My Own Theory of Devolution (Jessica Zafra) secrets to people you just met two hours ago.

You stop
You’ve heard of the theory of evolution; if you haven’t, talking, and you start speechifying. You get pompous.
there is a serious gap in your education. There was a major Eventually you stop making sense. A sure sign that you’ve
fuss when Darwin came out with it in the last century. In this developed to the POLITICIAN level, a stage closely related to
century, even evolution remained controversial in a little reptiles, particularly crocodiles (buwaya). It is here that you
town in America, a teacher was put on trial for mentioning are at your most obnoxious.
it to his students. Apparently, their mommies and daddies
were not pleased to hear that they were distantly related to Fortunately, the politician stage passes, although the
the apes. Mercifully, the apes were unable to express their duration varies from person to person. Some verbose types
opinion. can go on for hours, in which case it is necessary to force –
feed them some bucks through food old honest blackmail.
But let’s not go into that. In fact, let’s talk about the exact
opposite of evolution; that is, devolution. If evolving means You keep on drinking, and the alcohol content of your blood
moving up to a “higher” life form, devolving means continues to rise. Your brains are getting pickled. If you
deteriorating to a “lower” life form. should insist upon driving yourself home, you will make
things really easy for the mortuary people. They wouldn’t
See, I have this theory about alcohol. The more you drink, have to embalm you anymore, they can just stick you in a jar
the lower you go down the evolutionary ladder. When you and put you under bright lights for your grieving relatives.
start swigging the vodka for the poison of your choice, You can’t even crawl anymore, so in your warped state of
you’re recognizably human. A few shots later, the change mind, you attempt to swim on the floor. This is either the
begins. Sammy the Sperm phase in which you regress to the time
you were racing several thousand other sperm cells to reach
Your vision blurs. The room appears to be shining. Slowly, at that egg, or the FISH phase, fish being lower down the food
first, then you feel like you’re inside a blender with some chain.
oranges and ice. Your face feels lopsided, and you ask your
drinking companions if one side of your face is larger than Soon your body refuses to take any more pickling, and goes
the other. And when you have to go to the bathroom, to sleep on you. You pass out on whatever surface you
walking upright makes you nauseous. You sort of slouch happen to be on. Hopefully, you land on a surface that is not
over with your arms down to your knees and do an ape – conducive to pneumonia. (This is why you must make sure
like shuffle... and that’s when you’ve gone APE. Monkey. friends are present when you drink. If you get smashed, you
Simian. You’ve just rejoined our distant relative. can be reasonably sure they won’t leave you on the street
to get run over by a truck). When you’ve lost consciousness,
But you don’t stop drinking no no no. What, and be a you’ve gone as far down the evolutionary ladder as you can.
spoilsport? You go on swilling the drink of depressed You’re not even a living organism anymore, you’re a ROCK.
Russians, the stuff they imbibe because it takes a long to line
up for Cakes. Soon, you can’t even stay on your feet The next morning the process of evolution starts up again.
anymore. Your legs turn into vestigial appendages (meaning You wake up, and you ask, “How did I get here? Where am
they’re there. But you can’t use them). And if you have to I? What’s your name?” Your mouth tastes like toxic waste,
travel to another part of the room, you crawl over. You battery acid, or something you forgot to put in the
slither on your hands and stomach. You even make a refrigerator that developed green spots. Your head is being
crashing noise that resembles hissing. Bingo. You’re in the bludgeoned at regular intervals with an invisible bag of shot.
REPTILE stage.
You mouth vile things – You’re a politician. You crawl toward
If you’re the talkative, hyperverbal sort, you will find that the bathroom – you’re a reptile. You stand on your legs to
imbibing alcohol not only loosens your tongue, but charges reach the sink – you’re a monkey. You throw up, and
it electrically. First there is a noticeable rise in the volume of between heaves, you swear never to touch the Vodka from
your voice. Soon, you’ve got a built – in megaphone. Not Hell again. You’re making resolutions you know you won’t
only do you insult your friends in a voice that carries all the keep. Congratulations. You’re human again.
