TWENTY STUDENT MONOLOGUES AND AN UNEXPECTED DIALOGUE

Index
Introduction
One not
Two Rachel
Three Sola
Four The theater will save me
Five Strike
Six Do you love us?
Seven I wanted to tell them the truth
Eight Poems for my teacher
Nine Maybe someday
Ten Praise of Slowness
Eleven A normal girl
Twelve Confession
Thirteen Confession
Fourteen You will not know my dreams
Fifteen The abyss shakes me
Sixteen They should have told us the truth
Seventeen, a matter of two?
Eighteen The end of the world
Nineteen Without a cell phone
Twenty Laughter, so long ago
GIVE ME YOUR HAND
 "I live by asking: knowing cannot be a luxury"
(Silvio Rodríguez, Escaramujo)

Introduction
Several years ago I started writing these monologues. This temporal reference only
wants to express the difficulty that its writing has entailed. Difficulty that lies in the
search for a voice halfway between my own experience and the virtual experience of
the adolescent protagonists. In the attempt to express in a certain situation what
they would say or what I would say in their place if I could listen to them. I am not
discovering anything if I say that youth theater (like the novel) tries to establish a
dialogue with the public to which it is directed. Through the monologues that I have
titled students, I would like to awaken reflections, questions and answers to
problems that surround us. In all the monologues except one, the seventh, the
protagonists are young people, almost all of them adolescents, and, in one way or
another, they revolve around education or have to do with adjacent aspects.
My relationship with monologues is also found in the fact that for several years I
have been working in my Language and Literature classes with monologues. I
introduce them to a theater writing workshop 1 . We read various monologues in
class, from authors 2 or from the students themselves. The monologue serves as a
first approach to the theatrical genre, a voice that audibly communicates the inner
world of a character, who moves on a stage, who gestures, who tries to provoke a
reaction in the listener, which is determined by a context. , for a story that only
appears for a few moments. The monologue allows a first approach to
understanding dramatic conflict, fundamental, as we know; It offers us the possibility
of introducing one of the challenges of dramatic expression: the appearance of the
unexpected. Boys and girls like to read them or, above all, have them read to them,
and then they like to write them. As this writing is part of a broader process of writing
a theatrical text, sometimes this first monologue serves as the germinal idea of the
larger piece. (“A wonderful use of the monologue is to function as an initial outline of
a draft.”) 3
Indeed, like other pieces I have written, these monologues that I now present are
born from the interrelation between theatrical teaching and literary creation, from
which I have not been able to escape, for better or worse. Therefore, once they are
finished, I think about some of their possibilities in writing teaching sessions. I find
the request for parallel writing, before or after, reading it interesting. Thus, taking
some of the themes raised in the following monologues, the following ideas can be
proposed:
She 4 cannot pronounce the word “yes.”
She enters the house and, as always, no one is there.
He, harassed by other classmates, devises a plan to, through theater, get rid of
them.
Ella, a student activist, complains about the behavior of her classmates.
Two characters monologue in parallel about the emotional state of a teacher.
He assures that no one will ever know what happens to him.
He or she confesses before the public, as if it were a religious confession, some
important lie.
Tomorrow the world ends: he is happy for something he has done and regrets.
He monologues about the abyss that separates him from his parents.
She is referring to her unexpected pregnancy.
As a summary, my desire for these texts to serve as an invitation to write
monologues or other theatrical texts is clear here.
On the other hand, when I wrote these monologues I also took into account their
spectacular aspect, theater as representation. I believe that these texts allow
several scenic experiences:
As exercises in a process of teaching theatrical practice.
In a montage with all or several of the monologues with different dramaturgical
possibilities: parallel monologues, crossed voices from different spaces on the stage
or in the room, with thematic continuity or with a break, etc.
In the middle of the assembly of a larger theatrical text.
A monologue every Friday at recess.
The brevity of most of the monologues is intended to be an invitation to young
people who are beginning to do theater to a leisurely investigation (with the help of
their directors) on the ways of saying, on the movements that accompany the words,
about gestures, silences, looks... Before finishing this introduction I would like to
testify of my debt with two readings that, like the one mentioned by Marco Antonio
de la Parra, have contributed to these reflections: Alberto Miralles 5 and Sanchís
Sinisterra 6 . Alberto Miralles, with his compilation of monologues for exercises,
invited us to consider the monologue as a useful instrument for experimentation and
acting learning.
Sanchís Sinesterra, in his study of monologues, offers us an accurate analysis of
their various modalities, essential for anyone who seeks to teach through this
theatrical form. The present ordering of the monologues is due to chronological
writing criteria. Obviously, whoever is in charge of editing some of the monologues
(or why not think of them in their entirety) will have the absolute freedom to compose
them according to other criteria. Until now my first motivation for writing it has been
the news that I have received from the staging of other of my works
(www.Teatrojuvenilmaxidediego.Blogspot.Com.), therefore, I ask whoever is
encouraged to represent them to send me or to the publisher, news of the assembly.
As will be said at the time, some of these monologues have been part of collective
works and have already been performed or read in a dramatized way. My gratitude
and tribute to those teachers who, with great dedication, make it possible for theater
made by young people to take to the stage.
STUDENT MONOLOGUES

ONE
No

(SHE is 16 years old, more or less. Their clothes, out of the ordinary, do not follow
any fashion.)

HER: I don't know why they say I'm a rebel. Totally, because I don't like the word
“yes”. (He expresses his disgust expressively.) It's true, I never say it. I have it totally
prohibited. What's more, when I hear it I get sick. It makes me want to spit on
whoever said it. But I restrain myself, because although rebellious, I am polite. But
hey, I myself have recognized that I am a rebel. And I'm not, I really am not, but of
course, they repeat it to me so much that my subconscious seems to fail me and
accept it. But no, I'm not. (Pause.) What is it to be a rebel? Oppose the ideas of
others? I think that is having judgment. It annoys me to be told what I have to do:
study, collaborate at home, protect the environment... And let it be known that I am a
good student, a good cook, I iron my entire family's clothes, when I go to the
countryside I pick up the trash. (Insistently.) But I do it because I feel like it. I don't
need anyone to tell me what to do and if they tell me I refuse to do it. I let a few
minutes pass and I do it because I want to. (Pause.) The other day, mate day, I
refrained from giving an opinion about him, not because I was going to speak badly
of him, but because I am opposed to speaking about teachers, neither good nor
bad, I simply don't waste time with those things. We already pay enough attention to
them without talking about them, I won't tell you... As he was going, he asked me if I
had done exercise 24 on page 86. I had it, and I'm also sure it was fine, I'm an
expert in mathematics, really, it's not to be stupid. I, since I hate the word that is
used to affirm it, I answered “maybe.” He thought I was laughing at him and got
angry. He insisted that I tell him if I had done it or not. “Answer yes (disgusted face)
or no,” he told me. I couldn't say no because I had done it, but I couldn't say no
either, you know why. So I said, “Try, put me on the board.” That's when I put it
together. That if she was a pimp, that is not education. I almost said “yes”, (New
expression of disgust.) I was going to say that, AHEME, she was polite, but I kept
quiet. She made a note in her notebook and asked another classmate, who said no
and so on to another, to another, to another... no one had done it. Just me. I raised
my hand and said, “I want out.” He didn't even look at me. He started doing it on the
blackboard. He made a mistake twice, I suppose because of the tension, which I
had inadvertently created, and I had to give him a hand. He looked at me with a look
of hatred, but he corrected himself. When class ended, I could tell he wanted to spit
on me, but since he was polite, he didn't.
 TWO 7
Raquel

(He is about 16 years old. After a night of drinking. He is sitting on a curb, next to
him two empty beer bottles. Around it there is a lot of garbage and various
containers.)

HIM: Luis with Ana, Pedro with Clara, Javi with Merce... Yes, let me go with them...
They are good friends, it was hard for them to leave me alone... I realized and told
them that I had arranged to meet Raquel... I wish, what more would I want. I could
go home now. I'll wait. Maybe the lie becomes reality and appears at twelve, as I
told them. (Pause. He takes one of the two bottles, stands up and looks through it
towards the Moon, as if it were a spyglass. He does this for a few moments, then
puts down the bottle and sits down in the same place again. I don't know why old
people don't like the bottle thing. It's the best there is. Friends, some drinks, some
laughter... some dancing, some games... and Raquel. (Pause.) And Raquel, if she
came with us. The aunt said yes, yes, the next day will happen to me. Always says
the same. I know what's happening, why he's not coming. It's because of his
grandmother, yes, because of his grandmother. One day he told me in class, when
the teacher asked us what we thought of the bottle, that his grandmother didn't like it
at all, not about drinking, which she didn't like either, because she's very old, but
about the noise we make. Because she lives next to the park, she can't sleep a wink
until we leave. Which is up to our noses. That we are criminals, drug addicts, bitter
people. (Pause.) Become bitter? Yes, I think Raquel said this. I'm not sure. That's
when I stared into her eyes. (Pause.) Well, now the breasts, that day, with that
shirt... Now that I think about it... How is Raquel going to come if she doesn't even
know where I am? I was an asshole, I forgot to tell him that we had changed places,
that I convinced my colleagues that it was better to do it where we wouldn't bother
Raquel's grandmother, that is, her grandmother, or other grandmothers. It was
difficult for us to find the place. The park was prettier, but hey, it's not bad. A little
gray, but since it's night... It smells a little bad, but since girls put on perfume...
Maybe if we asked the city council for some masks... it wouldn't be so bad in this
garbage dump. Raquel, if you were here to ask me, I'm sure you could think of
something to change this shit a little. Although if you were there... it would... it would
be... the most beautiful place in the world. But how are you going to be if I haven't
told you... that I love you. (He gets up a little sad, picks up the two bottles and
places them very carefully in one of the containers. Comes out.)
 THREE 8
Alone

