“It’s the cradle of life, it’s the center of civilization. Over the ages and throughout the world, men have fought for it, battled for it, even died for it,” says the voiceover. “One might say… it’s the most powerful thing on Earth.” Then we’re supposed to show it a little love by slathering it down and soaping it up with Summer’s Eve products.
I hate those commercials.
I appreciate the drama and creativity invested in the advertising. I don’t appreciate the message behind it. Contrary to what Summer’s Eve and some misguided female rappers might be promoting, the power of the vagina isn’t really power at all. If a dude snuffs another guy out — by gun, by slingshot or by swordfight — he had a lot more going on than just being sprung out over some woman’s love canal.
Let’s not flatter ourselves by pretending that normal, completely sane men become killers over what we’ve got going on between our legs. As a matter of fact, The V by itself won’t make a man fall in love. It won’t keep a man faithful. And it won’t make a man stay if he’s ready to move on. Throw it, wind it, back it up if you want… in that context, The V ain’t nothing more than a short-term distraction.
Look down. Go on, look down at your body. Unless medical circumstances have changed its composition, you should have two breasts. Look down a little bit more. There should be a crotch somewhere down there. Some of us have small parts, some of us have big parts, but the fact of the matter is: we all have them in some form or fashion. That can’t be what makes you special. It’s not what makes you worthy. If everybody got one, it can’t be part of your uniqueness.
What makes you special and worthy are your goals, your accomplishments, your contributions, not what’s tucked in the middle of your thighs. Don’t allow yourself to be reduced to The V — or any other body part, for that matter. And shame on Summer’s Eve for even suggesting that it’s our hottest commodity. Even though, honestly, it’s the only part of the female anatomy to which they’re pandering.
There was a time, back in the day, when the power of The V was a woman’s ace up her sleeve, but that’s because it had to be. Before we had a voice, we had our bodies. And sometimes we had to sacrifice them to the cause of keeping our children and our families safe. I think of enslaved women who were forced to submit to the advances of plantation owners so they could keep their babies from being sold off and sometimes make life a little more comfortable for themselves, as comfortable as a life of forced servitude can be. But if they could’ve flexed their moxie in any other sort of way, I’m sure that’s the route they would much rather have taken.
Sometimes it’s exhausting to think about the way we’re compartmentalized as women. I mean, we pick ourselves apart, and if we somehow break the habit of doing it, somebody else will do it for us. After we’ve analyzed Nicki Minaj’s booty and Halle Berry’s breasts and Beyonce’s hips and Jennifer Hudson’s svelte new hips, we’re a sum of all our parts — including a powdery-fresh private area courtesy of Summer’s Eve.
If the V wields any power at all, it’s because the lady attached to it has a wealth of other qualities, internal ones, that make her beautiful and desirable. That’s the real main attraction.