way to the next block, but you also reveal your darkest
 Confessions of a Secret Muslim Living as a fraud is exhausting. It’s exhausting to your mind,
For 12 years, I hid my true identity from friends. I escaped body and soul. It seemed like people asked me most about
discrimination – but I began to hate myself my faith when I kept it a secret. My father taught me how
I didn’t pray much as a child. Sometimes I would copy my to reply:
grandmother as she prayed toward Mecca. I remember the “What do you say when someone asks what is your
ritual: bow down, come back up, bow down, looking to both religion?” asked my dad.
sides while twirling my right fingers. Then she would pick me “That there is no god but God,” I replied.
up with a sheet tied around her waist and carry me over to “Nooooo,” with his elongated gasp of disapproval, “you say
the neighborhood park, where we would lie down in the that you are seeking the truth.”
grass. This is all a dream to me now. A time when an elderly Strangely enough, inside our house, the opposite was
woman with a hijab and her granddaughter wouldn’t get happening. With persecutions of Muslim-Americans at an
stared at for being a Muslim. all-time high, my father pushed our family to learn more
Back then, I felt like an ordinary child. Ours wasn't a religious about our faith. My parents never missed a single day of
family, besides celebrating Eid-al-Fitr and Ramadan. prayer. I would wake up in the middle of the night and go
“Muslim” wasn’t my identity. It was my faith. I was an downstairs for a glass of water only to hear the booming
American. voice of the Qu’ran over our Bose stereo. My parents
But my identity crumbled when the Twin Towers fell. I was started playing it on a loop to protect us from any hardship
8 years old, in third grade, and I was as frantic as any kid or “evil,” and they still do it to this day.
would be that day, trying to understand why so many But hiding like this comes at a great cost. I didn’t have close
children had to lose their mothers and fathers. I couldn’t friends, because I feared discovery and didn’t think anyone
imagine their pain. could ever understand. Elementary school had taught me
"You're a terrorist!" said my best friend in the hallways of the cost of exposure. I could not trust anyone with my
our elementary school, pointing at me, his innocent eyes deepest, darkest secret.
turned menacing. I couldn’t believe it. But this was the start I was a freshman in college when I first came close to being
of a new life for me. discovered. My friends and I were about to order late-night
That year was hell. Friends distanced themselves. Teachers pizza.
became mean. Such alienation was normal for me and "Hey Sarah, you want a slice of pepperoni?" said my friend.
surely millions of Muslims worldwide in those years. Fearing "Nah, I'm good. Thanks, though," I said.
discrimination and violent attacks, my family changed our "Wait, you don't eat pork?" he asked.
last name. “Harvard” was a slice of Americana; a far cry from I tried to cover my tracks. "Nah, I just don't like it.”
our original surname. My parents wanted to protect my "Wait, are you a Muslim?"
sister and me, but elementary school teachers and kids I panicked. I didn't know what to do. Should I finally embrace
knew exactly what had happened, and our situation only it? Would I lose my friends over this? Why can't I just let it
became worse. In my silence, lies continued to grow. go? All those thoughts were rushing through my head.
In sixth grade, a teaching assistant gathered all the students Luckily, the conversation was hijacked by some loud drunk
around the classroom for the last lesson of the day. "Islam running through the hallways. Crisis averted.
is an evil religion. Muslims all around the world kill innocent, Fast-forward to the summer of 2013 when I had a
non-Muslim people," she said. "In their holy book, they said journalism internship in Washington D.C. I was excited to be
that all good Muslim children must kill kids like you." working in the same city as the White House, amid the
I wanted to say something. I wanted to speak out, because I action of the nation's capital. And it was going great, until I
knew that wasn't true. I wanted to tell her that I would never realized the journalism industry wasn't exempt from
hurt my best friends or any living thing, and that there are outdated bigotry. We were discussing a potential story
more than a billion Muslims who are loving and kind. about the rise of Mormonism one day, and I was alarmed to
But I had no power. I was a child, a Muslim one, and she was hear the typical uneducated jokes from staffers about
an adult with authority. What voice did I have? polygamy and bountiful offspring. I was trying to set the
That year I moved to a new school about an hour away. It record straight, when someone mentioned Islam.
was the perfect opportunity to start over and pretend to be Another intern looked right at me and said, "Well, I would
somebody I was not. I completely disregarded my faith rather Muslims didn't reproduce."
publicly as a Muslim -- and my real life undercover began.
That wasn’t the only time. When discussions came up about continued injustices against Muslim-Americans by the
social justice and the Middle East, I often heard that old Transportation Security Administration goes on every single
toss-off -- "Oh, Muslims cause all the problems in the day, and I have said nothing. The cowardice that steered 12
world.” It made me so uncomfortable; I never went to years of my life could not let me sleep at night.
parties or social events hosted by the publication. I was disappointed by a few friends’ reactions. One raised
Meanwhile, I began to feel like more of a coward for failing his eyebrows in a way that expressed his silent disapproval.
to embrace who I was. My family told me to hush and stay Another said, “It’s OK. You assimilate, so you’re a cool
quiet when bigotry or false claims about Muslims were Muslim,” as if the millions of other Muslims in the world
made. But I couldn't anymore – it was no longer my nature aren't "cool,” because they choose to remain faithful to
to keep silent. their religion.
For the longest time, I was thankful for my multi-ethnic But I had so many friends who were kind and understanding.
background and Japanese-like physical appearance – no one They didn't think any differently of me. And those are the
would assume I was a Muslim. It allowed me to “pass.” And friendships that remain true.
it kept me shielded from frightened stares and airport And so now, I am proud to say that my name is Sarah. The
security checkpoint probes. But my freedom from direct name I carry is the name of Abraham's first wife and the
discrimination was starting to make me hate myself. mother of Isaac – the descendent of the Hebrews. I am so
Looking in the mirror, I had grown sick of my long round blessed to be able to say that Islam is my religion and that
face, small plump lips and slightly slanted eyes. I was the Qu'ran is my conscience. Therefore, I am proud to stand
disgusted by my Mediterranean golden skin tone, the light up tall and to say loud and clear that I bear witness that
features that set me apart from the stereotypical Muslim. I there is no god but God – And I bear witness that Prophet
hated how I had allowed my thick black locks to flow freely, Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.
never eliciting flashes of anger from a stranger, because I Salaam Alaikum – May peace be with you.
hid my faith by exposing my hair.
I was a cop-out, a sell-out. I became depressed and angry at
myself – I still am – for staying silent while I watched these
injustices occur before me and felt only relief to have
escaped consequence. I never gave consideration to those
who were brave enough to embrace their own Muslim
identity.
Hiding your identity erases your most cherished memories
– as if it’s forbidden or dangerous to remember a time when
you were free to express who you truly were as an
individual. Hiding my identity made me hate myself and
made me feel like an example of all that is wrong with the
world. I had run away from my true self.
One day, I sat on a bus stop in front of the Department of
Homeland Security in Washington, D.C. A Muslim woman
wearing a hijab sat right next to me, and I felt ashamed. This
woman was a true rebel, fighting against the injustices of
society simply by wearing a headscarf that displays her love
for Islam and Allah. And here I was, scared of my own
identity. I couldn’t do it anymore.
So last November, I came out of my Islamic closet via
Facebook. I was tired of hearing criticism about Muslim-
Americans within my friend circle. The accusations that all
Muslim women are oppressed and that they ought to be
liberated from their hijab outraged me. The ongoing raids
and wiretappings at mosques made me fearful for the
elimination of our liberties and freedom of religion. The
 The Good Body deadly self-hatred simply moved into another part of my
by Eve Ensler body.
In the midst of a war in Iraq, in a time of escalating global The Good Body began with me and my particular obsession
terrorism, when civil liberties are disappearing as fast as the with my “imperfect” stomach. I have charted this self-
ozone layer, when one out of three women in the world will hatred, recorded it, tried to follow it back to its source. Here,
be beaten or raped in her lifetime, why write a play about unlike the women in The Vagina Monologues, I am my own
my stomach? victim, my own perpetrator. Of course, the tools of my self-
Maybe because my stomach is one thing I feel I have control victimization have been made readily available. The pattern
over, or maybe because I have hoped that my stomach is of the perfect body has been programmed into me since
something I could get control over. Maybe because I see birth. But whatever the cultural influences and pressures,
how my stomach has come to occupy my attention, I see my preoccupation with my flab, my constant dieting,
how other women’s stomachs or butts or thighs or hair or exercising, worrying, is self-imposed. I pick up the
skin have come to occupy their attention, so that we have magazines. I buy into the ideal. I believe that blond, flat girls
very little left for the war in Iraq—or much else, for that have the secret. What is far more frightening than
matter. When a group of ethnically diverse, economically narcissism is the zeal for self-mutilation that is spreading,
disadvantaged women in the United States was recently infecting the world.