(He enters with his backpack loaded with books. He is 15 years old.)

ELISA: There is no one at home. There is never anyone. There will never be
anyone. I would like to come home from school and hear someone say to me “how
are you, Elisa?” how did it go today?; Do you have a lot of homework? “Were the
exercises we did yesterday good?” I wouldn't care if I had actually made them
myself, because they wouldn't know how to make them. (Pause.)Who are they? Two
strangers. I hear his footsteps when I'm in bed. Sometimes they open the door and I
don't say anything to them, I pretend to be asleep. I could tell you so many things... I
don't know why, but I remain silent. I don't know why I don't get up and ask them
how work was going. If the box went well. If they have had any problems with a
drunk like that day. But I don't get up. Neither do they when I go to class. Nobody
stands up for anyone. They think that in the afternoons I'm not alone, that a friend
comes home or that I'm going out with someone. Maybe I should do it. But no, I'm
staying here. Sometimes I read, do my homework, turn on the television or radio,
listen to music, but everything makes me feel more alone. I often think I'm weird.
Different. It's not normal for me to stay here, contemplating these walls that are
always the same. But something pushes me to be here. It's as if the void called me,
caressed me sweetly. Is something wrong with me? Or is it just that I like to be
alone? Alone, alone, alone. (Silence.) Yesterday I called Dani. Like the day before
yesterday, like every day for a week. It's like a temptation, like trying to open a door.
As always I hung up when he picked it up. Dani is also a loner. But he looks at me.
Run away from people. But he looks at me. He takes refuge in books, in his music,
but he looks at me. And his look attracts me. It's like this closed room. One day,
before hanging up, I heard her breathing behind the phone and how she whispered,
“Elisa, talk to me.” I hung up immediately. I panic. But I felt strangely happy. (Pick up
the phone, dial. Silence. After marking, he will remain silent for ten or fifteen
seconds. Character's heavy breathing.) Dani?

DARK ROUGH
 FOUR
The theater will save me

(His arms will surround his legs, his head resting on them. He is curled up, hidden
between some boxes. His wallet, lying on the floor. He looks up, fleeing, with the
fervent desire not to find anyone. He will speak with anger, perhaps with hatred.)

SERGIO: When you come back you're going to shit yourself. (He makes an
aggressive gesture with his fist.) Come one by one. That's very easy. Four five.
What have I done to you? Nothing. I will trample you. Do you hear me? No, you
can't hear me anymore. You have taken the piss out of me like every day and
goodbye, until tomorrow. Tomorrow I won't bring a single cent. Tomorrow you won't
see me. I won't come to school. I will not come back. Never. I'm not afraid of you
anymore. I'm going to disappear from your sight. Or I will become invisible. (He gets
up scared, looks from one side to the other before leaving his hiding place. He
cleans his clothes, with anger and insistence. His clothes are full of dirt, he has
undoubtedly been rolled around on the ground). Javi says to tell my parents or
guardian. But they have warned me that if I say anything, they will kill me.
(Screaming.) Damn, I'm scared. Javi is also afraid, if not, he would help me face
them. And Pedro and Juanjo. They are afraid, my friends are afraid too. They are
thugs, a gang. But they won't catch me again. (Silence. He seems to think. Looks
like he's got an idea.) Damn, what an idea I'm having. I'm the best in theater class.
Let's see, let's prepare a plan. (He will speak slowly, thinking about what he says.)
First I will make pellets for two days. Since I'm never absent, I don't think the
teachers will be alarmed. That is. When I get back, the bullies will ask me for
explanations. They may even ask me for back money. And an egg! I will tell you that
I have been admitted to a hospital. That they have discovered a very serious heart
disease in me. Well, we'll leave it serious, lest they see it as too exaggerated. And
now comes my big performance. When they approach, stick to it by telling them that
I don't have money. I'll fake a heart attack including fainting. I'm sure they'll run
away. In case they are accused of murder. Deep down they are probably cowards
too. (Pause.) Let's see, a rehearsal. Let's see, they come closer and I say: "leave
me, leave me, I'm sick." And I take out a box of pills and defend myself with it, as if it
were a knife. (The actor will perform the movements he says.) If they get closer, it is
the moment of greatest dramatic tension, the climax, a strong pain in the chest. (He
does it.) Ah, ah, ah. And if they get closer, they faint. (He does it.) And if they try to
reach into my pocket, the last one I choke and give up. (He does. Silence. After a
few seconds, he stands up. More silence.) What a great performance! The teacher
would give me a ten. What if they come back another day? (Silence, thinks.) I've got
it! More theater. I will give them the performance of the AIDS patient. (Takes the
wallet.) Surely they think, they are ignorant, that it is contagious by touching them.
And why don't I start here? No, I like the role of a heart patient. But in case it fails,
I'm running home to rehearse. (He leaves quickly, much more animated than at the
beginning.)
 FIVE
Strike

