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.

Alex, by Jamie Zeske

Alex (any female or gender neutral pronouns):

I know what you want me to say, about coming out: the secret shame, the “It Gets Better,” the well-adjusted gay adult embracing marriage equality, but that’s not me. That’s not how it happened. My coming out wasn’t this all-in-one, family dinner, Facebook post I could just get it over with all at once, it’s a lifelong process. Starting back in elementary school with jerks (“You’re a faggot”) and my friends (“Everyone thinks I’m gay just cuz I’m friends with you”) and my Junior High boyfriend (“Everyone knows about you, and if everyone knows about you they’ll know about me, and if they know about me I’ll never talk to you again, I’ll hate you, I’ll hurt you.”) And then in High School, my Drama teachers (“Bisexuality is a lie! It’s a phase, pick a lane!”) I never felt shame for who I was or who I wanted to be with, but shame was planted inside of me. All I knew is I liked people, and hugging and laughing, and sharing secrets at sleepovers. But shame was planted in me and so I carried it around. I carried it through trying out for cheer leading and, “Why are you friends with only girls?” and getting my head slammed into tile and knocking out my two front teeth on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. And so I carried it. And then I started to find words that made a bit more sense to me, like “transgender” and “genderqueer” and “woman trapped in a man’s body,” except I’m not trapped in a man’s body, I’m trapped in a man’s role. So I came out, again in 2012 to my family, my friends, my co-workers. They all know I’m a girl. Everyone knows I’m a girl but still all day, every day, I have to come out. To gas station clerks, to customers, to Lyft drivers, to therapists, to Grindr hookups, to the lawyer for my DWI case. Everyone knows I’m a girl, or “that I think I’m a girl,” but still, all day, every day, I get a lot of “sir”s and “bro”s…being treated as a man even though I’m a woman, even I begin to question it, it gets in my head. The shame and doubt are planted too. So I have to look at myself, and come out to myself: as a queer, as a woman, of someone worthy of love, as someone with a lot of love to give. And when I do that, it gets better.

Context about the monologue: This is an original stand-alone monologue from a video project.


Crissy, from Trans/Actions by K. Woodzick and Ayla Sullivan

CRISSY. I feel more comfortable choreographing for the girls now. (Beat.) I went to the hardware store the other day, to get an extra set of keys made and the clerk gave them to me and said, “Here you go, sir.” (Beat.) And I corrected her and said “My pronouns are she, her and hers and I actually go by miss.” And she said “Well, good for you,” and walked away. (Beat.) I told the management of the store and they kept asking me to give them more information. And I eventually got to the point where I was done. I choose to be an advocate, but I don’t have to put myself in a position to educate others all the time. (Beat.) Just once, I would like someone to ask, you know? To go into a store and have a clerk ask “What are your pronouns?” That would be…that would be….

(There are no words. The Song of the Roasted Swan from Carmina Burana starts to play. CRISSY begins to dance.) 

Playwrights: K. Woodzick and Ayla Sullivan

Context: This monologue happens in the last scene of the play. Crissy, a ballet dancer, is reflecting on the ways in which she moves through the world.


Contact: nonbinarymonologues (at) gmail (dot) com


Mari, by Philip Dawkins

MARI. (trans woman, trans feminine) I knew it as soon as Miss Hansen say, “boys on this side the gym, girls on that side,” and I knew that Eddie would be like, “Mari, you go on the boy side, cuz you a dyke!“ WHICH IS STUPID because dyke means lesbians and lesbians are girls not boys! And, I’m just like trying to ignore him. But then Miss Hansen’s like, “That is inappropriate, Eddie” and like “You cannot say that about people,” and I’m like “please shut up, please stop calling this attention to me–” And like everybody is looking at me.

So I pushed him down. To make it be over. You know? I didn’t want to hurt him. Ohmygod, if I wanted to hurt him, he would be hurt.

But then Eddie starts crying, and everyone’s staring at me, and, and I can hear what they’re thinking. But that’s not me!

So why’s everyone keep pointing at me and call me boy names and, like—? I don’t even look at people no more because I’m too scared they’ll see it and they’ll know. I don’t want to be picked on or picked OUT or picked for anything. Just leave me alone!

