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.

Your Adult Child, by Ennis Rook Bashe

(Shiloh (they/them) is a sheltered adult with a disability whose controlling mother is their primary caretaker. They have, at last, snapped.)

SHILOH

Mom, you know what? I hate you. I want to remove your glasses and slap you right across the face, and I’d do it, but I know you’d yell at me for three hours minimum and never let me leave the house again. I hate that you think I need instructions for the simplest things, like how to get a taxi or taking an umbrella when it’s raining. I hate how shocked you get when I drop the pretense of catering to your emotional immaturity for one minute at a time, gasping at my ‘edge’ and my ‘attitude’ and “Ooh! Someone’s in a mood!” like I’m a toddler who won’t go down for a nap.

I hate you for the unnecessary treatments on the off chance that years of shots and needles would hide my disability, for deciding that, sure, even though my intestines were shutting down, I could eat if I wanted to. I hate you for not believing that I was sick until it benefited you to promote yourself as a special needs parent. I hate you because, every time you call my doctors, you pretend to be me. Either you’ve decided I don’t need medical care or you’re forcing pills down my throat, and either way I understand Gypsy Rose Blanchard and how she asked her boyfriend to stab her mother seventeen times while she slept.

But God forbid anyone see you as less than the perfect mother of an ‘exceptional’ child. It might damage your business model.

I know you know I hate you. Every time you catch me on my phone, you try to peer over my shoulder and see if I’m complaining about you to my friends. You ask if I’m calling you a controlling mother or an abusive ogre, and I tell you I’m looking at gay porn in a futile effort to embarrass you and get you to realize that your adult child should be allowed to have a single fucking boundary.

Well, guess what: everyone I know knows about everything you’ve ever done. And these ‘gay porn’ strangers on the Internet are more supportive, more caring, than you’ve ever been.

Most people are normal, Mom. Most people make me feel normal.

And I hate you for ever convincing me that this was love.

Unnamed Character from In A-Swimmin’, by C.S. Hartblay

The speaker addresses the audience. The speaker is giving a tour of favorite hangout spots in
their town to a new friend (that they’re a little in love with).

The problem with this town is that everyone pays attention to the so-called “important” history. This graveyard is the perfect example. I mean, this is a crappy alleyway, but if you enter from the other side it’s like this official historical site. It has like 900 weird amazing things, and all anyone knows about it is that Emily Dickinson is buried here. She’s cool, amazing, so badass, but … like… the random secret stuff is what makes this place something. Come on, this way. First stop, Emily’s grave. It has this nice little wrought iron fence around it. I guess… should we say something? Like from one of her poems? [waits for a response] I guess I can’t really remember any, either, like not a whole poem. There’s one my mom used to say was for me because I was born in May. About the Mayflower? It goes “pink, small, and punctual / aromatic, low …” [laughs, embarrassed, could go on but doesn’t]. But come on! I want to show you the graffiti me and Jenna did.

It’s over here, on that wall… but you have to visit this grave over here first to understand it. This is it. Adonijah Miller. [reading from a headstone] “Who died while in aswimming” – I love that! In-a-swimmin’!! In the river… which is honestly not that close to here, by horse and buggy or whatever. And then it gives the entire date, like Wednesday. We try to remember to visit on July 12th . “In the seventeenth year of his age!” We’re older than Adonijah now. It’s SUCH a good name, Adonijah. I always kind of imagined him as the guy from the Hocus Pocus movie who turns into a cat. [as if in unison] Thackory Binx! I guess just because it’s from the 1700s. We always felt like maybe we could be friends with Adonijah. If we had lived at the same time. […] Yeah, totally. I wonder if this is the last summer we’ll visit … maybe we’ll go to college and
forget – maybe we’ll be busy next summer. […]

Let’s look at the graffiti… it’s over here… I think this is the back of the music store. Or maybe the coffee place, or that store with all the hippie stuff? It’s kind of hard to tell, since you can’t get to the front of the building without going all the way around. Wait… where did it go? Okay, we wrote “We love you Adonijah” in glow-in-the-dark paint right here. No, like you could sort of see it even in the daytime. It’s gone now. What the…? Weird. [lights a clove cigarette and takes a few drags]

Ugh, I’m sort of sad about that. I guess that’s the deal with graffiti, though. But there’s one more stop. The other spot we always have to visit here. Over here. “Mary Jane Budd. 1969. Beloved mother.”

Can you believe that? It almost seems like – a joke – a shrine to weed smokers of Amherst! I know, it’s so weird. We found it ages ago, when we had to do cemetery rubbings of historic gravestones. But since it’s so close to the high school, sometimes we just come sit here. If it’s a nice day. Just sit here and hang out with Mary Jane. Her spot is really nice to sit in. And smoke a bowl, obviously. Should we sit down? Make some history?

Context: This is a stand-alone monologue.

More information: https://cassandrahartblay.net

Sebastian’s Monologue from “Two Ladies of Vermont” by Leanna Keyes

JULIA (they/he)
Are you there, God? It’s me, Julia.

So I tried. I have really, truly, tried. Trying to make this thing go away has lost me the people that I love. I’ve been low, God. And something’s gotta give.