asked about the one thing they would change in their lives I have been to more than forty countries in the last six years.
if they could, the majority of these women said they would I have seen the rampant and insidious poisoning: skin-
lose weight. Maybe I identify with these women because I lightening creams sell as fast as toothpaste in Africa and
have bought into the idea that if my stomach were flat, then Asia; the mothers of eight-year-olds in America remove
I would be good, and I would be safe. I would be protected. their daughters’ ribs so they will not have to worry about
I would be accepted, admired, important, loved. Maybe dieting; five-year-olds in Manhattan do strict asanas so they
because for most of my life I have felt wrong, dirty, guilty, won’t embarrass their parents in public by being chubby;
and bad, and my stomach is the carrier, the pouch for all girls vomit and starve themselves in China and Fiji and
that self-hatred. Maybe because my stomach has become everywhere; Korean women remove Asia from their eyelids.
the repository for my sorrow, my childhood scars, my . . the list goes on and on.
unfulfilled ambition, my unexpressed rage. Like a toxic I have been in a dialogue with my stomach for the past three
dump, it is where the explosive trajectories collide—the years. I have entered my belly—the dark wet underworld—
Judeo-Christian imperative to be good; the patriarchal to get at the secrets there. I have talked with women in
mandate that women be quiet, be less; the consumer-state surgical centers in Beverly Hills; on the sensual beaches of
imperative to be better, which is based on the assumption Rio de Janeiro; in the gyms of Mumbai, New York, Moscow;
that you are born wrong and bad, and that being better in the hectic and crowded beauty salons of Istanbul, South
always involves spending money, lots of money. Maybe Africa, and Rome. Except for a rare few, the women I met
because, as the world rapidly divides into fundamentalist loathed at least one part of their body. There was almost
camps, reductive sound bites, and polarizing platitudes, an always one part that they longed to change, that they had a
exploration of my stomach and the life therein has the medicine cabinet full of products devoted to transforming
potential to shatter these dangerous constraints. or hiding or reducing or straightening or lightening. Just
This journey has been different from the one I undertook about every woman believed that if she could just get that
in The Vagina Monologues. I was worried about vaginas part right, everything else would work out. Of course, it is
when I began that play. I was worried about the shame an endless heartbreaking campaign.
associated with vaginas and I was worried about what was Some of the monologues in The Good Body are based on
happening to vaginas, in the dark. As I talked about vaginas well-known women like Helen Gurley Brown and Isabella
and to vaginas, I became even more worried about the Rossellini. Those monologues, which grew out of a series of
onslaught of violence done to women and their vaginas conversations with each of these fascinating women, are
around the world. not recorded interviews, but interpretations of the lives
There was, of course, the great celebration of vaginasas they offered me. Some of the other characters are based on
well. Pleasure, discovery, sex, moans, power. I suppose I had real lives, real stories. Many are invented.
this fantasy that after finally coming home into my vagina, I This play is my prayer, my attempt to analyze the
could relax, get on with life. This was not the case. The mechanisms of our imprisonment, to break free so that we
may spend more time running the world than running away
from it; so that we may be consumed by the sorrow of the
world rather than consuming to avoid that sorrow and
suffering. This play is an expression of my hope, my desire,
that we will all refuse to be Barbie, that we will say no to the
loss of the particular, whether it be to a voluptuous woman
in a silk sari, or a woman with defining lines of character in
her face, or a distinguishing nose, or olive toned skin, or wild
curly hair.
I am stepping off the capitalist treadmill. I am going to take
a deep breath and find a way to survive not being flat or
perfect. I am inviting you to join me, to stop trying to be
anything, anyone other than who you are. I was moved by
women in Africa who lived close to the earth and didn’t
understand what it meant to not love their body. I was lifted
by older women in India who celebrated their roundness. I
was inspired by Marion Woodman, a great Jungian analyst,
who gave me confidence to trust what I know. She has said
that “instead of transcending ourselves, we must move into
ourselves. “Tell the image makers and magazine sellers and
the plastic surgeons that you are not afraid. That what you
fear the most is the death of imagination and originality and
metaphor and passion. Then be bold and LOVE YOUR BODY.
STOP FIXING IT. It was never broken.