[She tries very hard not to cry. Looking into her lap, unable to make eye contact any more, through the end of her speech.]

So, that’s why I pushed him. To make it be over. So can I please just get in trouble so then it’s just—it’s over? I just want it to be over. Please, please make it be over. Please.

Context:  Mari is a 12-year-old Puerto Rican kid who was assigned a male gender at birth. She speaks now to her principal, after being sent to her office for pushing another kid during P.E.

More information: If you have questions about this monologue, please reach out Philip directly at philipdawkins (at) gmail (dot) com


Roland/Laureline, from Cercle Hermaphroditos, by Shualee Cook

Roland/Laureline: Tell me something first.  Before tonight, did you know there were others like Ambrose? Then, so far as you knew, he was a complete anomaly. And back when you supported him, you quickly found out you were alone too? I spent most of my youth that way. Only child. Only one I knew who couldn’t take their body for an answer. I did my best to hide that difference. Tried for a while to fight it. But then I discovered that it gave me special powers. My tongue could explain men and women to one another in a way each understood. My eyes could detect an invisible burden on someone’s back, or a secret in their heart. And most importantly, my face was etched with an openness to outcasts that only they could see. People felt safe in my presence. Would reveal themselves to me. Tell me things they’d never whispered to another soul. It’s then I saw that Loneliness, this monster hovering over my whole life, was a horrible liar. There is no such thing as aloneness. Only isolation caused by fear. There will always be someone who feels on the outside too, and understands. The trick is to find them. So that became my mission. I made connections, quiet introductions, weaving misfits together into one great colorful tapestry. You wanted to listen to who I am? Well, here it is, far more precise than man or woman or androgyne.  I am a knight in the war against Loneliness. Wherever I find it, I push back and make a family. I am a recruiter in the campaign for the meek to inherit the earth. I am a warrior of the unity of God. What is or isn’t beneath my skirts will always be secondary to that.  So you’re welcome here, Bertram. And free to be whatever version of yourself you wish.

Context: Cercle Hermaphroditos tells the story of a real-life social club for gender misfits in New York City in 1895. Roland/Laureline, the founder of the club confides to Bertram, who has just discovered that the gender-bending games he used to play with his younger sibling Violet/Ambrose were more serious than he thought, and is trying to understand this new world he finds himself in.

More information:

Ariela, from Charm, by Phillip Dawkins

ARIELA (Puerto Rican trans woman) I think it’s really great what you are doing for these kids, being like a role model to them? Mira, I’m 33 years old and I ain’t never had not trans people to look up to. I mean, my mami was accepting of me, and she give me all this freedom and stuff, but like I kinda wished I had somebody giving me boundaries, you know? Then, maybe I would not had had all my surgeries right away. Because like I thought there was only one way to be a woman, you know? And like I wanted to move out and live with my pimp and like–Jesus, if somebody had just told me “no”….So, yeah, I think you can really help these chicas. Like a lot.

Context: Charm depicts the colorful inner workings of an etiquette class taught by Mama Darleena Andrews, an African-American transgender woman, in an LGBTQ organization known as The Center. Despite her students’ daily battles with identity, poverty and prejudice, Mama’s powerful love and unapologetic attitude ultimately help her pupils find a new way to respect each other and to redefine what “having charm” means. Inspired by the true story of Miss Gloria Allen and her work at Center on Halsted, this new play carries a message of dignity and inclusion to all those it touches.

More information:

Vi, from the Mermaid Hour, by David Valdes Greenwood

VI. (trans woman) I am a mermaid. My name is Violet. And this is my story. Most people don’t know that there’s a magic time, a little blue window, when mermaids can be anything they want. Not part fish and part human, but all at once themselves: tail strong enough to walk on, lungs able to hold air and water. When a mermaid is under the sea, she is all fish, swimming like the others, water flowing through her. But she thinks: I am not fish. I want to breathe the way the mortal humans do. When a mermaid is on land, she must give up her tail and take on legs, wobble along until it feels ok, and breathe only air, like mortals. But then she thinks: I am not mortal either. She is happiest in the mermaid hour, the time you see her on the rock, beautiful fins sweeping across stone, her chest rising and falling with fresh air in full lungs. It’s only there, where air and ocean meet, that she’s everything she wants to be. No one needs her to have legs, no one wonders at the smoothness of her perfect tail. When you see her sitting on a rock in the mermaid hour, she isn’t waiting for a prince to come and make her human. She’s singing a song for the sailor who will see magic in how she looks at sunset. I am a mermaid and I have I found a sailor who sees my magic. He loves the sea like he’s supposed to love the land so he knows about being caught between “should be” and “is.” He saw me in the mermaid hour and said I was beautiful. When we are together, in mermaid light, atop my rock, free from land or sea, fish or mortal, we are beautiful. You can be beautiful! You can be the mermaid! I LOVE YOU JACOB ENDO!