I had a lot of time after Proteus left. I decided to go back to the book, back to your word, to see if I had missed something. Cover to cover. Maybe it’s a little silly to quote you to yourself, but, uh, here we go.

1 Samuel 16:7 – “God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”

Okay so: If I feel something inside, then you’re looking at my heart. So if I’m feeling something so true that I can’t shut it down, maybe the problem isn’t that inside feeling. Maybe the problem is the outward appearance.

And here, in Isaiah 56:4-6: “To the eunuchs who keep My sabbaths, and choose what pleases Me, and hold fast My covenant, To Them I will give in My house and within My walls a memorial, And a name better than that of sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name which will not be cut off.”

That had me shook, God! Why’d you bury that one so deep in Isaiah? That seems like a bigger deal to me than the stuff about the shellfish. I like the idea of having an everlasting name better than that of son or daughter. I talked with my mom, to see what my name was going to be if I’d been born a boy.

Sebastian.
(shivering)

Oooh, I got chills just there, did you see that? Sebastian.

I’ve been trying to make this part of myself small for you. I thought that’s how I would hold fast to the covenant. But everything’s been going wrong the more I try to do it. Now to my understanding you have mixed feelings about sending signs, but uh. When I listen hard, I think I hear you. Trust the heart, not the outward appearance.

So I’m going to give Sebastian a try, God. I have some mistakes to atone for. I understand that you’re pretty big on atonement. Proteus… he was so patient with me. I owe him so much. It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far, and I think you might have been working through him to make that happen.

SEBASTIAN
We’ll talk again soon, God. Sebastian out.

Context: This play is a queer and trans adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Two Gentlemen of Verona” set in modern-day Boston. In this monologue, Sebastian discusses their gender with God; they were raised heavily religious and finally have come to realize that they are non-binary or transmasculine. Their former boyfriend, Proteus, broke up with them because Sebastian was so clearly uncomfortable trying to be Julia, the proper Christian girlfriend. For comparison, the original Shakespeare scene is Act 2 Scene 7 in “Two Gents.”

Website: www.leannakeyes.com

Jamie Q., from Silence, by E.L. McElroy

JAMIE Q. (they/them)

This is how I tell her.

We are alone at the kitchen table just into a bottle of merlot. Kids are asleep. I say I have to tell you something. 

OK, she says.

I don’t know how to say this.

Just say it.

I’m trying.

Just say it.

OK, I’m trying!

We go on like that for a while, back and forth, back and forth, until finally I do. I say it. After twelve and half years of marriage, I say it.

And this what I say:

I’m not a man.

Silence.

There is only silence. Almost like she was expecting it. But no tears. No yelling. No laughter. No anger. Just silence. It is the kind of silence that goes on too long.

You understand, right?

It is the kind of silence that, at first, is awkward. Then tense. Then louder than any scream.

It is the kind of silence that makes me doubt everything. That makes me think of what the priest told us about people like me. The sort of silence that makes me think about how I nodded my head up and down even though I knew better!

And this is how I tell her. This is how I tell her the person she married was someone other than the person she married, not a man, and yet still the same person, still me.

I expect her to explode, you know?

But, no, there is only silence.

Silence makes me nervous. So nervous. So I talk. That’s what I do when I am nervous. I talk. I talk to get rid of the silence.

I tell her I’m trans, OK? I’m trans. I’m trans. That is what I say.

I tell her this: I’m trans! I’m trans! I say it. Finally! I say I’m nonbinary. I say I didn’t ask to be, didn’t want to be.

If only I wasn’t, god, life would be so much easier. But, anyway, there it is, OK? I’m nonbinary. Do you even know what that means, I ask her.

I don’t wait for an answer. I tell her how it started a long time ago, before I can remember. I tell her I’ve always felt this way. I tell her I thought I was sick all those years ago. I tell her I thought that it would go away, and that maybe it did, kind of.

But, no, it did not go away, of course.

It never does, does it?

No, it doesn’t.

Believe me.

I know.

I tried.

I tell her I do not know why I am telling her this now, of all times, but that I can’t do this anymore.

I just can’t.

I can’t be someone else.

Silence.

I keep talking.

I tell her I dress up and put on makeup sometimes, like when I am away on business, when it is safe.

I tell her in these moments, finally, finally, finally, … Finally!

Finally, I am at peace!

I tell her the testosterone in me is as good as poison.

I tell her it is killing me.

Silence.

I tell her I don’t want to fully transition, that I am lost here, I am in the space in the in between.

But, I don’t tell her everything. Of course not.

No, I don’t tell her about the pain. No, I don’t tell her about the scars on my left arm. No, I don’t tell her about getting picked up by the cops on the railroad tracks.

No, I don’t tell her about the handcuffs pressed behind my back against the hard plastic seats in the back of a cop car.

No, I don’t tell her about the suicide attempt many years ago. And, no, I certainly do not tell her about my father.

Never that.

You understand, right?

I don’t tell her a lot of things.

Silence.

She stares at the wooden chest in the living room. The door is broken. I think she thinks one of the kids did it. Another secret.

