The Untaming of the Shrew

CW: Gratuitous swearing (including Renaissance swear words)

Let me set the record straight, first and foremost: No, contrary to what that doddypoll William Shakespeare wrote in his dramatic work, no, I have not been tamed. In fact, if I may clarify, I will never ever be tamed, not then and not now.

(Oh, let me repeat that in a language, a bunch of lines, you understand.)

That’s right. Good ol’ Willy Shakes all played you, shut off the spotlight of the truth about me and illuminated a fabrication in the brightest of ambers and deep cobalt blue. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, what is truly being reborn in the Renaissance is the belief that something that is a matter of happenstance --- being born female --- somehow makes you less. Of course, Willy here got a pass simply because of a piece of flesh dangling between his legs whilst I, some poor unfortunate wench, was to stay in the wings, relegated to a non-speaking part by what would eventually be discovered to be possessing two X chromosomes. If all the world’s a stage, a woman’s story is but a subplot in my world.

…unless I decide to cry it out instead of reducing it to a stage whisper. Look, I’ve heard the word “shrew” so many times, it could fit pages upon pages of scripts; I’m used to it, worry not. I do not mind at all to be allotted as the antagonist, the wicked witch that spouts out curses to demolish the fabric of propriety. I may as well don the black robe and the pointed hat and come out with what truly happened.

Besides, didn’t that coot Willy say “To thine self be true”? Well, what better way to be myself than to tell the truth about me.

(Heh! I quite like that line I wrote for my soliloquy. Nice one, Kate!)

No, it isn’t true that my sister Bianca was itching for me to get married so that she could get courted. Come on now. Do you really think Bianca --- the younger daughter of Lord Baptista Minola, the blonde, sapphire-eyed beauty with an impeccable pedigree declared as The Loveliest Woman in all of Padua every single year since she was the age of 14 (And oh please, I know what you’re insinuating about me and that competition. May you fall from a stage’s trap door!) --- would want to be the sidekick to one of those bumbling cretins trying to win her hand? No way!

It's about time to show under the light that it was actually our father’s principal idea. At the apron of the performance hall of his mind was the reality that he had two daughters and no son. But of course, to him, Bianca and I had already been typecast as wombs to create his heir, so bundling us as a two-for-one deal to hasten that process just makes perfect sense, right? (I know. Disgusting!).

No, it isn’t true that those slime balls Hortensio and Lucentio recruited Petruchio to be my partner. What? Those two scumbags holding some audition for a husband for me? Oh please! They probably can’t even memorise a libretto if it contained only one word, let alone concoct an elaborate production number of a plot.

It’s about time to show under the light that Pete here and I had actually been friends since both of us played on a swing. In fact, it was my idea that he move in from Verona to Padua after his father died. (There’s just been so much bad vibes in his home town since this couple there offed themselves because their parents were sworn enemies. Eek!). However, I won’t be surprised if Pete decided to portray the part of a stranger to toy with those sleazebags and get their cold hard cash. Oh well.

No, it isn’t true that Pete had punished me for being headstrong, for choosing to be the director of my own life, my own thoughts, once we got married. There was no isolation, no sword fighting of hearts happening between us. Like I said, surprise, we’re mates. Do you truly think that after decades of knowing each other, he’d just method act his way to dealing with the tempest of my will? Goodness me! That is so ludicrous, it might as well be conceptualised by someone who calls themselves King of the Fairies.

It's about time to show under the light that Pete did not have to block who I am to get me to listen to him, to cooperate like the cast of some musical. Oh no. If you’re asking what exactly is in his script to make me “docile” (Whatever that means. What’s in a…word?), it’s simply, well, not making me put on a costume of docility. Surprise surprise! The best way to get a wife to follow you is to…follow her at times, to not hush her when she only wants an audience with you. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand about that.

(Seriously, those feeble attempts I’ve seen men make to have their wives submit to them? So tragic. Hahahaha!)

No, it isn’t true that Pete had devised a competition to judge who is the most obedient wife. Do you read that? Not even the maddest dramaturge could come up with something so absurd as the archetypal straight man of a husband I have wagering on something as preposterous as his spouse’s submissiveness. No, the ignoramuses that came up with that ridiculous idea are Hortensio and Lucentio (Oh, but of course!). It’s not surprising at all that these two losers who couldn’t find their way to their box seat if it only had two chairs would set up such a stupid contest.

Oh, and it's about time to show under the light that no, I didn’t win the prize money for “discarding my shrew-like nature”. No, I was crowned champion for…putting on an act. Oh yes! Pete and I had plotted it all, written every line of our deception for me to depict. It worked. Of course, back home, we sneered at just how it was child’s play to fool everyone. Hey, if you don’t want to be made into court jesters, don’t make pointless bets.

Most of all, though, no, it isn’t true that I am but a figment of Shakespeare’s imagination, brought to life by a quill in the late 1500s and staying on a piece of paper. My life doesn’t end when the actors bow for their curtain call.

It’s about time to show under the light that I am still alive and will continue to be. Anytime you see a woman onstage, her right hand outstretched up and her left one on a Bible, as she takes an oath to direct a nation, that is me incarnated. Anytime a bevy of ladies with placards declaring how exhausted they are to constantly be thrust in the role of baby incubators and nothing more, that is me incarnated. Oh, and yes, that Swedish teenager strutting to a podium to exclaim an entire world “How dare you!”, that is definitely me incarnated. I will wear different masks, be as colourful as a harlequin in the number of suits I will wear, but I will already declare this before all of you in this theatre of life: it will always be me.

I am Katherina Minola. You can call me a shrew. I will never be tamed.

P.S.: Really, Willy Boy’s plays are discussed in classrooms all over the globe? That boil! That plague sore! That embossed carbuncle!