A single black mother tells her adult son about his absent father and their heritage.
Mother: I never liked my name. The family name. Sound like an ugly song. Felt like that my whole life. I would think about it and the white people that had it before us and wonder why they would pass that shit on to us. A legacy of beige. Went through life feeling like nothing special. Then your Daddy hit me. This short, hairy, odd, African with these eyes. Here he was, twenty-two years old, and he had these sad eyes. And then he told me his name… Oh, blew my mind… I couldn’t even say it. Must of been something I lost and my tongue forgot where to put it. Looking into those eyes, hearing that name. The secrets that song must hold. The story of the short African with sad eyes. I had to be with him. He had something. He was the thing, the one person, besides you, I worked the hardest on. I knew after he found out about you, he was gonna make me honest… give me his song to sing. I told him about you and he just looked at me with the same sad eyes. I gave him a choice, said change my name or…Packed my shit up, moved, and started my life with you. I promised myself, I’m gonna do the best by you, with what song I got. That name you got. I know it ain’t filled with ancient meaning and chances are, way back, we took from someone who took from us much more than can be mended. But you say you love it…Why would you throw away something you love?
—End of Monologue—
Like Dreaming, Backwards – 18 – 26 age range
Natalie was friends with Nell, who recently committed suicide.
Natalie: I dropped her off, that night, about a quarter to two. I should have asked her to come over. Or at least asked her if anything was wrong. But she seemed normal. Not happy, exactly. But… like herself.
I met her freshman year, in Introduction to British Literature. We made each other laugh. She was… bitter, and cynical, but still, really nice… I knew she had depression… but… it was weird. We had fun together, you know? I never really made sense of that.
That night, we saw a play. And then we went to a midnight movie. I was nodding off through the last half of it, I’d gotten up early that morning to go running. And, I keep wondering… if there was something… in the play, or in the movie, some trigger, or… some reason. Something that could… set her off, you know? Something I missed.
I just keep trying to look for clues. For answers. She had survived so much. Why that night?
—End of Monologue—
Your Money’s Worth – 30 + age range
Jessie’s therapist is verbally abusive. Finally, she fights back.
Jessie: Believe it or not, sometimes my life sucks beyond the telling of it. And I don’t understand why me trying to kill myself makes you want to buy me new clothes and clean my apartment. Buying new clothes doesn’t fix clinical depression. You’re sitting there telling me to tie a ribbon on a gunshot wound.
I didn’t come in here and say “Fix me.” I work. I work every goddamned day. I got myself to class when I wanted to kill myself, I’ve held down jobs, gone to work when I would have rather drank bleach. I made friends, I supported them in times of crisis. I’ve even dated. All while being in a living hell. I work. You don’t know me, you don’t know what my life is, and you can’t blame me for feeling desperate, for wanting a way out. I’m not all the other people you’ve treated, okay? Stop treating me like an age group. I’m a human being.
Normally, I’d just make another appointment, cancel it, and ignore your calls. But, I’ve confronted you. And you know what? That’s huge for me! I’ve aired my grievances, you’ve refused to acknowledge me, and now, I’m done. One of us is being insane, and for once, it’s not me.
Acting for Film, Acting for Film: Scripted TV, Movement, Improvisation, Business of Acting, Scene Study, Building a demo Reel, acting Technique and Scene Study, Singing for Actors, Voice and Speech, Stunt Workshop and accent reduction.