But, no, it was me.

What happened was this: there was a jumble of paperwork — household clutter: Bills EZ Pass violations, misplaced, expired gift certificates. And it all spilled out onto the floor one day. So I shoved it back inside and shut the door. But the door popped open again. So I slammed it shut much harder this time. I don’t know why, but I was furious. The door splintered and broke. Everything tumbled out.

I tell her I’m sorry. I tell her I am sorry for everything. I tell her I am sorry. But then, I think to myself, no, I’m not sure I am sorry.

I tell myself maybe I wasn’t lying all those years. I tell myself to lie is to know the truth, and that, for the life of me, I have never been able to figure.

But maybe that is a lie, too.

I don’t know.

I just know one thing.

Here I am.

Finally.

Bio: E.L. is an aspiring writer living in Baltimore, Maryland. E.L. is on Twitter at @ELMcElRoy1.

Dear Woodzick #5

This may sound like an ignorant question, but how do you as a non-binary actor navigate a role that calls for a binary gender? Do you avoid those roles, or perhaps play roles against your misgender? Perhaps more roles than we realize are less gender-dependent than we think; is there room for ambiguity or simply changing a character’s perceived gender…

Dear Writer–

I LOVE that you asked this question.

Gender and casting have a complex history. To give a very abrupt and oversimplified tour of theatre history: quite simply, classical theatre as we think of it has traditionally been dominated by cisgender men for a very long time. For a long time it was illegal for anyone assigned female at birth to act onstage (unless it was in very intimate court dramas.)

An anomaly in this overview is Charlotte Cushman. Look her up. She’s absolutely amazing. In the mid-nineteenth century, she played male and female roles from Shakespeare’s cannon and was one the best paid actors of any gender during that era.

I believe that Charlotte Cushman singularly makes the case that there are some actors that intrinsically transcend the gender binary. AND that it can be a solid business practice (AKA audiences will buy tickets.)

Of course, this only happens if we trust our audiences.

More directly to your question of how I personally approach roles that call for a binary gender:

I delight in being called in for male roles. The most fun I have ever had onstage was playing Ram’s Dad in Heathers: The Musical. There was no conversation about if I would “pass” as a cisgender man. My solo brought the house down every night.

And in a way, it didn’t matter if people had read my bio in the program before they saw me perform or not. The gender of the actor portraying the character became irrelevant.

The task that Ram’s Dad sets before the actor portraying him is to transform from a toxic masculine energy to one of acceptance and preaching (albeit misguided) intolerance.

I don’t get many opportunities to audition for male roles. I would like to get more. I think there is profound work that needs to be done in the casting community to expand awareness around what non-binary and transgender actors can be called in for.

And a lot of it comes down to what a playwright crafts as the character descr4iption in the first place. I am heartened to see more and more playwrights carefully crafting their character descriptions away from the (cisgender-assumed) male/female binary.

In short: if I could only play male and non-binary roles, I probably would. But I’m still ok with playing female characters. If I have a type in the traditional sense of the word (PLEASE, let’s get rid of type!) it might be lesbian astronaut/Mariska Hartgitay. You know–the authoritative woman with short hair who dedicates more time to her job than herself? Yeah.

If I try to avoid any roles, it’s roles that I’m not right for (I will not portray transgender women or transfeminine roles–I know that they are not mine to play.)

I hope that as we move forward as an industry, we can push ourselves to deconstruct gender as a descriptor of character. For me, crafting character is all about what is elemental to inhabit this fictional being. What is their essence? And can I capture it?

I don’t know if you’ve seen the online conversations going on about Sia’s upcoming film and how it is being received by folx with Autism. I have seen some pretty dark conversations around gender and casting (Scarlett Johansen, Eddie Redmayne) but I’ve honestly never seen the vitriol quite like this before.

Sia said it was a deeply unpleasant experience to work with an actor with Autism and so she cast a neurotypical actor in the role instead. (Read more about this ongoing conversation in Mickey Rowe’s fantastic piece, “I May Be Autistic, But I’m Not a Bad Actor, No Matter What Sia Says.”)

We’ve seen this before. And we’ll likely see it again. But I feel it is relevant to pull on this thread a bit because of the significant overlap in the TGNC and Autism communities.

Speaking from my personal experience as a non-binary actor with Autism–I need to say how infuriating it is to see people in positions of power explain their thought process behind casting cisgender or neurotypical actors in roles designated as non-binary, transgender or neurodiverse.

Members of the TGNC and Autism communities often have to work SO HARD on a daily basis to appear more “normal”–for safety, for job and housing security.

If we were allowed to put our daily experience of human interaction on our acting resume, it would be a fucking encyclopedia. The casting director’s table would crumble beneath its sheer weight.

And I might be rambling now. And that’s ok. I’m angry.

I’m angry for myself and for all the other gender and neurodiverse actors who want to take up space in an industry that consistently paints us into very tight corners.

We deserve a space at the table. Our voices deserve to be heard. Loudly.

-Woodzick

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(Image description: the Autism acceptance rainbow infinity symbol overlays the non-binary flag with its yellow, white, purple and black colors.)