Female

CARLY:  I’m very attractive. I am. I’ve always been that way but it’s no great big deal to me—if anything, it’s worked against me for most of my life. (Beat.) It’s about this (Points.) My face. I was born with it, people. That’s all. I have been given this thing to wear around, my features, and I’m stuck with it. And yes, over the years it’s gotten me things, I won’t lie about that, dates and into clubs that I really wanted to get into or smiles from my father . . . but as I got older it suddenly became a kind of, I dunno what, but almost like a problem. A real bother that I don’t have any control over. (Beat.) Listen, I’m not stupid, I know I should be thankful, that I should pray to heaven and be happy that I’m not scarred or missing an ear—I know girls who hate, I mean, despise their noses and mouths or the fact that their eyes are too far out on their faces . . . I don’t have any of those problems and I’m happy about that. I look in the mirror and I see some beautiful woman looking back at me; my worst day, a line or two, a little pale or whatnot, but a really good face in there. Smiling. I’m not saying that I don’t understand how I got lucky in many ways, I do get that, I do, I just want folks to comprehend that beauty comes with a price, just like ugly does. A different one, of course, and I’ll take what I’ve got, but I’ve cried myself to sleep at night because of who I am as well, and you should know that . . . (Beat.) I hope my baby’s OK,—did I mention that we found out it was a little girl? But I really hope she’s no more than pretty, that’s my wish. That she’s not some beauty queen that people can’t stop staring at because I’d hate that for her . . . to be this object, some thing that people can’t help gawking at. ‘Cause if she is— born like I was, is what I’m saying—if she ends up with a face that is some sorta magnet for men, the way I’ve been . . . I’d almost rather it was a situation where she was oblivious to it—not blind or anything, I wouldn’t wish that on her, but close. Some sort of oblivion that gets pasted over her eyes so she can go about life and not be aware that people are cruel in many ways. . . not just with their words but with the ways they look at you and desire you and, and, and . . . almost hate you because of it. (Smiles.) I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get all heavy or anything, but I do think about it sometimes. My shift at work’s kinda long, you know? It is . . . so I’ve usually got some time on my hands to, you know. . . whatever. Think, I guess.

ZILLAH: Dear Mr. President, I know you will never read this letter. I’m fully aware of the fact that letters to you don’t even make it to the White House, that they’re brought to an office building in Maryland where civil-servant types are paid to answer the sane ones. Crazy, hostile letters – like mine – the ones written in crayon on butcher paper, the ones made of letters cut out of magazines – these get sent to the FBI, analyzed, Xeroxed and burned. But I send them anyway, once a day, and do you know why? Because the loathing I pour into these pages is so ripe, so full-to-bursting, that it is my firm belief that anyone touching them will absorb into their hands some of the toxic energy contained therein. This toxin will be passed upwards – it is the nature of bureaucracies to pass things vertically – till eventually, through a network of handshakes, the Under-Secretary of Outrageous Falsehoods will shake hands with the Secretary for Pernicious Behavior under the Cloak of Night, who will, on a weekly basis in Cabinet meetings, shake hands with you before you nod off to sleep. In this way, through osmosis, little droplets of contagion are being rubbed into your leathery flesh every day – in this great country of ours there must be thousands of people who are sending you poisoned post. We wait for the day when all the grams and drams and dollops of detestation will destroy you. We attack from below. Our day will come. You can try to stop me. You can raise the price of stamps again. I’ll continue to write. I’m saving up for a word processor. For me and my cause, money is no object.

Love, Zillah

CAROL: The issue here is not what I “feel.” It is not my “feelings,” but the feelings of women. And men. Your superiors, who’ve been “polled,” do you see? To whom evidence has been presented, and who have ruled, do you see? Who have weighed the testimony and the evidence, and have ruled, do you see? That you are negligent. That you are guilty, that you are found wanting, and in error; and are not, for the reasons so-told, to be given tenure. That you are to be disciplined. For facts. For facts. Not “alleged,” what is the word? But proved. Do you see? By your own actions. That is what the tenure committee has said. That is what my lawyer said. For what you did in class. For what you did in this office. They’re going to discharge you. As full well they should. You don’t understand? You’re angry? What has led you to this place? Not your sex. Not your race. Not your class. YOUR OWN ACTIONS. And you’re angry. You ask me here. What do you want? You want to “charm” me. You want to “convince” me. You want me to recant. I will not recant. Why should I…? What I say is right. You tell me, you are going to tell me that you have a wife and child. You are going to say that you have a career and that you’ve worked for twenty years for this. Do you know what you’ve worked for? Power. For power. Do you understand? And you sit there, and you tell me stories. About your house, about all the private schools, and about privilege, and how you are entitled. To buy, to spend, to mock, to summon. All your stories. All your silly weak guilt, it’s all about privilege; and you won’t know it. Don’t you see? You worked for twenty years for the right to insult me. And you feel entitled to be paid for it.

ELIZABETH: My mother told me to pray each day since I was a little girl, to pray that you borrow everything, everyone you love, from God. That way your heart doesn’t ‘break when you have to give your son, or your mother, or your husband, back to God. I prayed, Jesus, let me be humble. I borrowed my child, I borrowed my husband, I borrowed my own life from you, God. But he felt like mine not like God’s he felt like mine more mine than anything. God must have this huge horrible cabinet – all the babies who get returned – and all those babies inside, they’re all crying even with God Himself to rock them to sleep, still they want their mothers. So when I started to feel something for this baby, for your baby, I thought no, take her back God. When I first met her all I could think was: she is alive and Henry is not. I had all this milk – I wished it would dry up. Just get through the year, I thought. Your milk will dry up and you will forget. The more healthy your baby got, the more dead my baby became. I thought of her like a tick. I thought – fill her up and then pop! You will see the blood of my Henry underneath. But she seemed so grateful for the milk. Sometimes I hated her for it. But she would look at me, she would give me this look – I do not know what to call it if it is not called love. I hope every day you keep her – you keep her closer to you – and you remember the blood that her milk was made from. The blood of my son, my Henry. Good-bye, Mrs. Givings.

ROBERTA: I can’t stay like I am! I can’t stay in this fuckin head anymore! If I don’t get outta this fuckin head I’m gonna go crazy! I could eat glass! I could put my hand inna fire an watch the fuckin thing burn and I still wouldn’t be outta this fuckin head! What am I gonna do? What? I can’t close my eyes, man. I can’t close my eyes and see the things I see. I’m still in that house! I wouldn’t a believed it but I’m still in that house. He’s there and I’m there. And my kid. Who’s nuts already. It’s like, what could happen now? You know? What else could happen? But somethin’s gotta. I feel like the day’s gonna come when I could just put out my arm and fire and lightning will come outta my hand and burn up everything for a thousand miles! It ain’t right to feel as much as I feel.

TIFFANY: Yes. Do you feel that? That’s emotion. Has anybody ever told you how Tommy died? We were married for three years and five days, and I loved him. But for the last couple months, I just wasn’t into sex at all. It just felt like we were so different and I was depressed. Some of that is just me, some of it was he wanted me to have kids and I have a hard enough time taking care of myself. I don’t think that makes me a criminal. Anyway one night after dinner, he drove to Victoria’s Secret at King of Prussia Mall and got some lingerie to get something going. And on the way back, he stopped on 76 to help a guy with a flat tire and he got hit by a car and killed. And the Victoria’s Secret box was still in the front seat. (pause) That’s a feeling.