![]() ![]() The cup was passed around for all of us to drink. He slit your throat, a flash of unbearable pain, while a soldier about my age held a cup to collect your blood. I screamed and cried, but he held his knife to my throat and said he’d kill me, too, if I made one more sound. There you were, the next one to be sacrificed. Then they performed the ritual to make us brave. They gave us drugs, slitting our foreheads with razors so cocaine would go directly into the bloodstream. How I loved you! I would have gladly given my life for you, but it wouldn’t have helped. But already such a bright little girl! Laughing and chattering such pretty sounds. This refusal of the child catalyzes her recollection of what happened to her own baby when she was a child soldier. She refuses to take Martina’s baby, Sofia, should Martina die, because she prefers to remain focused on her education. She has learned that her friend, Martina, a gang member, is HIV+. Where she struggles to navigate the battlefield of an inner-city high school while keeping her past a secret and striving for an education. Thalia Cunninghamĭestiny, a former child soldier in Liberia, has come to the United States as an undocumented refugee, I don’t know if it was a girl dressed like a guy or a guy dressed like a girl dressed like a guy. Like it was all some elaborate scheme I thought up. (Pause.)Ī couple of weeks ago some people were even saying I had something to do with it. ![]() The black student would have been arrested and we wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right? (Detective doesn’t answer.) Then we wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that true? If one of Tim’s black students was angry with him, the black student would have shot Tim right there in the moment. īut you know black kids don’t really do that, do they? Black kids don’t go into the cafeteria and shoot up everybody or stalk teachers and shoot them. Now, I hear they’re wondering if maybe it was a student of Tim’s seeking revenge or something. Did you hear that?. Here she is talking to a detective about the crime. Jessica’s husband was murdered when the couple stopped for gasoline in a black neighborhood. I have no visuals of prom dresses or favorite sweater or shoes I couldn’t live without.Ĭlothes are just something I use for cover, leaving room for one electric blue memory.Ī monologue from the play by Tracey Scott Wilson To this day that bathrobe is the only piece of clothing I can actually see in my mind. Sent away to the same place my mother’s clothes went, I assume. “My Mom had the same bathrobe in blue.” “Oh,” she said.Īnd that robe disappeared. But that morning, I knew that rule was about to be broken. ![]() The unspoken rule in my house was that my mom’s name was never mentioned after her death. Electric blue. What are the chances of that really? My mother had had the same exact bathrobe – in blue. We all looked at each other then back at Mary as she happily made her way to the stove to put on the kettle. She was wearing a long burgundy velour three-quarter sleeve zip bathrobe with a thick vertical white stripe down the center, surrounding the zipper. That first morning she was there, I was eating breakfast with a few of my siblings when my new stepmom walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. (Beat)Ī few years later my dad got remarried to a lovely woman. When we returned, we found her side of the closet empty. The IRA was nowhere near as scary as what had just happened to our lives. I guess he thought we could best recover from the trauma of her death by living in a war zone. The fact is that no item of clothing has ever moved me in any way – except one.Īfter my mom died, my father took his five motherless children to Belfast, Northern Ireland. We’d laugh about how great our lives turned out and make plans for the things we were still going to do.īut that’s all a dream, because my mother did not live. It would be at a café where we would have salad and like it. I would wear a lot of tasteful make-up too. Mom and I would shop together at the places that moms and daughters go – a department store, an outlet mall, the flea market. I would know what went with what, and everything I tried on would fit. In my fantasy world, had my mother lived, I would be extremely well-dressed. Then again, I blame pretty much everything on that, my weight, my addiction to television, my inability to spell. For many years I blamed this on my mom’s death. The truth is, I have no fashion sense – never did. ![]() LOVE, LOSS, AND WHAT I WOREĪ monologue from the play by Nora and Delia Ephron Henry VI Part III 21 Best Contemporary Dramatic Monologues For Women From Published Plays 1. 19 Dramatic Shakespeare Monologues For Women.24 CLASSICAL DRAMATIC MONOLOGUES FOR WOMEN.19 Dramatic Monologues For Women From Movies.20 Dramatic Monologues For Women From Tv-Shows.21 Best Contemporary Dramatic Monologues For Women From Published Plays. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |