Kerouac’s Grandfather, from Happy Pills, by Alyssa Cokinis

Dedicated to Sayde Hampton

Content warnings: descriptions of end-of-life scenarios, cancer

KEROUAC (nonbinary or female-identifying, 20s): a survivalist traveling the wasteland, origins unknown, fond of the book On the Road, pronouns in the script can be changed to suit the actor’s gender identity

Context: This monologue falls in the middle of the play, where Kerouac and Fern, their naïve but cute drug addict travel companion, have been traveling for weeks in the nuclear wasteland around Appalachia. Fern randomly asks Kerouac about their grandfather, Kerouac having mentioned him before.

KEROUAC
My grandfather was a very kind man. He was my mother’s father. When he saw how she and my dad were… well, let’s just say he didn’t have to take me in, but he did. And I’ll never forget that.

When KEROUAC speaks next, she/they can’t stop her/themself.

KEROUAC
I saw him die. When I was younger and still with my parents, he was very sick—he had been diagnosed with cancer and had been fighting it on and off since I was born. In his remission years, his better years, after he took me in, he’d take me on trips around the country and teach me about the outdoors: how to fish, hunt, make fire, you name it. I guess the reason I’m still alive now after the fallout is because of him. Honestly, I feel like I was living in the fallout before it even happened. I’ve never been comfortable around… people. My grandfather was always very considerate of that.

But he got sick again. And this time, I was a little older, almost out of high school, but even so I didn’t quite understand his mortality. I was there in his bedroom when he passed. Just two hours before he went, I remember him awake and buoyant and joking with me. I thought because of that, everything was going to be all right. But when you die, it’s like you get one last good push from your body before you go on to whatever is ahead. And that was his push, so when he passed, it threw me off guard. And after he was gone, there was no point in sticking around. So I left. My travels are a tribute to him as much as they are a way for me to keep going despite it all, you know? In a weird way, I’m really glad for the fallout… gives me a better excuse to do what I do.

**A version of this monologue was published in Monologues by LGBTQIA+ Writers for LGBTQIA+ Actors (some scripts, 2023).

Contact the playwright for further context or production rights inquiries: alyssacokinis (at) gmail (dot) com

Lee, by Haz Cady

LEE (he/him or they/them)

I like the idea of period positivity, I really do. We need to destigmatize menstruation and make period products easily accessible to the 1.8 billion people who will menstruate this month. I fully believe that. I also believe having open conversations about the topic is necessary to make that happen. But do I really need to be positive about it? I love reading about periods. It’s a hobby. Team Menstrual Justice all the way. But I’ll pick up a book that will give reasons to be positive about it. “It can affirm womanhood.” Yeah, thanks. That’s what I’ve been avoiding since the day I first got mine. I was 15. Later than most of my friends and I prayed I wasn’t going to get it at all. That Aunt Flo had decided to skip me. By the way, Aunt Flo? No one is named Flo outside of commercials anymore and besides, I think we ought to blame Krampus for our troubles, not our darling aunt. But, it came. It was relatively good for a first time. A little bit of blood in my underwear at the end of the day. I had actually listened in health class, so I knew what was going on. I told my mom, got some pads, and I was on my way. And then everyone started telling me I was finally a woman. I knew they were wrong, but it was like a little, shocking zap every time they said it. “You’re a woman now,” “you’re a woman now,” “you’re a woman now.” I knew that even if I had been a girl, which, I definitely am not and was not, I was certainly not a woman. 15 is far too young to put such a label on a person. You’re telling me my friends who got their period in 4th grade were “women”? Was I supposed to call them “ma’am” when it was their turn for the swings at recess? It’s hard enough being a woman. I mean, so I’m told. We don’t need to add all this pressure to grow up at such young ages. Even in Carrie, her powers kick in because she finally got her period, finally “grew up.” What garbage. At least they got the murderous rage I often feel on my period right. That’s something. The other thing these books tell me to be positive about is that “periods are a sign everything is working correctly.” Seriously, I read that once, shut the book, and never opened it again. It is not a sign that everything is working correctly. And even if it was, so what? I shouldn’t have to bleed buckets of blood every month as a price to pay to be fertile. Not that I want to be fertile anyway, but if I did, it wouldn’t be fair. Give the people who want to get pregnant a switch they can turn on when they’re ready to start trying. The rest of us can keep it permanently off, thank you very much. I have, on occasion, also heard I should be period positive because it is a “beautiful” thing. Don’t make me laugh. It’s uncomfortable at best and debilitatingly painful at worst. I’m hard pressed to find anyone who enjoys this process. It’s messy, it causes pain and fatigue, and some people have to do it without safe or clean period products. And every time, every time, every time my nonbinary and trans siblings menstruate, someone tells us it makes them a woman. It doesn’t. It never did. Some day, testosterone might end this whole process for me. All I can say is, “Good riddance.”

Playwright contact information: hazcady1 (at) gmail (dot) com

Stevie, from In The Eye of The Beholder, by Eugene Powell

The character of STEVIE (They/Them), a twenty-three-year-old non-binary Male- to-Female transitioning person, attempts to explain how they think of themselves to a father who is struggling to understand his transitioning child.

STEVIE: What I would call myself is pan-sexual. Transitioning isn’t like “light on, lights off.” There are stages to it. Mostly in the way you see yourself. (Sees the confusion on his face) The major difference between your generation and mine is that mine is not so gender-specific. My generation believes love can happen between two people no matter what sex they’ve been assigned. My generation doesn’t care about roles. And thanks to your generation’s messed-up parenting skills, for the most part, my generation doesn’t want to have kids. Regarding relationships; well, I’ve had my share, and out of them were a couple that really mattered. One was before I transitioned. Afterwards, though, it didn’t go very well. Not everyone is as open-minded as they think they are. There was someone else more recently. I met her at a support group I go to. She was having trouble adjusting. By that, I mean problems at work. Someone accused her of sexual indecency when they discovered her using the women’s bathroom. She moved soon after that. Upstate where no one knows her. We speak occasionally but it’s no longer the same between us. (They grow thoughtful) Every once in a while, I wonder if it all was worth it. I wonder if I’ll wind up alone. If I’ll ever be considered something other than strange. I’ve also been called an abomination. But I can tell you one thing. I don’t miss the fear I used to feel whenever I’d look in a store window. It had nothing to do with what was behind the glass. No, what would frighten me most was the glimpse I might catch; the glimpse of my own reflection.

John Woodman, from Tall Tales from Blackburn Tavern, by John Minigan

In a section of Tall Tales from Blackburn Tavern about residents of the Dogtown section
of Gloucester, Massachusetts in the 1800s. As most of the population of Dogtown moved
closer to the harbor, those who did not fit the norms of 19 th century New England
remained in an area that felt like home to them. The monologue is a stand-alone piece.
JOHN was assigned female at birth but, after being freed from enslavement, identified as
male and was sought after for his stonework and landscaping skills.

JOHN WOODMAN, dressed in traditionally masculine work clothes, addresses us
directly.

JOHN WOODMAN (fka “Old Ruth”)
People, they like havin’ a label to put on things, even if they haven’t looked close enough to come up with a label that’s true. Helps ‘em think they’ve explained somethin’ they don’t understand. And they certainly don’t understand me.

Some people look at me and use the name “Ruth.” Or “Old Ruth.” If I’m feelin’ like a fight – and sometimes I’m feelin’ like a fight – I tell them, “I’m not Ruth, and I’ll thank you to use the proper name. And the proper name is ‘John.’ ‘John Woodman.’”

There’s another name they used to call me. “Slave.” But I am no more a “Slave” than I am a “Ruth.” I am freed from both of those names.

There’s a few – even here in The Commons – here in “Dogtown” – who seem confused about that. They’ll see me walkin’ around The Commons and say, “There goes ‘Old Ruth.’”

But come the day they need a little work done?

Come the day they’re lookin’ for a body to mend their stone wall for ‘em? Oh, there’s no confusion then!

They know: John Woodman’s the man for the job.

John Woodman’s the only one can look at a broken wall, find the proper stones, and fit them proper stones into the empty places. John Woodman and nobody else.

Because there were some who liked to call me “Ruth,” but it never was my name.

And there were some who liked to call me “Slave.” But it never was my name.

Sammy Stanley, from Tall Tales from Blackburn Tavernby, John Minigan

In a section of Tall Tales from Blackburn Tavern about residents of the Dogtown section
of Gloucester, Massachusetts in the 1800s. As most of the population of Dogtown moved
closer to the harbor, those who did not fit the norms of 19th century New England
remained in an area that felt like home to them. The monologue is a stand-alone piece.
Today, we would call SAMMY non-binary, but given the gender definitions of the time,
SAMMY identified at times as male, at times as female.

SAMMY appears in traditionally “male” clothing, but will add a wig, scarf, and gloves
during the monologue.

SAMMY STANLEY
The name my parents gave me when I was born was Samuel. Samuel Maskey. But I was generally known as “Miss Sammy Stanley,” after my grandmother, who people called “Mrs. Stanley.” Of course, some folks had other names for my grandmother – and for the women she worked with: Molly Jacobs and Sarah Phipps. And there’s a name they had for the kind of house my grandmother ran in Dogtown. But those names are not to be repeated in polite company, and I hope that’s what we are here today: Polite company.

Those three ladies raised me in that house of… hospitality, and I took care of the house and of them until… Well, there was only one thing they knew how to do and, as they did age, the sailors and the fishermen no longer cared to be entertained by them so, eventually, they ended up in the poorhouse on Granite Street.

SAMMY puts on a wig, a scarf, and dress gloves during…

I’d no intention of goin’ there, not me, and I’d learned how to do laundry and keep a clean house. So once fhere was nobody left in “Dogtown” who could afford to hire me to do that, I moved up to what you refer to as Rockport and, well…

They call house-cleaning and laundering “women’s work,” so I offered my services as “Miss Stanley, the Washerwoman.”

SAMMY removes the gloves, scarf, and wig during…

And Miss Stanley did well, thank you. Quite well enough that…

Well.

That Mr. Samuel Maskey was able to invest quite a lot in the Sandy Bay cotton mill. And I’ll have you know, Mister Maskey did well in that endeavor, too.

Hatchet, from Faces in the Firelight, by Ennis Rook Bashe

(HATCHET rehearses speaking to an imaginary fellow adventurer.)

Hello, Evvie! I’m glad you could come visit me, because you are my friend.

Alabaster, I brought you a new set of lockpicks because we are friends.

Morrow, would you like help from a friend to carry your adventurer’s pack?

(Xe gives up.)

Gods. I sound as ridiculous as I look.

I pitch my tent farther away from camp than anyone so they can’t hear me scream in my sleep. If I go out to eat, I have to check where the exits are and then make sure all the doors and windows open. I know about a hundred ways to kill a man completely unarmed. How much do I know about friendship? These scars are like a warning sign. Keep away, or this mad freak will slice you too.

Meanwhile, Evvie is normal. No one’s ever even raised a hand to them. They start conversations with strangers. They share personal information with strangers. What village they’re from. What’s their favorite song. They’re telling this whole story about how they got stuck in a tree as a child and meanwhile I’m sitting there trying to understand the strategic value of sharing anything with anyone.

Alabaster is hilarious, even when he’s being a brat. Maybe he could even show me how to do all that girly shit I never got to learn growing up. Just us guys, sitting around painting our toenails!

And Morrow… sometimes when she talks about facts and figures, it makes me think about learning to read. I think she would teach me. I think maybe she wouldn’t mind I’m not that bright.

I think friends are supposed to share personal information. You’re basically handing the other person a rock to throw at you, but it must serve some purpose.

What would I do with friends, anyway? I mean, we could spar or climb trees or go to the gladiator arena or to see a play with lots of blood and action or go to the races… and then they’d suggest something inside. In a room with one exit. With a door that locks. With no way out.

Would they be my friend then? Watching me clawing the walls like a feral animal?

They’d laugh at me. Stab me in the back with the knife I probably gave them as a gift. And I’d be alone. Just like always.

(HATCHET tries to visualize xer imagined scenario again.)

Evvie, I picked some wildflowers for you. I consider you a friend because I appreciate your ongoing concern and caring, even when I act like an absolute bitch. They’re your favorite? You have a gift for me? I’m so glad you’re my friend.

(Nope.)

Yeah fucking right.

Character name and pronouns: Hatchet, xe/xir.

Context: Hatchet is a warrior in a fantasy world. Due to a traumatic upbringing, xe struggles to trust others and has visible scars. Hatchet has argued with xir fellow adventurers, who are all also trans, (Alabaster, Morrow, and Evvie) after xir paranoia leads xir to accuse them of attempting to betray xir. Now, xe is alone at the campfire and tries to imagine what life would be like if xe had friends. This is from the middle of the first act of an in-progress short play called Faces in the Firelight.

Contact: ennisrookbashe (at) gmail (dot) com

Riley, from Dear God, The 7 Stages of Figuring Out Who You Are, by Bridger Enstra

RILEY. (they/them) Dear god, listen… I know it’s been awhile since we last talked. I know it’s been years at this point even but, look, there’s something we need to discuss. We need to talk. So I know you always say you’ve made everyone perfect, I know you always say you “don’t make mistakes,” but I have to break it to you, even if I might not be the first one to do so, as I’m sure my parents have talked to you about it. You messed up with me. People always say you’re perfect. And that you make everyone perfect but… why do I feel… so wrong?…

My parents want me to dress up. They want me to wear the clothes they give me. They force me to wear dresses, skirts, have long hair, paint my nails, the list goes on and on and on. …But I don’t want to do any of that. In fact I hate that they make me do that. It drives me crazy and makes me want to jump off a roof! Being a girl it- it never feels like me, it’s never felt like me!

Dear god, I hate to break it to you but you’re not perfect. I really don’t care what everyone says. There is no way that you are. If you were perfect then you’d make me perfect. And if I was so perfect… then why do I feel like this? I’m not a girl. Despite everyone’s insistence, despite what my parents tell me, despite what the world tells me, despite how I look, despite what I know I should feel, despite how you made me… I’m not a girl. Everyone always tells me it’s just a phase and I’ll get over it, but it’s been 5 years now. And look man, I’ve gone through phases, but… in all my time… none have ever lasted this long. The longest phase I’d ever had was like… 6 months. And yeah… emo was a bad idea. This phase seems to never end. And I don’t think it’s been just the 5 years I feel like it’s been like… my whole life! So yeah, you messed up! Why did you make me like this?

Dear god, so… There’s more to that too. If you made me a girl, but I’m not a girl… then I’m a guy right? Like that’s the only other option, really. Girl or boy, pink or blue. So… why don’t I feel like that either? I’m not a girl or a boy! I don’t feel like either pink or blue, I feel like yellow! Like something different entirely! I know I’m not a girl! I’ve tried to think of myself as a boy but that’s still not right either! I don’t understand! Everyone keeps telling me that I’m crazy, and that this is not a thing. My parents look at me like I belong in the psych ward, like I’ve lost my mind! Why did you burden me with this?! Haven’t I been through enough in my life?! Haven’t I sacrificed enough in my life?! I just don’t get it! Why me?! And why do I feel like I’m the only one who feels like this?! I know it’s not normal! I know not everyone goes through this!

Why… why did it have to be me… why couldn’t you have picked my sister… or my brother… I’m so over being the family disgrace! I’m not athletic like Eliza… and I’m not good at making friends like Jack… I’m constantly being compared to them! I don’t get why you couldn’t have… couldn’t have made me more like them.

Dear god, what is so wrong with me that I’m this way? Did I not do enough as a kid? Did I not pray enough? Pay close enough attention in church? Did I not go to confession enough? Was I not a good person? Did I not do enough to be good? Even though I tried so hard to be the perfect kid, was it not enough?! Was I too bad of a kid?… Am I too bad of a person overall? I just don’t understand why… why I’m like this.

Dear god, okay… let’s just say… hypothetically, that this is how I’m supposed to be. Let’s just say you did make me this way. That this whole thing was intentional and that this is who I really am. Is this something I’m going to always be? Because what exactly am I supposed to do with that? How are people going to react? How are my parents going to react? My siblings? My friends? What are they going to think about this? Is this going to be the rest of my life? A constant questioning of everything I know?… Or… do you think… that I know how to figure it out…

Dear god, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe… I don’t belong in a psych ward. Maybe this is the way I was meant to be. Maybe you didn’t mess up with me, and maybe you got it right after all. Maybe I didn’t do anything to be like this. Maybe I didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe I’m just me. This is who I always was, who I always am, and who I always will be.

