Why right-wingers shouldn't stop women saying "vagina"

Let's make a hoohah.

Tender reader, take a seat because I'm going to talk about something upsetting. Maybe "something" is a bit too vague. OK then, it's a fibromuscular tubular tract. Are you with me? What if I tell you it's a part of the female body? A sex organ? Fine, I'll just come out with it: VAGINA.

Still conscious? Then you have a more robust constitution than the Michigan State House, where Democratic Representative Lisa Brown was prevented from speaking after she used the V word in a debate about abortion. I mean, she wasn't just shouting "Vagina!" at the assembled legislature. This was definitely a context-appropriate use of the word.
 
All the same, it was too much for some, including Republican Representative Mike Callton. "It was so offensive, I don't even want to say it in front of women," he spluttered (I didn't hear him say it, but it sounds like the sort of thing that would be spluttered rather than just said). "I would not say that in mixed company." 
 
Of course, Callton was absolutely fine with the "mixed company" in question deciding what should happen to women's bodies – the bill being debated would ban all abortions after 20 weeks, with very limited exemptions where the mother's life is in danger. It was just the act of giving the physiologically accurate names to the parts of women's bodies that went too far for him.
 
The idea that an adult man could be distressed by the word "vagina" is hilarious, and also deeply sinister. Declaring the vagina unspeakable makes women's bodies unthinkable: in Michigan, the argument about reproductive rights proceeds as though the embryo were drifting about independently, rather than being carried within a woman who will have to give birth to and care for the eventual baby whether she wants to or not.
 
The lack of control that women have historically had over our reproductive organs is evident in the difficulty that we still have in naming them. Women are left hesitating between highly specific anatomical terms and The Worst Word In The Word, with a range of florid euphemisms in between. 
 
"Vagina" is a very useful word when you want to talk about the birth canal, but the part of the body you actually see is the lesser-mentioned vulva – that is, the exterior sexual organs including the clitoris. It's an essential distinction to be able to make, but it doesn't necessarily reflect the day-to-day user experience of owning female genitals, where the inside and outside seem like part of the same thing.
 
The V words are also quite formal, making using them a bit like addressing your own body by its surname. If you're potty training a girl toddler, telling her to "wipe her vagina" would be plain inaccurate and confusing, and yet many adults don't know (or aren't comfortable with) with the word "vulva". So instead, parents tend to fall back on euphemism – including the slightly tautological "front bottom". 
 
A bottom is at the bottom of your torso, obviously; saying "front bottom" makes it sound like we've resorted to Escher-ish tricks of perspective in order to conceal our ladybits. There are some colloquial alternatives – I've always quite liked "tuppence", ever since I heard a woman on the tram in Sheffield tell her stroller-bound toddler to "leave your flaming tuppence alone", and "fanny" has a good pedigree. But I still wasn't sure how to introduce my own daughter to her physiology on a friendly basis, so it was a relief when she volunteered the made-up word "nooni". 
 
For adults, the range is even wider – and stranger. There are the terms that imply violence and unease, ones that you'd never use about your own body like "axe wound", "gash" or "hairy clam". None of these are the kind of thing you could say to a lover – but then, the V words don't seem appropriate in that situation either. I'm inclined to agree with the person who told me, "During sex I'll accept 'pussy' but my preference is 'cunt'." 
 
The C-word is perhaps a bit strong for most situations – it's become more widely used in the last decade or so, but I don't remember hearing it until I was 18 (and can recall coming across the Bowdlerization "c***" in the NME and wondering urbanely why they'd starred out so mild a word as "crap"). But once you get used to it, there's something very pleasing about the way it fills the mouth from throat to teeth, and if anyone should get to wield that rhetorical power, I think by rights it ought to be the owner of the item.
 
But whether you've got a foof or a fandando, a growler or a ladygarden (or even an Iron Ladygarden), the important thing is that you're on first-name terms with it. As the Michigan incident tells us, those who want to control women's bodies also want to treat that body as an obscenity. The best answer to people like Mike Callton is simply to say the word: vagina, vagina, vagina.
The idea that an adult man could be distressed by the word "vagina" is hilarious

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.

Steve Garry
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The footie is back. Three weeks in and what have we learned so far?

Barcleys, boots and big names... the Prem is back.

Another season, another reason for making whoopee cushions and giving them to Spurs fans to cheer them up during the long winter afternoons ahead. What have we learned so far?

Big names are vital. Just ask the manager of the Man United shop. The arrival of Schneiderlin and Schweinsteiger has done wonders for the sale of repro tops and they’ve run out of letters. Benedict Cumberbatch, please join Carlisle United. They’re desperate for some extra income.

Beards are still in. The whole Prem is bristling with them, the skinniest, weediest player convinced he’s Andrea Pirlo. Even my young friend and neighbour Ed Miliband has grown a beard, according to his holiday snaps. Sign him.

Boots Not always had my best specs on, but here and abroad I detect a new form of bootee creeping in – slightly higher on the ankle, not heavy-plated as in the old days but very light, probably made from the bums of newborn babies.

Barclays Still driving me mad. Now it’s screaming from the perimeter boards that it’s “Championing the true Spirit of the Game”. What the hell does that mean? Thank God this is its last season as proud sponsor of the Prem.

Pitches Some groundsmen have clearly been on the weeds. How else can you explain the Stoke pitch suddenly having concentric circles, while Southampton and Portsmouth have acquired tartan stripes? Go easy on the mowers, chaps. Footballers find it hard enough to pass in straight lines.

Strips Have you seen the Everton third kit top? Like a cheap market-stall T-shirt, but the colour, my dears, the colour is gorgeous – it’s Thames green. Yes, the very same we painted our front door back in the Seventies. The whole street copied, then le toot middle classes everywhere.

Scott Spedding Which international team do you think he plays for? I switched on the telly to find it was rugby, heard his name and thought, goodo, must be Scotland, come on, Scotland. Turned out to be the England-France game. Hmm, must be a member of that famous Cumbrian family, the Speddings from Mirehouse, where Tennyson imagined King Arthur’s Excalibur coming out the lake. Blow me, Scott Spedding turns out to be a Frenchman. Though he only acquired French citizenship last year, having been born and bred in South Africa. What’s in a name, eh?

Footballers are just so last season. Wayne Rooney and Harry Kane can’t score. The really good ones won’t come here – all we get is the crocks, the elderly, the bench-warmers, yet still we look to them to be our saviour. Oh my God, let’s hope we sign Falcao, he’s a genius, will make all the difference, so prayed all the Man United fans. Hold on: Chelsea fans. I’ve forgotten now where he went. They seek him here, they seek him there, is he alive or on the stairs, who feckin’ cares?

John Stones of Everton – brilliant season so far, now he is a genius, the solution to all of Chelsea’s problems, the heir to John Terry, captain of England for decades. Once he gets out of short trousers and learns to tie his own laces . . .

Managers are the real interest. So refreshing to have three young British managers in the Prem – Alex Neil at Norwich (34), Eddie Howe at Bournemouth (37) and that old hand at Swansea, Garry Monk, (36). Young Master Howe looks like a ball boy. Or a tea boy.

Mourinho is, of course, the main attraction. He has given us the best start to any of his seasons on this planet. Can you ever take your eyes off him? That handsome hooded look, that sarcastic sneer, the imperious hand in the air – and in his hair – all those languages, he’s so clearly brilliant, and yet, like many clever people, often lacking in common sense. How could he come down so heavily on Eva Carneiro, his Chelsea doctor? Just because you’re losing? Yes, José has been the best fun so far – plus Chelsea’s poor start. God, please don’t let him fall out with Abramovich. José, we need you.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism