It’s one of those mornings where you wake up, not knowing where you are in time. At some point Sam dies, but I don’t think we’re there yet. I suppose at some point, we all die, but we’re not there yet either. Have Sam and Herman melded together? Sam had a fever, and Herman sat with her through the night, and by morning they became one. That’s one story. Others say it happened chopping onions for dinner, when Sam slipped in a tad too close, and stuck. I don’t know. People seem to agree that it was something mundane. But that happens later, I think. Sam is alive and alone. Still dressing and undressing for the camera — trying to get it right. In any case, I woke up feeling like people — all of us — are made of complicated stuff. Too hard to understand or fix. So I’m screwed because I am breaking down and unfixable. And, to make matters worse, time is passing. Lots of it. Because nobody has yet figured out how to stop it in such a crisis. Someone should really get on that. So that’s the kind of morning it is. And it took forever to pull pants on over my legs because I didn’t understand what the fuck my legs even were. It’s time I get a handle on this. It’s time that there are no mornings like this. I want to wake up knowing that it’s simple: that I am made of tinfoil and paperclips. So I took initiative and looked it up. “What are people made of” I typed. And nothing is helpful. Because we are apparently made of everything: we are made of calcium, oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and phosphorus or body, mind, intellect, ego and soul or, according to a Modest Mouse song, nothing but water and shit. Or snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails if you are a little boy or sugar and spice and all things nice if you are a little girl which makes it ten times more complicated because now I am required to think of myself as something more specific than just a people — I mean, a person. (beat) Ha! A little boy, a little girl, a little people. I don’t know… fuck it if it’s that kind of day.
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So, this is it. We’ve come a long way, lost people we loved and fought with all our strength. And now we’re trapped, surrounded. Waiting for the end. But do we know this is the end? Sure, there are several hundred killer robots armed to their mechanical teeth breaking in here within the hour. Sure, we’re weak, wounded and completely devastated. But those machines don’t have our imagination. They have no hope or love. And I’m not going to sit here obediently and wait for them to come and slaughter us. Not while there’s a snowballs chance in hell that we can still win this. And don’t you argue with me because not one of you can see the future, can you? In the future we can do anything; in the future we might even survive. You have a choice to make. Fight until the bitter end or hand yourselves to them on a silver platter. We are the only thing standing between them and the rest of the world. And if I’m going to die, I’m going to die protecting it.
Context: This is a standalone monologue and context can be created as needed by the performer, however the basic context is that robots have taken over the earth and are maliciously killing all humans, this group are trapped in a warehouse and hopelessly outnumbered.
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In 2019, The Non-Binary Monologues Project wants to expand our offerings to include scenes and musical theatre selections. If you have submissions in either of these categories, please send them our way!
Here are the lyrics and video of Sandy Sahar Gooen’s edit of “If I Were a Rich Man,” from Fiddler on the Roof. Enjoy!
If I were a cis man
(Insert yeshivish riffing)
All day long I’d ——
Were I a cisgender man
Wouldn’t have to work hard
To try to pass or live or even hide which school that I am from
If I had a Y instead of X biddy biddy biddy chromosome
I’d take up space but wait don’t worry not too much just more than currently I can. You know, that thing called actual self esteem. As things are now it’s not like I can really do much cept wait to be seen as a real man. Just being accepted is the dream.
I would go out at night
Not worry about safety
Why would I bother with all that
Since I’d be much closer to 6 feet tall
No one would ask me “when are you having kids” “when are you getting a dick” and other very personal things that they don’t deserve to know. I don’t care for that shit at all- oy.
If I were Cis I’d have the privilege I lack to go to ANY synagogue and pray. And not be scared of judgment—- how great is this?
I’d like to add that I’d still count for a minyan if I were Cis but still completely gay. So long as I had you know- a bris.
The most important men in town wouldn’t talk down to me. They would actually respect me. Just like any other guy
They’d say shalom Sahar
What do you think sandy
Instead of sitting blankly there, rolling their eyes
And it won’t make one bit of difference if I answer right or wrong
When you’re Cis they think you really know.
I would be able to use my voice for the better to stop toxic masculinity and uplift all my siblings, big and small.
I would be heard and make sure others were listened to other than just guys like me… that would be the sweetest thing of all. Oy.
Lord who made the world in just six days
You made me stick out from theatre gays
Would it spoil some vast eternal plan
Were I a halakhic man!