Dear god, this is who I am. I’m non-binary. And that’s okay.

More info: suspence.on.the.sea@gmail.com

Klare, from Am I Cait? by Clay Baker-Lerner

KLARE (she/her). Girls- sorry. Ahem. Ladies. I have a very important announcement to make to all of you. Tonight will be our final night together. Cy and I are as a matter of fact off to somewhere you have all already been. So don’t be too jealous. I’m off to you ladies ol’ stomping grounds. Figured I oughta see where the girls are from. Bask on that golden coast- (Gasps) I cannot forget a bathing suit.

(She goes to the wardrobe and throws out anything she deems to be boy clothes) Won’t be needing these where I’m going. (She pulls out two bikinis)

Pink? Or Blue? Pink? No, no Blue? …Pink- UGH I can’t decide. What do you all think? Girls? Hello? (Sighs) You’re mad. I knew it. I can just tell. And I get it and I’m sorry, but I have to go. Now. Gotta get outta here right the fuck now actually and I can’t take you all with me. Again, I’m sorry, but let me try to explain… Blame ol’ Bill- sorry. Where is my decorum? I would like to thank our wonderful governor mister William Byron Lee for finally being man enough- I mean finally a Republican with the balls to do what they’ve clearly all been wanting to do since… I wanna say 2015. Gay’s get to get married, and thus homophobia as we know it is solved. But just like matter, hate cannot be created nor destroyed- Actually it can be created, but what I’m saying is all that hate just got pushed down the pecking order a little. But in actuality transphobia existed long before 2015, that’s just when red dot laser sight of genocide landed squarely on our foreheads. For that is the year in which we became fully visible. And on this fifteenth annual trans day of visibility all I want to say is. Visibility can suck my ass. The inaugural TDOV was in 2009, the year I was born, and so I have never felt the comfort of true invisibility. In fact, TDOV, aka March 31st, aka today and trans day of remembrance aka November 20th are sort of a self fulfilling prophetic cycle of violence. That is why stealth is the only way. Visibility begets violence.

I’m confusing you all. I can see it in your blank stares. What I’m trying to say is… I am really fucking scared. I truly do not know what will happen to me if I stay here. A drag ban is just cross dressing laws in so many words. And if I’m honest: I don’t give a shit about drag bars. Sue me, I know. I get it, “community”, and yes they are cute for bachelorette parties I guess, but what this actually means? Why this actually matters is– “actually matters” sounds ungrateful. I am not ungrateful. I honor the trans women whose shoulders I stand on now. I honor my trans elders and I’ve always felt like they honored me too. You all know how Caitlyn Jenner comes to me in my dreams- But what was I saying? Ah, right. Me… When senate bill three goes into effect in exactly one hour. The morning of April 1st in the year of our lord 2023. I, along with any and every other crossdresser in the great state of Tennessee can get thrown in jail just for walking down the street and singing along to their favorite song. twenty-five hundred dollar fine and up to a year in jail for first time offenders, but here’s the real kicker. Any repeat offenses? Bam! Instant felony. Six years prison time. And lord knows it would be a men’s prison too.

My first impulse is to just not be a brick. Like, just because a brick started the modern trans rights movement does not mean I have to look like one in this scorching Tennessee sun. Like I said, stealth is truly my only option. I must exist publicly as a cis woman if I want to survive. So I medically transition as quick as possible, right? Only problem is, when senate bill one goes into effect on the morning of July 1st, in the year of our lord 2023, it will be illegal for transgender minors to have access to any and all forms of hormones, puberty blockers, and life saving surgery. LIFE SAVING. I’m not talking tummy tucks for tots- Well… I have actually always hated my nose… Not to mention I’m literally already getting crows feet, so a little botox wouldn’t- But, no. Back to my point. Of course, I could try to stock up on as many mones as I can get my hands on before July. Only problem is that that would require me finding a doctor willing to actually believe me, which would at least require me to book an appointment, which would require a parent or guardian to be present with me, which of course would require me telling my lovely mother… Which is never gonna happen. So. I gotta go. Not in a few months to see how things shake out. Waiting and praying some judge temporarily blocks the bill- No. I. Am. Out. So… pink or blue? Pink.

I’ll have to send you girls pictures because trust that in Malibu? This is all I’m gonna wear. In Malibu? What reason would I have to ever change out of my bathing suit? I’ll show so much skin, and the body will be so right, that only a fool would try and clock me. Her? A man? Man, you gotta get your eyes checked, cause that right there? All real. I will look real. I will smell real. I will even fucking taste real. Honey, in Malibu? They sell estrogen and breast implants on every street corner. Not sell. Give. They’re just handing it out to dolls like us. And then after living there for a few months. Just like that. One day I’ll wake up. I’ll look in the mirror. And I’ll see a woman. Not some broken down wise beyond her years rough country tranny. Just a woman. That’s all I have ever wanted. Just to be some chick.

I am not a revolutionary. I just don’t have it in me. Just being some chick is not enough for the quote-un-quote community these days. The truth is, I am just not some gender fuck SJW anarcho-abolitionist. I’m just a girl. Why isn’t that enough? Lemme tell ya, in Malibu? No more exploitation. My days of being a political pawn for the right and the left will be behind me. In Malibu? I’ll just be some chick. And that will be enough.

That’s Cyrus. He bought my bus ticket for the first leg. Husband material, I know. I wanna thank you ladies for all the times, good and bad, over the years. I’ll send a postcard, yeah?

Name of Playwright: Clay Baker-Lerner

Context: On the night of March 31, 2023, pre-everything 16 year old transgirl Klare Rothblatt explains to her collection of Barbie dolls why she is escaping her hometown of Nashville, TN for the sunny beaches of Malibu, CA. Comes at the end of Act One from an in-progress play titled, Am I Cait?

Contact: clay.j.bakerlerner@gmail.com, @clay.bl on instagram

Harrison, from Harrison Ford Sings Lullabies to His Basil Plants So They Won’t Fear the Night, by Woodzick

HARRISON. (they/he, non-binary, transmasculine)

The basil leaves curl underneath my fingers as they prepare for their nightly concert.

They no longer fear the dark because of my sonorous overtures.

I do not alert them to their likely end: ground with mortar and pestle or skewered for a bite of Caprese.

For now, they are content.

For now, they drift off into a herbaceous slumber.

These basil plants know nothing of fugitives, archeologists, or captains encased in carbonite.

They only know the tender gravel of my voice as I offer them lullabies in three / four time.

I want to live forever in this supple moment.

If you do not accept my gentleness, you might end up bringing a knife to a gun fight.

Context: This is the opening monologue from a work in progress.

Contact: nonbinarymonologues@gmail.com

Carter, from Butch Ado About Nothing, by Noah Good

CARTER. (they/them) Listen to me. I was so happy when you said yes. I was smiling like an idiot on our first date, and it was because finally I met someone who wanted me for me. Who wanted me because of my butchness, not in spite of it. I’ve been a consolation prize, for so long, for girls who couldn’t find a guy and so they would settle for me. In high school, I would go to parties and girls would come to me after trying to hook up with every guy there and being rejected. And I would say yes, because it was better than nothing. I would say yes because I thought that was the best I could hope for, someone who settled for me. And then when I met you I didn’t want to hope that you would actually like me, and then you did. You taught me that I was handsome just as I was. And you wanted me for me. I should have known that that was a fucking lie. Because girls like you are always looking over their shoulder to see when the next best option is going to come along, and as soon as it does, you’ll leave a butch for a man in a heartbeat. So fuck you, for making me think of myself as worthy when you were always going to leave me anyway. Fuck you.

Character: Carter (they/them), a butch lesbian. A junior at Smith College.

From Butch Ado About Nothing by Noah Good.

Context: This play is an adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing set at Smith College. Carter has been dating Hero (a feminine bisexual woman) for three months. Carter has just been tricked into thinking that Hero cheated on them with a man. Carter arrives at Hero’s 21st birthday party and confronts her.

Contact: noah.good29@gmail.com, noahgood.org.