NewWitch Voices: Warrior Marks
by Megan Devine

Let's get this out in the open, right up front: I have a piercing. A genital piercing, specifically; a clitoral hood piercing to localize further. Some people are understandably freaked out by this information. Few have actually seen it, and some, when it's described to them, turn pale and change the subject. Many ask, "Why on earth would you do such a thing to yourself?" Even my most stalwart feminist friends object, turning their faces away, expressions of imagined pain contorting their features.

Why, indeed.

In my twenties, I'd cried, raged, written and created through my own stories of sexual oppression and violation. I also had worked with domestic violence survivors, teen parents, runaway girls, and children trading sex for housing and food. Getting ready to leave this tumultuous decade behind, I was just finishing up a two-year adventure educating high school and college students on sexual violence.

One day, as I was just turning thirty, I woke up wanting It. I developed a visceral, pulsating need for It. I had to have this piercing, and I had to have it now.

Many have genital piercings to enhance sexual pleasure-but from the outset, I had different reasons. I wanted a genital piercing to express my connection with the women of the world. It would be a mark of solidarity, an act of rebellion, a sign of my own fierce love for my body, a deep abiding joy in my own power-a reminder of the power of women. By turning my eyes to my own wounding, and working to help others, I won my body back from a lifetime of shame and repression. To come to this place of knowing my own power, of celebrating my power, humbled me. It is a privilege to be born in this time and place: through education, fate and country of origin, I had the opportunity to inspect and name my violations, the opportunity to claim my power as a sexual being, as a powerful being, as a being of wisdom, strength, and beauty. It was a long and wrenching road, but one I had been allowed to take. My sisters around the world are not always so fortunate.

I have never been able to pretend, even in my own phases of happiness, that hideous things aren't happening to women and girls every hour of every day. Mutilation of female genitals in the name of religion, ownership, and purity is practiced in many African nations. Sexual trafficking in women and girls is prevalent in developing countries. In the United States, it is far more common to meet survivors of incest, sexual abuse, and rape than those who have never experienced such violation. I have never been able to close my eyes to these images.

I can choose, to a comparatively large extent, what happens to my flesh. While sexual abuse and assault still occur in disgusting numbers in my country, the "secret" is out: education, support, and outrage topple historical silence. My generation has blossomed in the soil of the early feminist movement; by virtue of my age, I am not constrained by a life of denied dreams and narrow, limiting roles. I have been gifted with so much. My piercing would be a mark of solidarity with the women of the world who could not make these claims. It would make me remember my privilege.

I sought out the most reputable piercing studio on the East coast. A few weeks before my birthday, my partner and I drove to Boston for my appointment. The piercing itself was horrible. The pain was wall-bending, searing; I could neither stand the touch of my partner's hand nor loosen my death grip on it. And then it was over. Two minutes, tops. After a brief recovery, I was back out on the streets, feeling high and powerful and more than a little amazed at myself. In the car, I propped my feet up on the dashboard and inspected my jewels in the mirror. I grinned at myself, proud of my beauty, thankful for the path that had taken me here. For the women of the world who could not, I celebrated my sexuality, my strength, and my passionate power.

It has been several years since that day. Days go by without my consciously seeing the sliver of metal set in a thin piece of flesh. But I do remember. When I buy a new piece of jewelry, I always share where it's going - and why. I do it to alert people to the realities of being a woman in this world of violence and subjugation.
I have this piercing because, unlike many women, I live in a time and a place where to claim power over my own body is not a crime. I do this because every time I introduce a new lover to my body, I am reminded of my sisters. I never want to forget the power and privilege of being a free woman. I do this for the women of the world: I humbly share with this claim to power I have made in my own life. The world is small. What happens to one, happens to all of us. I am she as she is me. What is claimed for the individual is claimed for the whole. With this piercing, I claim in radiance what is taken from her by force. I am blessed with eyes that never close.

Megan Devine is a counselor, writer, flower essence practitioner and priestess. You may reach her at mmdevine@peacemail.com