uterine cancer

uterine cancer

Leah Lakshmi in Sins Invalid 2009 part 2

2w ago
SOURCE  

Description

Part 2 of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha's performance in Sins Invalid 2009 at Brava Theater in San Francisco. Transcript below: When I was a little girl growing up in the rust belt town of Worcester, Massachusetts, the river that ran through my hometown was the Blackstone, only it was more of a myth than a river. It was a river no one had ever seen. The people who had come to Worcester to work in the shoe and textile factories, leather and electronics, they knew the Blackstone because it turned the wheels of the mills that made the money for the bosses. But in the seventies the city fathers put the Blackstone in a culvert, and it became a myth, a myth of a pretty woman who had become a monster. The Blackstone had been put to work like our working-class women's bodies, worked and worked to make someone else money, til she was worked to rags, thin and worn through, discarded when her body was too dirty for anyone to want to touch. Entombed in cement, she slowly filled up with poison from all those dyes, all that cement, all those computer chips rinsed with acid. She flowed under the city, and we never saw her sweet hips or her cum rushing green and willowy through our beautiful rust belt empty lot paradise. All we knew was she was fucked up and hidden, locked up someplace where no one would touch her. In 1983, my mother could recite the thirty-three cancer-causing compounds in Worcester water. The city fathers insisted that the water was fresh and clean, but all we knew is you could smell the chlorine thicker than a pool before you turned on the tap. Drinking it, you could feel your cells shrivel, and you knew you were forever fucked, a dirty river girl drinking dirty Worcester water that would make you too sick to even make it out. Working class folks and lower middle class ones like my mama bought bottled water, 29 cents a gallon, and we drank and drank, hoping we would survive not forever scarred. It worked and it didn't. There's only so much bottled water can do. When the wind was blowing from Norton's plant, you wanted to puke at my school, 500 yards away. Every year, a teacher's hair fell out with alopecia, and another teacher got breast or colon cancer. I was 19 when my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer, tentacles touching her uterus and intestines, blooming like algae in a polluted lake. The first girl I kissed grew up in Leominster, where there was a little uranium leak in the 80s. She found out she had cervical and uterine cancer at 28, when she went for her first pap smear in ten uninsured years. And through it all, the fingers of mothers and fathers, touching and whiskey and silence and rage, passed down. All our bodies sick and fucked for no good reason. Just some dumb stories we made up that no one wanted to hear.