism. Their lives have been hampered by it, as their mothers’ lives were hampered before them.

  “Debased and wasted women are all around us. I’ve seen what happens to women in this world, while men roam free, wreaking havoc. Not just with my sister, but my patients and my friends… My own mother was tormented for decades by my nutso father, who once tried to kill us all by setting fire to the house!” Coughs. “Yes, in pretty little Virtue and Chewing Gum. Fathers are the worst!” A few mild boos. “No, mothers!” cries another heckler. Laughter.

  “And what I want to know is, when did men get the idea the world is just about them? Who gave us permission to go messing with things? The UN? Messing women around. Messing children around. Messing up the house and the yard.” Laughter. “Messing with guns, messing with the environment, messing with animals, the economy, plutonium, messing with the Gulf of Mexico! We’re talking about the future of life on earth here!… The air, the water! Who gave us the right to ruin it for everybody?

  “Filling the globe with our porn and our violence and our radioactive waste, and our corporations… Who decided that was a good idea? And—why… weren’t… women… asked?” Wild applause. This public-speaking jazz is a breeze! Keep your head though: reel ’em in, reel ’em in.

  “Are we going to let men obliterate the whole world, like that guy obliterated my sister, just for the hell of it?” Clapping. “Just because that’s the way things have always been done around here? Do we really crave catastrophe that much? I’m sick of these people who say you can’t change human nature, that pollution and poverty and starvation and nuclear war are inevitable, so there’s no point in worrying about it.

  “Start worrying, pal! Do something! Isn’t it at least worth a try? Do you really want to give up on the whole of human civilization without a fight? What, are you nuts?” Cheering.

  “So, let’s say that everyone in this room agrees that, in an ideal world, women would be respected. Assume we can all agree on that.” Inclusiveness: Mimi would be proud! “That, in an ideal world, women would be respected instead of muti
lated.

  “Well, let me ask you this: what bestows status in our society?… What ensures you get respect?” “An SUV!” “Naw, Cadillac!” “Porsche!” “Tattoos!” “Home runs!” “AK-47!” “Ivy League.”

  “Good suggestions, but what I think it boils down to is money. Money is power, money is privilege. Money buys you clothes and food and shelter. Money buys you security, and that car, or the hotshot education. Money is your ticket to ride in the Western world. Money buys you respect. I’m not saying I agree with it. I don’t, as a matter of fact.” Right-wingers shake their fists; someone yells, “Commie!”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’d rather see a dead capitalist than a dead peasant any day!” Cheers in acknowledgment of Michael Moore reference; boos likewise.

  “But, given the current political climate, money is still the surest route to gaining respect and safety. So what I want to say to you today is: give ’em the money!

  “Make women rich! All of ’em! Give women power, so that nobody dares mess with them anymore. Never mind a ‘room of her own,’ give her dough of her own! It’s payback time!” Cheers and stomping from girls; boos from boys. I get out my wallet and aim some dollar bills at girls in the front row, eliciting shrieks of delight and some scuffles. Pockets of applause elsewhere, pockets of matriarchy. “Hey, can’tcha throw it a bit farther?” “Guy’s a sissy.” “Send some our way, dude!”… Once it dies down a bit, I continue.

  “We had our chance, guys, and we blew it! Men had the run of the whole show for the last five thousand years and look what we did with it. So do something right for a change: hand over the dough!” Girls applauding.

  “What we need is a simple redistribution of assets, from men to women.” “Redistribute my ass!”

  “I realize of course that many of you are just starting out and probably don’t have much money. So start small: give her a dime!” I fling my pocket change into the aisles, causing another scramble; it’s a relief to be rid of it. I also float some more bills, folding them in half this time, lengthwise, and shooting them like paper airplanes so they go further.

  “Give something to a woman or women of your choice—or a charity that helps women. Anything you can afford. Just get into the habit of handing it over, and encourage all the guys you know to do the same. No, don’t just encourage, persuade them to help women instead of hassling them, to endorse women instead of dissing them.” “Yeah, Karl,” jibes some kid at another. “Fuck off!” his pal replies.

  “Tell your father, tell your friends!… I would say, tell the women you know to help other women too… but you know what women are like when you try to tell them what to do!” Cheap joke but effective: laughter; applause. I’m a natural!

  “By the way, this is not an exchange, guys, it’s not a trade-off. Giving women money doesn’t entitle you to guilt-trip the recipient into sleeping with you or doing your laundry for the rest of her life.” “Aw, shit!” from the floor.

  “Nope. This is a no-strings-attached deal. It’s… a gift. A revolutionary one. Just give them the money, no questions asked. Because, once women are in charge of all the money, all the land, all the property… we can relax, guys! No more male work ethic, no more murders, no more war—I hope. No more violence, if women are in charge, since all violence hurts women. Even if it’s not directed at them, they are the mothers, sisters, wives, and girlfriends of the dead and injured.

  “Oh, I know there are some women you wouldn’t trust with a wooden nickel.” “Yeah, my mom!” “My gramma.” “Mrs. Topola!” “Jane!” “Tamsin!” “That girl’s a witch!” “Slut!”…

  “Yes, there are some mean women out there, scary women, crazy women. But they’d probably all be a lot less cranky if the world was their oyster!” Laughter; a few claps. “Anyway, it’s completely up to you who you choose to give your money to, just as long as you give it to a woman.” “I know who I’d like to give it to!” and other bawdy remarks follow. Small scuffle somewhere near the back.

  “No fighting now!” Laughter. “The beauty of my scheme is that this will be a nonviolent, gradual, peaceful form of revolution, achieved behind the scenes, without chaos and bloodshed. After all, nobody can stop you giving away your dough if you want to.

  “And what’s the worst possible outcome?” A heckler calls out, “No money!” Pause; breathe; let the audience start to wonder if I have an answer to my own question. “That women are happy. Would that be so bad? Are we so attached to self-destruction, misogyny, and the vainglory of killing, that we can’t even consider a change?” I’m losing them—time for a slam-bam finish. “And here’s what’s in it for you, guys… ” “TV dinners!” “More chores.” “Chick flicks!”

  “Nope… ” Dramatic pause. “sex. Sensational sex!” Gasps and coughs behind me; exclamations from parents.

  “The fact is, our whole society’s got things ass-backward. We’ve got Chewing Gum where Virtue should be!” Laughter. “… And men where women should be.

  “Men are confused about what sex is for, because nobody ever told us the truth:… sex is for women!” Giggles; boos; a few claps.

  “Men are always talking about their own sexual needs. Our movies, our books, are all about men’s needs. This is beside the point! Because, here’s the dope, kids: women are not here to please men, men are here to please women. That’s how it works in nature! Males court the females, they protect them—and they try to please them.” More boos from the back; cheers from the front. Somebody groans, “Aw, come off it!”

  “This is what men are physically and biologically designed to do: give pleasure to women… And we’d better start soon!” Laughter; cheers. “Men should be the sex slaves! They’d love it!” Stomping; cheering; wolf whistles. “Woo-hooo!” “Yeah, baby!” Standing ovation among some of the girls.

  “The female orgasm is one of evolution’s greatest achievements! Male orgasms are nothing by comparison.” “Ew!” “Oh my god!” “Yes, I said it. I said it!” Laughter in appreciation of Chris Rock echo.

  “Nurture the female orgasm, guys!” Hilarity; stamping of feet.

  “In other words, ladies and gentlemen, we could all be having a great time in the sack!” Cries of moral outrage from the School Board.

  “So let’s stop bullying, bludgeoning and boring women to death. Let’s bed them instead!” “You said it, man!” “Yes, sir!” “Pleasuring women is your new job. ours not to reason why, ours but to do her or die!” Uproar.

  “Change the world! Give women your spare change!… Thank you.”

  Pandemonium. The Principal and his acolytes probably would have slept through any amount of bombast, nostalgia, vitriol, and racing tips—but one mention of orgasms and all hell broke loose. I was dragged away, still speaking, like some washed-up vaudevillian getting the hook. One at each elbow, others prodding me from behind, gowned geezers jostled me toward the steps at the side of the stage.

  “This is just what I was talking about!” I yelled to my beaming, screaming supporters below. “Physical force! That’s their answer to everything… ”

  I could see young men rolling in the aisles—not from amusement but because they’d gotten tangled up in their gowns on their way to pulverize me. They needn’t have bothered: the School Board was handling the matter personally. I tried to cling onto the Principal’s neck—if I was going down, I’d take him with me. But I lost my grip and found myself on the floor, enclosed by a fence of old farts’ legs and asses. Threats of lawsuits and civil action were mooted on both sides.

  And then I had the most astonishing feeling of being lifted up like a newborn babe, torn from my strange man-cave and lovingly—if kind of hurriedly—jolted toward the light. A wave of women had snatched me away from my enemies, and now triumphantly bore me on their shoulders out of the building!

  Once deposited on the front lawn, I was showered with praise, beers, hugs, kisses, veneration, and raunchy propositions. People wanted me to sign their programs, and the back of their hands, their legs… Hot dogs ar
rived from somewhere, and I think somebody started playing the guitar. It was wild, wild stuff.

  Then, faintly, over the tumult, came a high clear note like a duckling’s call—“Ee-ee-ee-ee!”—only longer. A very high-pitched sound, like a whistle… Mimi’s kind of whistle! She’d come after all, to hear me speak! And now I could see her making her way to me through the crowd, her face pink from crying. I grabbed her by the hand, and then the waist, and held her close to me, while the friendly crowd continued to besiege us.

  “Can I have your autograph?” asked a stray adherent of mine, offering me her high-school diploma to sign.

  “Sure,” I said, without letting go of Mimi for a second.

  After I’d signed it for her, the girl just stood there gaping at me. Finally she asked, “What’s your revolution called?”

  On impulse, I answered, “The Odalisque Revolution.”

  “The Ode o’ what… ?!”

  “Odalisque,” I said, with growing certainty, clasping Mimi to my side. The girl rushed off to spread the word—giving me a chance to ask Mimi what she thought of my speech.

  “It was okay, I guess,” she said, smiling. “Bit too much jargon.” (A mischievous reference to my criticisms of her book at Kelley & Ping, all those months, or moons, ago.) “I told you you could do it!” she added.

  “Ah, Mimi… ”

  She stopped smiling, drew back a bit, and said, “I’m so sorry about Bee. I didn’t know!”

  I nodded. And then she put her arms around me and planted a big hot one on my lips, in front of the whole school!

  “Wooo-hooooooo!”

  The place erupted. People were spraying beer in the air and throwing their graduation gowns into the trees. And chants of “The Odalisque Revolution! The Odalisque Revolution!” rang out across the lawn.

  LABOR DAY

  “There’s nothing in the whole world except us,” says Bette Davis to Paul Henreid in Deception. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Paul agrees.