Context: For Pilar and Bird, navigating their tween daughter Violet’s transition is tricky as they juggle not only their own opposing parenting styles but her impulsive nature. Vi is just as concerned about her best friend Jacob, who she wishes was her boyfriend, and when nothing is going as she wants, she makes a YouTube video that pushes everyone’s buttons. As her parents wrestle with all of Vi’s choices, they confront the gaps between them as a couple–and which they’ll have to overcome to see them all through.

More information:


Devon, from A Little But Not Normal, by Lillie Franks

DEVON (trans woman) It’s about two things. Two big things, at any rate. The first is acceptance. You probably don’t know what it’s like to be accepted for the first time at the age of 23. You’ve basically been accepted all your life. And, in a way, so was I. At least, something was. What people saw. What I let people see. But that wasn’t me, no matter how much I tried to make it. It was what people wanted me to be. What I wanted to be for them, for a while at least. Then, 23 years later, for the first time, I learned about a new way to understand myself, a way that could finally let me look at people and say ‘‘This is who I am; this is me’’ and actually mean. And you can’t imagine how crushing it was to call up my parents on the phone, the two people that I had always been able to trust, who had always been there for me, to say ‘‘This is who I am; this is me’’, mean it for once in my life and hear ‘‘No it’s not.’’ That was part of it.

The second is harder. I know you wish it were something you had said or done. Sometimes I wish it were too. But it’s not. Not quite.


DEVON (trans woman) Imagine you walk into a room and it’s full of people. Every once and awhile, someone screams at you. And that’s unpleasant, and it’s unpleasant to wait for it, but also, constantly, everyone in the room is whispering over and over in a hundred different ways that you don’t belong. And if you point to any one of them it’s just a whisper, but with everyone whispering it turns into a roar. And every time you want to make yourself heard, you have to shout over the roar of not belonging. It wasn’t one thing. It was a thousand little things that added up. And I couldn’t tell you what any of them were because all of them were so small. But also, I couldn’t keep shouting. No matter how much I loved you, I couldn’t shout then. And I can’t shout now.

I’m not interested in trying to fix our relationship. I’m happy where I am. I’ve established myself and my place, and I don’t want to deal with my past anymore. You’re welcome to stay for however long you planned to visit. But once you leave, I’m not interested in seeing or hearing from you again.

More information:


Grace, from Ballast, by Georgette Kelly

GRACE. (trans woman)
First, I would like to thank you for such a warm welcome
to your community.
Joining a new church can be…
It’s a new transition.
Full of old questions:
How has the past pushed me?
Where will the future find me?
What will this new day hold?
The psalmist wrote,
O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know when I fall down.
You know when I rise up.
And I will rise up.
If I take wings—
the wings of the morning—
the wings of my mourning—
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall guide me.
Even the darkness?
Is not dark to you.
The night is as bright as the day.
The night is as bright…
as the light.
You formed my inward parts;
I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
In your book are written all the days—
even this one—
before they exist.
And here they are.

Context: What does it mean to love someone in a moment of great transition? Zoe dreams of flying—of escaping to new heights—while her wife, Grace, dreams of standing in a pulpit before a religious community that accepts her recent transition from male to female. 16-year-old Savannah dreams only of her first love, Xavier, who is coping with becoming a man. Meanwhile Xavier is haunted by the nightmares he sees staring back at him from the mirror. Ballast tells the story of two relationships between transgender and cisgender partners, exploring not only the way gender influences our relationships, but also how gender seeps into our spirituality, our dreams, and even our ability to take flight.

More information: