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.


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.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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

She Is, Divine Surrender and End of an Era, by Daisy Du

1, She is…
She is a coal-miner and a gold-digger.
Digging treasures, just beneath the human-layers of consciousness,
through the very depth of her own past shadows;
plunging through days and nights, diligently,
until hitting some “jack-pot”,
until the loud sweet crispy “Bing”, hitting the back of her head;
breaking down the underground pitch-black stuffy soggy air,
suddenly this once a life time triumph would be
echoing and lightning up, years of seemingly endless labor-work,
by the lonesome self, with only a small meager voice within the heart.

She is a word-farmer,
Gathering and collecting full-length of life’s colors and tastes, into
a delicate handmade parchment pouch,
Weathering through many cold winters;
just for the opportune season, of
some green south-east wind, some lucky rain-drops,
and some benevolent sunbeam; to
spread out collections of full-blown inkling seeds upon the vast blank field of unknown.
She farms just for the joy of farming;
the fresh air beneath the surface soil,
the metal tool stirring up the very fine fiber of her own existence.
The work is not work; but
Cycles of life, through word-farming,
cycles of death and rebirth,
plowing within her own soul reincarnation.

She is an incubator,
taking in whatever life threw at her,
and value every drop of gifts dearly;
Like a hen gently and patiently,
brooding and pondering upon a nest of
lively and sparkling potentials…and then
wait, waiting for the
time of eternity to ferment it out,
the pristine batch of babies.
Some time, there could be some weird-looking ones to others’ judging eyes,
but to her, every single one of them is perfect,
more beautiful and precious,
than the most expensive diamond in the whole world.

She is a kite-flyer,
Flying out a high dream in the invisible thin air; to
catch the fine nerve of some spring wind.
Some time, some kites might end up being stolen away by the stormy weather;
Who knows,
maybe it could land at another heart’s sunny bay,
bringing some comforts to that gentle tender soul.
Or maybe another time, she could be the lucky one, to
catch the drifting, hauntingly beautiful,
long lost love.

But really she just calls herself a thief,
who spots and steal the most visceral moments of textured feelings,
that running through her memory pouch.
She’s a conduit, a channel, an empath, a translator, a telepathic communicator…
While all those glittering sensational lives passing through her
pulsating harboring womb,
she marks them with soft kisses,
thousand folded paper-cranes, of
heavenly blessings.

2, Divine surrender
Her love for me is bountiful…
but my fear and needs to run away from pains and sufferings of,
dense bodily reality is bottomless too..
I dreamed of a chair with a big hole in the center,
next second,
the whole world just spiraling downward…
Sadly watching me just letting go of,
the beacon of faith,
turning back against the very light of my soul,
pitching into some abysmal endless void of fearful unknown…

She took a vow many lives’ time before…
that she would follow me till the end of the world…
through lives’ multitudes of dimensions and reincarnation,
would be there for me and be with me,
would plunge through heaven and hell to comfort,
aid me, and always be by my side…

But the fear is like a chokehold, some dreadful spell of a non-reversible curse,
haunting me, through days and nights,
driven our life’s paths further and further away…

One day, while drifting through that in-between altered space,
that I visited so often in dreams,
a soft pleading voice ringing:
“Please waking up my dearest one,
Stop fighting over your own soul,
take a hold of that fear,
just lift up your head,
the key to unlock thy heart,
is right above.
Please look up,
heaven’s blessings are written both within and without,
all around your very existence,
in the blue sky, in the thin air through continuous flow,
of effortless breath…
You are the very definition of magic and beauty,
that are made with pure magnificent unconditional love…”
Honey bees diligently,
plucking and collecting—
fresh sparkles of early morning’s essence;
Unicorns stubbornly,
kicking and cracking open
some sweet rosy Nectar of—
weathered, thickened heart petals..
flower of life slowly blossoming, rippling, radiating,
iridescent sun gold…

She’s just patiently gathering and reminiscing over some good old days’ framed memories….
plunging into the vastness of a dreamy flowery garden in some wonderland,
where she and I,
could finally be like kids again,
exposed under the soft sunbeam,
with the utterly fragile, innocent and vulnerable authenticity…
quietly, she sat down next to me on a bench,
patiently waiting for my soul,
to unwind stories of eons of life-time,
Yet, all that can we hear is the sign from a long haired willow tree,
wiping off the tears and weights from the silence that follows…
A sign that we both waited for millions of years through lives’ cycling and recycling…
As soft as cotton fiber,
She laid her wings upon my solid shoulder,
we finally fell into a sweet slumber,

3, End of an era
No more fear of the long dark night,
while using the bathroom with light’s off,
Learning to spend some time with the naked self,
the most tender part of the self,
the delicate and slow part of the self…

The World are doing their pushing, rushing and hustling…
I am just here sitting with the most vulnerable part of me
within this eternal darkness…
feeling and sensing some loneliness,
and some soft meager voices.

I pleaded a license for myself,
one more chance to take a break,
to break free from this old life’s binds and shackles..
and get some ease and rest from the inside-out.

Everyone is working hard to prove something to the rest of the world,
but I just want to plunge deeply,
into this black bottomless peace,
to gather all the missing pieces
of my serrated fragmented—
long lost soul.

No more struggling or fighting off,
the endless inner fear towards this long dark night;
No more running away from this abysmal depth of life
No more silencing towards the discomfort of this long time suppression,
No more living or reliving in the eternal dread
towards some hell’s-week-like bootcamp

Tonight, I dare letting my inner voice out…
to the almighty authorities,
both visible and invisible.
To the most intimidating ones who rule this very kingdom of
unbreakable societal system..
To those who casted such unshakable shackles upon me
I dare you to look right into my heart.

I dare you to look upon the most vulnerable and tender part of myself…
the unadulterated, ulcerated inner wounds..
Which me and many weaker ones like me,
have been bearing,
for decades, inwardly,
yet were being so ashamed,
and dare not even to talk about…

No no… no more being pushed away…
as secondary, as inferior
as lack of status to be heard,
or even to deserve a voice of my own.

I dare to the rotten root of very system,
to look at the jagged line of this,
century-long painful gash inside my heart.
They are mine, yet they are yours too…
They are the weights of shame and guilt,
that your almighty hands have been trying so hard to suppress, to hide, to walk pass,
and yet eventually pressed down upon me.

No longer being silenced.
Finally I am exposing this raw tenderness,
Right in front of your eyes.
Please look at it.
just be here with me for a moment.
It’s been century long,
it’s been ignored for too long.
Today I dare speaking out this most gentle soft voice
Directed to you!

Everyone deserves to be heard and respected,
Every feeling deserves to be valued and validated…
No matter how small the voice is,
or how insignificant the life is,
to your authoritative eyes.
I dare letting all my unjustified helpless voices out,
and I dare facing the consequences as well.

Let the stormy punches coming down at me harder and stronger…
I am no longer shunning away.
I am right here waiting,
with all my silenced inner wounds from the past,
with every single tender pieces of my raw existence,
that I have been gathering…
After you have trampled upon them repetitively, and tossed them around in different parts of the world, throughout the years…

To you, me and many like me were just a joke,
Yet to me, that was the most beautiful and treasurable part of the soul,
more precious than any diamond in the whole world!

After life-time searching,
after being separated for so long,
from my tattered dignity
and fragmented soul.

The one being suppressed,
the one being trampled upon,
tossed, teased off in gazillion places.

I am here to take all my pieces back!

I challenge you,
I challenge your absolute power and biased cruel crooked system,
with my raw naked tender feeling,
and pure vulnerable authenticity.
with my everlasting tenacity,
and impenetrable perseverance.

I will swim through all the long dark nights
in eons of time,
since darn of human civilization;
I will thwart through all layers of fire in the land of the dead;
I will scour deeply and thoroughly
through all mire death fields, and
lineage of my unavenged ancestry,
to gather every single one of my fragmented soul brothers and sisters back,
to confront you with your every crime.

I am bringing back,
all our past silenced voices, to confront you
with every severed missing soul fragments, and
every single cut you have done upon each of our tender inner hearts.

We are putting down our own two feet, standing stronger than ever.
with no more trembling fears.

Hearts, are not parts!


Context: The first Monologue’s name is “She is…”. It’s about a female writer, who explores through her own inner soul-journey through word-work, and eventually finds her own role and purpose in life and in the society.

The second Monologue’s name is “Divine surrender”. It’s about a young girl’s inner struggle and fight with her own soul, through facing her own inner dark shadows, eventually reconnect with her own higher consciousness, divine feminine and higher spiritual guide.
The third Monologue’s name is “End of an Era”. Its context is about a middle-aged female of color who had been suffering from social injustice, finally able to stand up on her own feet and voice out her inner truth, power, strength, and demands for social justice.

On Your Island, from Tiny Beautiful Things, by Cheryl Strayed, adapted for the stage by Nia Vardalos

Letter Writer #3. Dear Sugar,

I’m thirty-four years old and I’m transgender.

I was born female, but I knew I was meant to be male for as long as I can remember. I had the usual painful childhood and adolescence in a smallish town because I was different-picked on by other kids, misunderstood by my family.

Seven years ago I told my mom and dad I intended to have gender confirmation surgery.** They were furious. They said the worst things you can imagine anyone saying to another human being, especially if that human being is your child. In response, I cut off ties with them, moved away, and made a new life living as a man. I have friends and romance in my life. I love my job. I’m happy with who I’ve become and the life I’ve made.

After years of no contact, I got an email from my parents that blew my mind. They apologized. They were sorry they never understood and now they do. They said they miss me and they love me. Sugar, they want me back.

I cried like crazy and that surprised me. I believed I didn’t love my parents anymore.

I have made it without them. I’ve created an island far away and safe from my past. I made it because I’m tough. Do I forgive them and get back in touch, or do I ignore their email and stay safe on my island? What do I do?



**The original letter read “a sex change.” The language has been updated in this post to reflect how the current vocabulary surrounding medical transition has evolved.**

School Bus, by Erin Rollman

(written for a genderqueer performer) When I was in junior high, I lived only a block and a half away from school. It took minutes to get there, cut even shorter if I ducked through a hole in the fence and walked right across the small field next to the school building. But every morning I would leave home far earlier than necessary and walk 15 or so blocks in the opposite direction to catch a big yellow school bus. It seems silly to say now, but I did it in an attempt to be normal. I know, I know, but hear me out:

So many kids rode the bus. So many kids complained about riding the bus. It was a part of junior high culture and I was missing out because of the location location location of my home. I mean, I’m sure the proximity to a school is part of the reason my parents got the place. But, each morning I walked in the wrong direction in order to complain about my subsequent bus ride. And each afternoon I rushed out of the building in time to jump on the bus – unable to participate in this after school activity or that one, sometimes dashing out mid-conversation with an “ugh, bus”.

Needless to say, this did not make me ‘normal’. All it did was make my life more difficult. Of course, this should come as no surprise. Normal things – a nerve-wracking phrase, despite or maybe because of its lack of meaning – normal things are always wildly difficult. Isn’t it the case that you never feel more outside of yourself than when you are doing something you think you are supposed to do? Doing normal things is like playing a massive life-encompassing game of follow-the-leader when nobody knows who the leader is – their just sure it isn’t them.


Here are some other phrases I find nerve-wracking, only some of which have meaning:
fiscal responsibility
hang in there
life choice
truly humbling experience
crystal clear
not an exit
identifies as
and criss cross applesauce … Well, that one’s not nerve-wracking if you really just want me to sit down cross-legged. But if it comes with the assumption that I will be squirm-free and attentive, we might have a problem.


It actually gives me a little thrill that my young attempt to be normal was, in fact, very, very not normal. I don’t often ride buses at all these days. I sure as hell won’t walk out of my way to hop on an unnecessary one…

I mean that both literally and metaphorically, in case that wasn’t crystal clear.

More info: Erin Rollman is an all-around theatrical badass and incredible human. Learn more about Erin’s theatrical work at https://buntport.com/

Ash, from Poltergeist, by Alika Magas

ASH: Shift supervisor at a gay bar; an awesome kick-ass non-binary individual who knows a solid thing or two about the way the world really works. Very mature while somehow utterly inarticulate. They/Them/Theirs.

ASH. Hey Kitt, it’s me. Obviously. Hey, I, uh, well I just wanted to call and see how the

(HEAVY air quotes on this one, even if it’s not with their fingers.)

“hang out” is going. I still think you’re an idiot for doing this, so I don’t know if silence is a good thing or a bad thing and I’m not trying to like be a total queer dad-mom-parent-whatever about this or anything, I’m really not, you’re a big boy, you got this and shit like that. But. You’re always texting updates when you’re like this– Jeez. Sorry. Look at me, getting over involved in my friends again. Wow. Okay. Well, call me or text me or something? Just don’t do anything I’d tell you not to or regret or– goddamn it there I go again. I’m gonna hang up before it gets worse or the voicemail lady cuts me off. Okay. Call me back or something. Bye.

ASH. I’m so so sorry, Henry–

(A long beat. Relive the warning, the attempt, the long night in the hospital afterwards.)

–you were my regular for almost longer than Kitt’s worked there, and I– I should have known. Fuck, I was pouring that beer and… something was up, you’re always jittery but not like that and I didn’t do anything I just let you walk out of that fucking bar while I told my story and all I wanted was to get to the end. How messed up is that? You were sitting there, red flags might as well been on fire, and all I can think to myself is: damn, I hope he doesn’t make some dry joke or interrupts, he really needs to hear the end. I really need him to hear the end. But does it matter?

(Another beat.)

What matters is I was thinking that and you were…


Can we talk about something else?

ASH. Hey Kitt, it’s me. Obviously. Y’all are probably still in the air. Lucky fuckers. Still love you though, any way, I just wanted to know if y’all had a safe flight so call me when you land or something and jesus I’m doing the queer dad mom parent thing again and I still really need to learn to stop with that don’t I? I guess, guess we both do actually. Don’t tell Henry I said this, he’d probably get all defensive and stuff, kid couldn’t take a compliment even if I wrote it into a screamo song, jesus christ, but I’m proud of you two. Like a lot. My two little babies are growing up. Okay that one was intentional, I’m not that bad. I’d like to think I’m not. But… uh… yeah. So remember to do some fun things while you’re out there, kay? I’ve heard Casa Bonita is actually a real place so maybe track that shit down and send me a few pictures or something. We could video chat on the Face time maybe? Okay that is like the single most old-person parent thing that’s ever come out of my mouth so I’m just gonna hang up now before I say anything else or the stupid voicemail lady cuts me off. But, really. Have a good break, smoke a joint, don’t let Henry get too angsty and–

(The voicemail lady cuts them off)


More info: alikamagas (at) gmail (dot) com

Candy Heart, by Woodzick

WRENN (they/them, AFAB).

I’m writing this because I’m on the plane and the guy next to me is watching a documentary about Hitler and I honestly don’t know his intentions behind watching it. So, in case I die while on or getting off this flight, I wanted you to read this. I don’t know if I would be able to say any of this in person.

I get that you’re a gay guy. And I guess the thing is that on the inside I’ve always felt like I was a gay guy, too. Gay men are always the people I have been attracted to the most. The ones who break my heart the most. The “oh, if I were straight, I’d totally date you, but I’m not straight, and so….”

I am painfully aware that my outside doesn’t always match my inside, and I don’t know if it ever will in that way. I like the me I’ve become, not a man and definitely not a woman, but instead something that is both and neither at the same time.

The thing is, my heart is on the inside and my heart thinks it could be, would really like to try being with your heart and, I know, I know have the tendency to be naive and idealistic, but on some, basic, human level, isn’t that the only thing that should matter?

So here I am, in front of you, asking you if you think you could be with someone like me. Or try?

I hate being vulnerable and I hate that I keep trying at this and people either hook up with me and tell me it was a mistake or they tell me I’m a mistake and they just don’t think they could ever picture themselves being with someone like me.

I think my heart can only survive so many more of these conversations.

It takes a lot for me to be saying this to you. And, sincerely, I’m not trying to force a certain answer. I just wanted you to know that—this is not something I share lightly. It’s not something I do often.

But I’m doing it because I think you might just be worth it and it’s OK if you’re not. And it’s OK if you don’t think of me that way.

But it’s really rare that I feel this way about somebody, so I just had to try.

Narrator, from 10 Myths on the Proper Application of Beauty Products, by Buntport Theater in collaboration with Diana Dresser, Miriam Suzanne and Michael Morgan

Narrator (a trans egg):

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.

Bunport Theater is awesome! Check out their work and upcoming shows here!

If I Were A Cis Man, a parody by Sandy Sahar Gooen

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
(Chazanut/yeshivish riffing)
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!