Stand Up, Speak Out Fall 2020

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Monologues Exhibit

click on the playlist carat to review, select and play any of the 9 monologue videos

Thtr 296 Introduction to Playwriting (Prof Kenny Finkle) + Comm 300 (Prof Erin Greenwell) Monologue + Film Teams
Inspired from associative writing from SOC 330 Great Social Thinkers

to read full monologues, scroll below


Bad Witch
playwright - Maddie Heeney
performed by - Teo Occhino
dir - Jazzelle Bustos

Evening Prayers
playwright -Frankie Kavavich
performed by -Bren Fitz
dir - Michelle Lozano

Normal
playwright - Spencer Senzon
performed by - Allison Lind
dir - Clayton Favor

Hair
playwright- Karina Strom
performed by - Livie Hamilton
dir - Clara Battle

Never Trust A Superhero
playwright - Sophie Nolan
performed by-Lindsey Smith
dir- Alan McKenzie

Alone Atlas
playwright -Jordan Ruttert
performed by- Thomas Johnson
dir - Leneve Mellow

Lonely in Pink
playwright - Molly Cavett
performed by - Candaceia Charles
dir - Amanda Cuadrado

Monsters
playwright - Alice Moye Honeyman
performed by - Nyesha Mccormick
dir - Alpha Diallo

Untitled
playwright - Rebekah Farris
performed by - Rebekah Farris
dir - Stephanie Miles

Full Monologues

Bad Witch

The first time I ever wore a dress in public was on Halloween.
I was four.
My mom fixed that pointed black hat on my head and I could feel
myself grow taller.
My stance became more balanced - stronger.
I felt royal.
I don’t know where I learned that boys wear pants and girls wear
dresses.
That clothing was gendered.
Maybe TV. Probably school.
It was just one of those things that every kid hears from an
early age.
I had a hard time listening as a kid.
My parents were good listeners.
You know - I always thought the Wicked Witch got the short end
of the stick.
I’ll say it.
She looked different. So what?
And she was angry that some Kansas hick killed her sister.
I’d be PISSED too!
While trick-or-treating I was nervous. Why did I have to be
nervous?
Boys were dressed as Batman. Girls were dressed as princesses.
I had never worn a dress outside the comfort of my house.
First stop was our neighbors.
A woman answered the door with candy.
When she saw me in my dress and smiled.
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
That was the only question she asked.
“Bad! I’ll drop a house on you,” I answered.
She saw me in my dress and didn’t think twice.
I could wear anything.

Evening Prayers

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name… My Lord, please, please drain these sinful thoughts from my skull. I can feel them sloshing around now, ideas and images and… I never asked for this knowledge-- the knowledge that maybe I’m not as happy as I thought, the knowledge that there may be a cure for me, this understanding of the colors between pink and blue.

Mother Mary and Joseph, please, strip away these feelings! I…Wish to carve out my chest and present my breasts for the slaughter. I know they are mine but they do not belong to me, they have never belonged to me. Maybe once upon a time, I wanted them, like a child might want a toy they were denied, a want just because it felt right to want. Now when I see them on my vessel I only feel the need to retch. I’m sorry.

The body You have given me should be enough to suffice, but I’m starving. I’m not in the right skin. To think God could make such a mistake but, but that must be it! You made me wrong! And I wish I knew that before I dedicated my life to you, but now… My life is crumbling. And I’m starving. I’m ready for a change.

Normal

We were never normal. I can tell you that for certain. Everyone looks at us through a cookie cutter lens and just expects us to be normal. Nothing in my life was normal. From a young age I saw my family falling apart. I was told it wasn’t because of me, but I knew that part of it was.

I was a 9/11 baby. Conceived after my father saw the jumpers, and the bodies, and the ashes, and the rubble. My mom told me he was never the same after that day. Something in him broke. So he missed out on all of my mothers affairs. Dr Lipman, Scott, Rich. My Mom says my dad's an addict, and she had to get out. It was the only way for her to not feel like she was drowning. My siblings and were in the fallout path. The fighting, the neglect, the separation, it all takes a toll on a child.

There was this one really bad fight. I remember it vividly. It was a long island winter (sad, depressing, cold as fuck, you know…hell) my parents got in a huge fight as we were coming home from dinner. Screaming at each other coming up the front stoop. There was a fresh packing of snow on the ground. I think they were fighting about money? Maybe work? I dont know.

All I remember is my dad pushing me off the stoop, and falling into the snow. I lied there, freezing, shocked, as the front door shuts. They forgot about me. They left me there in the snow. I got up out of the snow. Walked inside to see my two older siblings hiding in the corner. I walked over and sat with them. I cried with them. what else can you do in that situation? The police were called. CPS was called. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same. Do you think that was normal?

Hair

I always thought lesbians had to have short hair. It seems silly, now, I know, but I was sure one's desired hair length came first, and sexual identity would simply follow. I grew up happily brushing my long, blonde hair into ponytails, ballerina buns, curls, or clips. My hair made me feel like a girl, and later a woman, and though I was off put by male attention, I adored every second of that feeling. My femininity was precious to me and I took pride in it. I looked at my friend’s mothers, the only lesbians I knew, at their closely shaved heads, and figured since I didn’t look like them, I was ‘safe.’ I couldn’t be gay. Phew!

But when I was 15, I saw them. Two older girls from school, in softball uniforms... kissing. I stared, unable to process. They both had long, straight blonde hair like mine. That couldn’t be right. I stopped in the middle of the school hallway, my breathing shallow, and turned to my friend.

“Wait a second, is Rebecca… a lesbian ?” I whispered.
My friend just laughed, “Yeah, why are you whispering?”
“I-- I just wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“How come?”

I couldn’t answer her. How ridiculous would I have sounded if I would’ve said, “her hair”? All I could think was: That’s me. I’m them. I want that .I understand now. The rules logic I had used to protect myself for years were shattered, and the two precious circles that held “feminity” and “lesbian” were overlapping in a terrifying and exciting venn diagram, where I suddenly stood in the middle, alone.

Never Trust A Superhero

He was my superhero. It sounds cheesy, yeah… but that is what he was.

Superman, Batman, whoever the fuck comes to your mind when I say the word:
Superhero . But he didn’t save me… no. He fucking ruined me.

I feel like your Dad is supposed to be your number one fan, your support system,
maybe even your safe haven. Is that what your Dad is like for you? Tell me… what is
your Dad to you? Right… right, exactly. That’s what he was for me too. Then he was
gone. Packed up his goddamn shit one day and got the fuck out. Not even got out, he
literally moved halfway across the globe.

So, most people’s parents get divorced, then move pretty close to them. At the most, 1 or 2 hours away from the other parent’s house. Right? I’m not making that up, most divorced adults with children live genuinely close to them, right? Fuck that. Literally fuck that.

No. You know what, I shouldn’t say that. Do you know why? Because that’s what I
want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Literally all I have ever wanted. I honestly could not
think of anything I have ever wanted more than that.

That’s not much to ask… to see your Dad regularly, or at least even once in a
while. Yeah, did you know that? I never saw mine again. Haven’t seen him since he
moved out. He showed his true colors then, I think. I guess I was too young to see it, but
those colors really exploded when he left. Not so much when he left, I guess… when he
never came back. Yeah- it was when he never came back.

I guess what I’m trying to say is… cape or not, never trust a superhero. They can only save you for so long. You need to learn how to save yourself. At least, that’s what I did.

Alone Atlas

As I lie in bed at night, I begin to feel the weight of loneliness sinking in. I am all of a sudden struck by a wave of emotions that I cannot explain. I have never been one to share my soul with others. I suppose that tears tend to creep up on me when I least expect it. Like a predator waiting to pounce at its prey when they are at their most vulnerable point, I am now at the mercy of my emotions. Although I often embrace loneliness with open arms, there comes the moment when I crave connection. I seek a specific type of friendship. The guidelines of which are inexplicable, even to myself. When I meet someone for the first time, I can tell within the first five minutes of a conversation if that person and I connect. It is an instant gut feeling that never steered me wrong. This isn't to say that I can't be friends with someone otherwise, but everyone has their people. Being particular about friendships, however, can be a dangerous game. You spend many nights alone, in my case, watching friends re-runs and wishing that you had another soul with whom to share the experience. Some might think that being "picky" is admirable. There is nothing wrong with having a clear-cut understanding of the character traits you value most in a friend. It lessens the percentage of disappointment if you can spot a person's true colors early on. Others might think I push people away. There is some truth to that as well. I try so hard to make good and responsible choices. When others go out partying, I stay in and study. When people get together for lunch or dinner, I am often taking dance classes to perfect my craft. Am I missing out on life? I have always believed that I have a greater purpose; that being destined for big things comes at a price, and that the result would somehow justify the means. Although I do not regret the decisions I have made, As I lie here contemplating the uncertainty of life itself, I begin to wonder if the cost will be greater than the reward.

Lonely in Pink

So I was this really weird kid in elementary school, partly because I didn’t care what anybody thought of me. I was perfectly content skipping about the yard wearing my cowboy boots and overalls or a pink rhinestone dress, singing a somewhat shrill tune, and laughing too loudly. I was friendly with everybody – and so I assumed everybody would be friendly back. So I didn’t really understand why people started talking about me behind their back. When I never got Valentine’s day cards. When a boy teased me with a ruler and a death threat – I just didn’t know why. It didn’t bug me at first – I thought it was their problem, but then it began to, like a poison I didn’t know was injected into my veins. I wanted to stop crying in the bathroom during lunch, but I didn’t want to stop being who I was. And I think that’s probably why, even after I stopped wearing dresses, and raving to anyone who would listen about Follies or The Princess Bride, I still felt like the odd one out. I admit that I kind of used this as my “trauma card” for a long time, too. And that I became so overly self-confident and yet so insecure at the same time. So was I shaped by my elementary school years? I’m not sure. Sure seems like it.

Monsters

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been collecting monsters in my head. It’s never been
intentional.
And I wish I could turn it off.
I see a monster, and that’s all it takes. It then lives in my head forever, from that point on,
visiting again and again during dreams and daytime, lurking around the corner, speaking to me from inside my mind.
When I was a kid, I thought they would go away. Grown up people aren’t scared of monsters.
Being grown is the cure to uncertainty and fear, right?
I’m not sure exactly when I realized none of this was true. Everyone goes through it at some
point, realizing that adulthood isn’t some magic bullet that solves all of those problems and
hardships of youth. It doesn’t make the monsters go away.
They just change shape. They’re even scarier now, because back then, I convinced myself they weren’t real, that they were just symptoms of the overactive, flawed imagination of a child.
Now, there are monsters inside and outside of my brain, fully realized demons who inflict terror
on the world, motivated by selfish bloodlust and greed.
And the worst part is, you can’t even tell a monster from a person, because they’re all wearing human skin.

Untitled
I was at a bible study. I was 13. I was a proud “ally,” to the LGBT community, still years away from accepting my place in it.
I don’t remember the first time I went to church, but I know it was before I could walk or talk.
Probably before I could think. I remember glimpses of toddlerhood at church. The playground.
Collecting acorns on Sunday mornings in the fall. Animal crackers dispersed on paper towels at snack time, puppet shows telling bible stories. I repeated the Lord’s name a hundred thousand times before I understood the weight of it on my tongue. I could recite John 3:16
(forgodsolovedtheworldthathegavehisoneandonlysonsothatwhoeverbelievesinhimshallnotperishbuthaveeternallife) before I could spell my middle name (Elizabeth).
It was the last bible study I went to voluntarily and the first one I left crying. I don’t even
remember how the topic of “homosexuality” came up, but I knew I entered the conversation with no small degree of confidence. I’d prepped. Read a few articles. I was absolutely certain I could get the entire room on my side.
I learned a lot that day. First of all, it doesn’t matter how many articles you’ve read if your
audience doesn’t want to listen to you. Second of all, the love of the Church I was raised by was not unconditional, like I always thought. It was actually very easy to lose. I just had to be gay.
I don’t want to talk about the confrontation. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to give
those people my energy. I was a sobbing 13 year old. They were adults. I don’t care how firmly they believed that all gay people go to Hell. They didn’t have a right to humiliate me like that. They didn’t have a right to take away the sense of safety I always used to feel under the cross.