Once upon a time in the not so distant past, we had a feminist utopia in Santa Cruz, known as the Herland Women’s Book-Cafe. Fierce babes with tattoos conjured up amazing vegan feasts named after various Goddesses, such as the Ukimochi sandwich, Xena’s Nachos, and Hippy KoolLady. Named after the book written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman in 1915, Herland was filled with stories, songs, and images that celebrated the Divine Feminine, in all of her glorious genders, colors, shapes, and sizes. Here was a place to discover community, to feel empowered, and to dream of ancient women who did not apologize.
Ring Ring, “Hello, Herland, this is Kayla.”
“Hi, do you have tickets for, um, you know,” the person mumbles, “That thing, on Friday, the play, er, V-day?”
“Do you mean,” Dramatic breath, “The VAGINA Monologues?”
My day was spent saying that word, and trying to get other people to say it too. I loved that Eve Ensler had brought it so much attention. Not that it is your average American household term yet, but at least you go by the Rio every February and see it on the marquee, I got to put tasteful posters on the front door, and when my friend Julie told her four-year-old that she was going, Sadie just said, “Oh. What’s a monologue?”
Each week I would call in my weekly book order using the ISBN number, and the
operator was supposed to confirm the title. They would not say the word lesbian, conveniently mispronounce Herland as Heartland, and instead of Amulets of the Goddess, pronounced the title as Omelettes of the Goddess. They certainly would not say the V-word. One simply blushingly responded, “Oh! The Virginia Monologues”.
Seven years earlier, during college, after many a women’s studies course ripping apart Freud, attending rallies, organizing marches, being on hotlines, and singing my lungs out at anti-apartheid protests, I realized something. I was tired. Burnt out. Yes, I was outraged, but I felt the anger was not sustainable. Walking into Golden Threads Bookstore in New Haven that fall day was the breath of fresh air. Here was celebration, acceptance, sanctuary. And so I decided to open my own bookstore.
Herland was beautiful, a temple. Clean, well lit, organized. Pine bookcases that my business partner and I had handcrafted with her father. Lavender walls with deep plum carpets. Lace in the windows and plush green plants. People would come to find safe haven from the chaos of their own lives. Then there was the inventory: Stories to empower girls to become scientists. Tiny menstrual goddesses to celebrate a first period. Music from our local women’s drumming circle. Handmade batiks of Pele, Yemaya, Baba Yaga. Books on fertility. Everything from puberty to pregnancy to perimenopause.
Ring Ring “Hello, will you sell my ceramic vaginas?”
Ceramic vaginas! I loved having my garden of earthly delights on the shelves, complete with glazed, embellished, or natural - for that paint your own experience, you know, little flames, maybe pastoral, your astrology chart... And now, do I put our latest sculptures in the front window display? I mean just once, I wanted to hear someone sing, “How much is the vagina in the window...”
Then the PC police would come in and say, “They are not vaginas, they are vulvas.” Which reminds me, when I went to the Michigan Women's Music Festival with my mother quite a few years back, a rather handsome woman comes up to us in the parking lot and says to her, “I really like your VOLVO”.
Growing up my parents referred to my “pippilina”. I had one friend who called it her hoo-hoo. Imagine bumper stickers that said, “Do you Hoohoo?” instead of “Do you Yahoo?” This was the time when Oprah introduced us to her vajayjay. Personally, I like the Sanskrit word yoni. In my mind I would refer to the store as Yoni Central, Yoni-a-Rama, or Yonis ‘R ‘ Us.
After 6 years, the Santa Cruz Women’s Health Center bought our building, I closed the cafe and moved closer to Pacific Avenue in downtown Santa Cruz. Our prime location had big glass picture windows, and I often felt really exposed - here was life in the zoo, “Why, look honey, there’s a lesbian in her natural habitat!”
Little kids would see the our toy rocking Harley Davidson motorcycle and run in, but once their parents would see the words “Feminist Mysteries and SciFi”, they’d shoo their offspring out. And what day would be complete without the inevitable question: “Are men allowed in here?” And my standard answer, “Are women allowed inside the Men’s Warehouse?”
We started by focusing on women’s issues, but over twelve years feminism changed, concepts of gender changed, and indeed, half my staff began transitioning. Our new motto became, “Gender, shmender, put it all in the blender.” The point was, you didn’t need have to have one a yoni, you just needed to be yoni friendly, willing to celebrate your body, celebrate your sexuality. We celebrated it all at Herland. What I was really interested in was a vagina dialog.
Herland opened as a women’s bookstore because back then you couldn’t find queer books in the chains, let alone pride flags or political bumper stickers. Suddenly, they recognized the market potential. Borders Books moved in, Amazon became a threat, 9/11 happened, and independent bookstores folded like cards across the county. Including mine. Quite simply, I was not making it as a single mom. I put the store on the market, applied for schools and went from retail therapy to hypnotherapy.
