april 15 2015 outsiders monologues 900 room.xml

Media

Part of Outsiders' Monologues showcase tonight in 900

content: living davidson
Dance Ensemble rocks Duke Family Performance Hall
Page 4 April 15, 2015
Over the weekend,
Dance Ensemble
showcased the latest
and greatest student
dance talent. The night
ing, lyrical numbers
Ensemble features
The show added a new
a real treat, and the
crew and Dance En
managed the shows.
Photos by Tommy Rhodes
Outsiders’ Monologues showcase tonight in 900
ANONYMOUS
GUEST CONTRIBUTOR
R
amblings of a Dark-Skinned Girl in a Sea
of White Shadows.
#1. I am the dark eyed girl. I am the pariah
by force. I am the other by force. I am self-crit-
ical by choice.
#13. I am a phenomenal woman, but some-
times I question my confidence because of the
look on your face. It says I don’t belong. It says
I’m unattractive. It says I’m not worth your time.
#6. I’m pretty for a dark-skinned girl, but
sometimes I’m “not your thing”. This shouldn’t
hurt, but today it did.
#99. I wouldn’t change it for anything.
“Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am
the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise. I rise.
I rise.” I have risen, I will keep rising, and your
standard of beauty will mean nothing to me. I
have the blood of giants running through my
veins. You will not take this from me.
#24. I do not want to be your exotic vacation
destination. I do not want to be your sexual ex-
ploration. I refuse to be your step outside of the
white male heteronormative box.
#40. I am strong. I am independent, but
sometimes I ache for the agency that you don’t
even have to define, the privilege that you don’t
even see.
#63. Don’t be fooled. I do not wait for your
pale skin to label my dark skin as an acceptable
form of beauty. I wait for the day when I no lon-
ger have to assume that black women can be ig-
nored and assume correctly.
#7. I yearn for the day when my beauty does
not come with a condition of color.
#32. Sometimes I hate caring. Being a wom-
an is hard. Being a black woman is harder. And
a lot more lonely.
#4. What do you do when you’re not one of
the well-known black party girls? What if you
are? Why did I even put “black” as an adjective,
like a qualifier? What does it mean that even I
do this? Shit.
#50. Maybe my greatest tragedy is never
knowing what it feels like to be that pretty black
girl. Maybe I’m worse off for even considering
this.
#1. You don’t get to matter anymore. I am
self-critical by choice, but I am beautiful, fear-
fully and wonderfully made. I wish your pale
skin could have had the chance to understand
my complexities and be enveloped in my grace-
ful black beauty and black strength and black
love and black struggle and black pain and black
laugh and black God and black intelligence and
black blackness. I’m not sure you were in the
right place, and I don’t have time to wait. I truly
wish you the best and the brightest and the fu-
ture and ten more advantages over the ones you
already have. Maybe one day I’ll see you again
and you’ll see me and I’ll see you and you’ll just
know. Until then, walk peacefully and sleep gen-
tly, surrounded by the soothing curtains of black
darkness.
“Ramblings of a Dark-Skinned
Girl in a Sea of White Shad-
ows...” Monologue,
2014
T
he first time I saw the word “asexual” was
in a biology textbook.
(Asexual reproduction. Something
amoebas do.)
The second time I saw it was in an online article
about an asexual woman dating a heterosexual
man.
(Anonymous: “That guy got friend-zoned
so hard he made it into the news.)
The third time I saw it, I was typing it into Goo-
gle’s search bar.
(When a boy puts his tongue in my
mouth, there’s supposed to be a “spark,”
isn’t there?)
The fourth time I saw it was in me, when I finally
understood how to define myself.
(Asexual. Noun. Someone who does not
experience sexual attraction.)
Where I didn’t see it was in my mother’s under-
standing, when I told her what I had learned.
(“Oh honey, there’s nothing wrong with
you.”)
Nor did I see it in my friend’s acceptance of me
when I opened up to him.
(“Maybe you just haven’t met the right
person yet.”)
I didn’t see it in my perfectly regular hormone
balance, no matter how many times they asked
me.
(“Have you had your hormones checked?”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Isn’t there a pill for that?”)
I didn’t see it in the Davidson 101 Sexuality poll
either.
(“Q” for “Questioning” since everyone
tells me that’s what I must be doing.)
I don’t even see it in LGBTQIA, which is always
cleaved down the middle because too many
letters—too many identities—is unpalatable to
most.
(“A stands for ally!”
“LGBTQIA? That’s a bit too much, don’t
you think?”)
And sometimes—
I don’t see me.
Because being 1% of the population makes me
negligible.
Because seven hundred thousand people world-
wide don’t really count.
And when I don’t see me,
I have to pretend I’m not me.
Because it’s easier to pretend than it is to
explain.
And it’s easier to fake it than it is to hear some-
one say that I am broken—
that I am lacking something inherently
human.
Or worse, for some stranger to tell me
that I will never truly understand how to
love another person,
if I’m not f*****g them.
Check out this year’s Oustiders’ Monologues to-
night in the 900 Room at 8 p.m. The event will
feature student actors performing student-written
monologues. There will also be free Chipotle.
ANONYMOUS
GUEST CONTRIBUTOR
‘aesexual’ was in a biology
textbook...” Monologue, 2014
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