(Entering the house with a backpack full of books and a newspaper under his arm.)

PEPA: I'm fed up. They go and stay at home. Or they go on a spree. To the park to
sunbathe. The video game console, how parents are working... And to the
demonstration, four cats. And then they laugh at us. They say that the strike day has
been a failure. And they are even right. In class everyone signs the paper saying
that they are not going to go to class the next day, but then no one bothers to
protest. Tomorrow I'm going to hold a rally in my class... They're going to shit
themselves. Companions! Comrades! The achievement of the objectives set by the
state commission...! (Abrupt pause.) What do I say? I'm sure this language seems
strange to you. Colleagues! You have some eggs... so we're not going to get
anything! We have to take to the street so they can hear us! (She stops
disappointed.) Taking the street... (Silence.) Nothing surprises me about the guys,
honestly, they're all kids. They only think about football and the machines, they are
stupid. But we... We must change this shitty world. But of course, there is Big
Brother and the trash TV that stuns them. But I won't give up. No. We have to take
the street... (She stops again disappointed.) Take the street... There are so many
things to change... Thank goodness the anti-globalization 9 thing seems to work. I
hope my parents will let me go to the next training camp outside of Spain. I think
they understand me, but it scares them. They say I'm still too young. Maybe they are
right. I have one year left until I turn eighteen. Then they won't be able to refuse. I
have found a job on the weekends to pay for my trip. They're going to find out. They
only think about making money, they don't care about hunger, poverty, or climate
change. They're going to find out, the very... (Takes out some books from her
purse.) Well, I'm going to start studying, because tomorrow I have a social exam.
Although since I read the newspaper, I don't need to study much. Asshole David,
always with the AS under his arm, laughs because I buy El País or read El Militante.
It will be a cocoon. It is a monstrosity of the system. Thank goodness Suso is with
me. Suso, bastard, you have me crazy. And how well he speaks in the assemblies.
Carmen also speaks well. But Suso has a little ass... Good to study, and then
prepare for tomorrow's talk in class. (Pause.) Look, staying at home, what we're
risking... (Sighs.)

DARK
 SIX
Do you love us?

(Stage divided into two equal parts, right and left. In each part a student.)

A: Today the teacher had sad eyes.

TWO: Today the teacher had a happy look.
A: I thought he was going to start crying at any moment. What a bad time! Not even
Arturo has dared to play the everyday joke.
TWO: Where has your bitter face gone? Arturo has played the everyday joke and he
has not expelled him as he almost always does. He smiled at him and said: come
on, Arturo, change the situation. And he smiled at her again. Arturo has not opened
his mouth again. But he also smiled.
A: The silence has lasted about five minutes. I never thought silence could last so
long. It has been unbearable. Above all for holding his gaze, fixed on us. Without
batting an eye. Without moving. Like a statue. Most of my classmates have fixed
their eyes on the book, trying to appear interested in Literature, on page 64 of which
we had to correct I don't know what activity. Not me, I haven't taken my eye off her, I
expected to see her tears springing at any moment, I wanted to investigate the
reason for that change, find out her dark secret.
TWO: Have you won the lottery and are you planning to tell us that you are leaving
your job? He's always complaining about us. He says we never pay attention to him.
And it is not true, we serve you in our own way. But he doesn't understand us. I
don't know why he doesn't change his profession. I think he would make a good
waiter. Well, today yes, today he knows how to be in class. He has distributed a
poem of his that talks about the joy of living, of fighting for happiness, of smiling, of
the importance of smiling. That's why he doesn't get away from her. It looks like a
mask, but a sincere mask.
A: He was always happy. Well, lately, because some of his students from previous
years say that he was bitter, like now. It is the reflection of bitterness. After those
five minutes of absolute silence it has become even darker. He stopped looking at
us, took the chalk and put it on the blackboard in large, round letters, perfectly
drawn: I love you. When reading it, my heart has begun to beat with that force of the
concerts I like to go to during the summer. He opened his folder, took some sheets
and distributed one to each of us. That leaf, that damn wonderful leaf has changed
my life, maybe Arturo's too. It was a poem, a poem about sadness, about the hard
path of life, about the difficulty of being a man or a woman. But in the end, in a
single verse, like a ray of sunlight filtering through the clouds, the long verse said:
But I love you, and this love frees me and makes me a rock impregnated with
tenderness. And he signed: Toño López, him. Before leaving, at the end of class, he
almost smiled, hope exploded in his eyes.
TWO: When class ended, while he was gathering his things, I approached his table,
my classmates had gone out into the hallway, and I dared to ask him about his
condition. He looked at me calmly, with his half-dimmed smile, and a wisp of gloom
in his eyes, and told me: don't be in a hurry, before the course ends you will
understand. But I have already understood it. He can't fool me. He has simply
realized that he loves us and he can't help it.
 SEVEN 10
I wanted to tell them the truth

(Already older, with long hair and unkempt beard, sitting at a bar table, from time to
time he will look to the side as if waiting for someone.)

CARLOS: I wanted to tell them the truth… With the chalk in my hand I wanted to tell
them the truth. They looked at me. They saw my hand tremble. They sensed it. That
day I was not going to talk to them about their books, not even about mine. I simply
wanted to tell you the truth. Tell them about my fear. Of my sadness. That day I
managed to say a few words to them. That we would not talk about syntax, or
metaphors, or generations, or literary genres. That the adjectives were not
important, nor the imperfect tenses, that the meter was real shit. That day I already
knew it. But there they were, sitting, and they, also sitting. His gaze, his silence, and
what I interpreted as his anguish, overwhelmed me. He continued with the chalk in
his hand, wondering if he would be able to tell them something he wanted to say. I
know that they perceived my internal crying, my deep pain, my desire for impossible
communication. Any other day silence would have cost minutes of effort, not that
day. As soon as you entered, nothingness was created in the environment. But why
if they didn't know anything. I barely knew it. Days later I came to consider that
something deep existed between us. But I refused to accept it. The silence lasted for
several minutes. Tense, eternal, hard. Some boys looked at each other, but they
didn't dare to move, they didn't even move their notebooks or their pens, like other
times. There was a time when the sum of breaths created a rhythmic sound only
broken by some noise coming from outside the class. A boy in his teens, like
everyone else, lowered his head and rested it on the table between his hands. I
know he didn't want to sleep, I knew his innocence stained with sadness. One girl
made a move to start crying, but her tablemate shook her hand. The most talkative
one almost raised his hand, but he looked at the others and suppressed his gesture.
The chalk or I, I don't know, tried to write something on the blackboard. He managed
to write a capital A, but stopped. It was not an A like other times, vigorous,
resounding, convinced, the harbinger of a message that he considered evident,
sacred, necessary. An A creator of knowledge, an A emotional impulse or mythical
revelation, an A flooded with communication. So no, that day that A could be the
preamble to a farewell or a declaration. You would never know. But I insist, that day
I wanted to tell them the truth. And perhaps I said it without words, because I have
to remember that I left class without saying anything more than a “see you forever”
that I highly doubt they understood, both in its forceful meaning and in its material
consummation. A goodbye, whisper, regret and frustration at the same time. Until
always an imbecile, miserable, gloomy. But see you always comfort and liberation.
Because after closing the door, I heard, behind it, the explosion of feelings, the roar
of the chairs, the search for the meaning of those endless minutes with a partner
and perhaps a friend. Before them had arisen a greater enigma than that of the
hidden subordinate sentence, that of the intangible irony or the abrupt visionary
image. The enigma of life had arisen before them. Once again, that class was a
success. The success of failure. Years later, already behind the bar of the bar where
I worked as a waiter, I met her, always nervous in class, now with a peace in her
expression that I would like for myself. He recognized me, despite my long hair, my
unkempt beard. He recognized me even though I no longer used chalk. He told me
hello Carlos, I know why you left. Like this, without asking me for anything, not even
a glass of water. I felt paralyzed. I thought I had forgotten those years, almost twenty
spent correcting accent marks and provoking the verb to think. I was about to run
away because I couldn't avoid his silence and his gaze. Carlos, it's me, Carmen.
And how could I have forgotten Carmen. I realized, in an instant, that I had not
managed to forget any of the boys and girls from that last course, the one I did not
finish because I ran away. Nor to Carmen, always nervous, who wrote “avia” without
an h, with a vee and with the accent as lost as my desire to correct it. I came to like
the word like that, with that rebellious writing. Do you remember why you left? I
know it, Carlos. Maybe you don't remember, but I know why you ran away from
class. And without giving my consent he told me: You wanted to tell us the truth and
you didn't dare. Thank you for not making our lives miserable. I have discovered it
and thanks to you I have understood the salvation of flight. But what was my truth? I
asked him. Your truth was that without enthusiasm, without joy, without dedication,
without love for ourselves it makes no sense to pick up a piece of chalk. And he
added: maybe I will come back another day and tell you my story and why your
escape was so important to me. He has not returned. I've been waiting for her for
too long. I wait for her to tell her the truth that she couldn't see. That he had been
defeated. I wanted to teach them peace and outside they taught them war. I wanted
to show them justice and hunger remained outside. I wanted to suggest art to them
and outside they offered them garbage. I would have liked to inject them with love
and outside they would sell them hate. I didn't have the strength to continue and I
ran away, accepting my defeat. I'm still waiting for you, Carmen, to tell you. And this
wait is the best thing that has happened to me in my life. Thank you Carmen.
 EIGHT
Poems for my teacher

(During the entire scene SHE will be looking for a book on a shelf full of them. From
time to time he will take one out, look at it, and put it back. The actions of selection,
search and return will contrast in their delicacy with his somewhat rude words.)

HER: I have to tell someone or I'll burst. What world does this guy live in? What do
you aspire to? Does he really believe that we don't care at all about what he tells us,
what he reads to us, what he thinks about the world we live in? Neruda and his love
poems. Passion of love, I like to be with a boy, but to pass the time. Love! We are in
the 21st century! And that Don Quixote who was crazy, and the windmills. Is that
educational? A crazy guy who fucks with some giants who aren't giants? And then
they say that young people do strange things. But what bothers me is when he talks
to us about the world, is that it doesn't stop, the warming of the planet, the violation
of human rights, hunger, poverty... What a mania for bringing us newspaper
clippings! Damn, it's not our fault, you people your age did it that way. That the world
is in our hands, the young people. Today, today he repeated it again. I was about to
jump. It's-not-our-world, let's see if you find out, it's yours, if that's what the
disgusting newspapers say, it's your fault, you know-it-all adults. Leave us alone. Let
us have fun, drink, smoke, make love. (He said it pretending his voice with the
intention of imitating him.) Yes, because he also talks to us about sex, AIDS, and
unwanted pregnancies. Don't make our lives bitter. (Prolonged silence.)Although
sometimes, it makes me sad. The uncle lives it, he cares about us, he wants us to
study and if we don't it seems that he gets sad. Yes, when more than half of the
class doesn't do an activity that he thinks is very interesting, he gets depressed. But
not a little, it depresses an egg. Yesterday, for example, he lost his voice. I didn't
know how to continue. Sometimes I do things so as not to see him like that. He is
annoying, he makes that sad face, which is disgusting, but one is also human and
sometimes so much pain is unbearable. (Takes a book and shows joy.)Here it is, I
knew it was here. Jose Hierro. Anthology. My mother and her poetry books. That
poem... (He hurriedly flips through the pages and stops. Read the first stanza of the
sonnet.) I came through pain to joy. I knew the pain that the soul exists. Because of
the pain, there in my sad kingdom, a mysterious sun dawned. I'm going to copy it
and tomorrow, without anyone seeing me, of course, I give it to him, to see if he's
encouraged, and by the way, why not?, it gives me a little bit of a boost, because I'm
quite needy. (Comes out.)
 NINE
Maybe one day

(In a corner of the stage, sitting.)

ARTURO: They will never know what's wrong with me. Never. No matter how much
they ask me. Neither my tutor nor Ana. (He gets up and goes to the embouchure.)
Never. Do not care. It's not your business. They will never know my secret. (Walks
around the stage restlessly.) It has taken me a lot of work to hide my fear, my
loneliness, my anguish, my pain... I have managed to be recognized for my untimely
jokes. I have managed to get myself expelled from class quite frequently. Don't tell
me anything because I haven't done exercise 4 on page 27. However, my tutor
seems to know something, although I haven't said anything and my mother has
never set foot in the institute. She has enough of her own. (Pause.) Today he did not
expel me, he spoke well to me, he smiled at me and with a single phrase he
disarmed me: “Come on, Arturo, change the situation. “And then that poem, that
damn poem. Why did he have to say he loves us? I don't want anyone to love me.
And Ana, who hasn't stopped looking at me all morning. And he told me, with that
sweet and cruel voice: “Whenever you want, tell me what's happening to you.” And
he tried to hold my hand. Who is she to hold my hand, to care about me? Do I worry
about her, do I worry about someone perhaps? They want to know it. But they will
never know anything. (He sits down again, dejected.) Is it true that the professor
loves us? Even if he expels me, gives me zeros, does he love me? I have to admit
that today I liked seeing him happy, he seemed happy. Not like every day, with that
bitterness that reminds me of mine. Today has been so different... Their joy almost
infects me. In fact, today I have written down in my agenda what he requested for
tomorrow. Maybe I will, although I don't know if I will know. (Silence. Get off the
stage and walk around the stalls looking for someone.) I know what I can do. Find
Ana. I don't have his phone number, but I know that in the afternoons he always
goes to the neighborhood library. I will ask you to help me. But just to do that. Don't
let him think about holding my hand because I'm running away. I swear. (He keeps
looking, but he can't find who he wants to find. He goes on stage deeply sad.) Why
wasn't Ana in the library today? What's happening to me? I feel a desire to see her
that I don't understand. It seems to me that it goes beyond exercise 12 on page 42.
Far beyond. Yes, I'm sorry, I feel like it's something else, something different, I need
her hand, I want to caress her hand, and for her to speak to me, to speak to me with
that voice so different from all human voices. (Silence.) Something's wrong with me.
That damn poem was to blame. I want to love someone. I want to love the teacher,
my mother, I want to love Ana and her soft hand. And hear that voice so different
from all human voices. (Silence.) And why not? Maybe, I'm just saying maybe, talk
to him about my loneliness. Of my desperate and useless loneliness. DARK
 TEN
Praise of slowness

(We will see the protagonist of this monologue move slowly throughout the scene.
He is recording what he says on a small tape recorder.)

JESUS: Yesterday I lost my friends again. They always go everywhere in a hurry.

They say I'm slow. But I am like this. I like to move as if gravitating in space, as if
caressing the ground I walk on, as if I were making my way through the branches of
a thick forest. The truth is that my slowness brings me some problems. Once, after a
concert, I was going to kiss a girl, I was so slow, not in the kiss but in the approach
that she got up and left. In class, a disaster, I don't have time to answer anything in
the exams, even though I know it. Thank goodness the social worker realized this
and made them for me in parts. The last one for a whole week. I got a 6, a complete
success. My friends, when we go out, always leave me alone. They can't stand my
snail's pace, as they say. Well, they let me, now I always go with Jaime, the odor
researcher 11 , every step he stops to smell anything no matter how strange it may
be. We have become good friends. I start to learn about aromas and he starts to
walk like a lame turtle. I have been especially excited for a few days. My mother has
promised to buy me a car when I turn 18. I have three left, so I can learn little by
little. Tomorrow I start the theoretical classes. Will I be able to get to the places on
time? Will I also drive slowly like when I ride a bike? Quite a mystery. I know that my
life will be different, maybe by going so slowly my life will be longer. Or maybe not.
But I like who I am. Although I have to confess something: I'm afraid of your speed.
Do you have time to look? I know that one day I will be famous. I do not know why.
But I sense it. Maybe they'll call me The Slow Man. Maybe you will discover the
importance of calm for the human brain. Or maybe not. Just in case I record this. It
exhausts me to talk so fast, but it's necessary. (Exhausted, he will stop speaking at
a normal pace as before and will do so much more slowly. Cut the recording.) I can't
take it anymore. I'm going to bed. Tomorrow I have to get up early to get to class on
time. (Slowly, very slowly, he becomes DARK.)
 ELEVEN
a normal girl

SARA: I'm a normal girl. No writer in his right mind would dare to write even a
monologue about me. My life is summed up in a few words: I go to school, I have
breakfast, I eat, I have dinner. On the weekends I go to the club or the park and
that's it. Maybe I could talk about my boredom in class. (The enthusiasm with which
he says the following must be increasing.) Except when the teacher reads us poetry
or stories or when they show us paintings or sculptures. I also like that thing about
the human body, the thing about plants is very curious, but above all, mathematics.
When they play those songs in English and I discover what they say, my classes fly
by. But in general I get bored. Well, everyone says that high school is boring. I
already said it, I'm a normal girl. I don't know what else that absurd writer could talk
about. Maybe what I think about every time I go to the club. I see myself, and not
because I have taken any of those pills, which I don't try, or drank alcohol, which I
don't like, I see myself at the top of a mountain that I have reached through a forest
the one where a huge river flows. From that mountain you can see a sea of white
clouds and other mountains that are also very high, very high. Even though the
music blows my ears, I always see myself at the top of the mountain. And I enjoy it
and then I start dancing like everyone else, from a pure feeling of happiness. Well,
maybe that strange writer could talk about my dream, my illusion. As normal as
other dreams. Every day, every night I dream of the same thing. It is something that
fills me inside, that occupies my entire being. I'm ashamed, yes, because it is a very
normal dream. But I have to tell it, to show that there is no point in writing even a
monologue about myself. 12 I want to have a job. Yes, it's that simple, having a job. I
don't want to be standing like my mother, desperate to search and not find anything.
A job that doesn't mean I'm exhausted and angry like my father. A job that lasts, not
like my brother's. A job that makes me happy and earn money, enough to have my
house and be able to go to concerts, the theater and dance. A quiet job, without
bossy bosses. Maybe in a library, surrounded by books of poetry. Maybe in a
laboratory inventing medicines. Perhaps as a photographer, reflecting the end of
injustice or beauty. A job that only makes me happy. I'm willing to get it. I know, I'm
too normal.
 TWELVE
Confession 1

(The character kneeling in front of the audience as if it were a confessional with a

priest.) 13

IVÁN: Good morning, father, first of all I must tell you that ten years have passed
since my last confession, when I took communion, so I don't really know how this is
done now. Well, I'm here because I no longer know what to do to stop lying. I am a
gigantic liar. Of course, very skilled, I hardly get discovered. But there is a reason
why I want to quit and maybe you can help me. I love a girl, so much, so much, that
I suffer when I lie to her. And I can't stop doing it. They are small lies, don't think I'm
going with others or anything like that. But I have invented a double life for her to
conquer her. And I feel like a lizard. I have told him that my parents are rich,
although I never have a euro. I told her that they had punished me for something
that I made up and that I no longer remember, and that they don't give me money,
so she always invites me. I have told him that I am a good student, lie, that I play the
guitar, lie, that I don't like to drink, lie, that I collaborate with a solidarity association,
lie, that I write poetry, lie. I downloaded those poems that I taught him from the
Internet. But I want to stop lying. I need him to love me as I really am. An ignorant;
fond of motorcycles and cars, which she hates; I am an Atleti fan, while I hate
football; atheist or agnostic or something like that. She is very religious. An
uneducated person, she knows everything, next year she starts at the university,
and I, who am her age, am still in 4th grade. I can't take my lies anymore, I need to
be someone else. Well, father, tell me what I can do. Without her I couldn't continue
living.
 THIRTEEN
Confession 2

(The character in the same posture as the one in the previous monologue. Maybe
both on stage at the same time, first light on one and then on the other.)

GIMENA: Father, I lie. No, now I'm not going to lie. But I always lie. And I'm not bad
at it. They have never discovered my deceptions. Not my parents, not my teachers,
not my friends. You could say that I am a professional. But now I want to tell you the
truth. I need it. I have to change and I hope you will tell me how. They say that you,
in addition to forgiving sins, know how to act according to the commandments. And
if I remember correctly one of them was not to lie. No, I am not religious, I confess,
although the boy I like, the one I love, has said yes. He is and I... for liking him... you
know. I need to tell him the truth, my truth, that I adore him even if it's not what he
thinks he is. Who doesn't lie a little to pretend to be better than what they are? He is
different from the others. A poet, musician, from a good family, cultured. Now he is
punished and to appear to be in a good position I have had to ask all my friends, my
sisters, for money. I'm in debt. But I'm out of credit. I will have to tell you that they
have punished me too. But this doesn't matter much. What I really feel is that he
thinks I'm very cultured and, really, I'm not. I've never been. My main entertainment
is not books, when I meet him I take one of my older sister's books to show off.
Before I met him, I spent hours watching television, gossip, football, motorcycles.
Now that I've met him, I'm no longer interested in them. Yesterday I took a book of
poetry from the library and, really, father, I liked it. That book talked about love, the
joy of love, the enthusiasm of love, the beauty of love. And so, with my lies, I feel
that I dirty him, that I stain him. How can I confess that I have not finished ESO, that
I stopped studying because of a stupid job from which I was fired? Although, that is
true, I have re-enrolled. He loves music, he plays the guitar, he knows musicians I
haven't heard of, Bob Dylan, who is that guy. How can I tell him what I am and not
lose him? Father, help me. Without him I couldn't live.
 FOURTEEN
You won't know my dreams

(Noelia is sitting at a table, surrounded by books, notes, file cabinets, notebooks.

Something exaggerated. From time to time he will pick up a book, open it and place
it carefully on the floor.)

NOELIA: Today I cried in class. A quiet, cold and very wet cry. Everyone was
looking at me, the teacher too. He called me, asked me to go outside the classroom
and asked me what was wrong, if he could help me. I, dying of shame, lowered my
head and with a gesture told him no. He insisted, but I didn't open my mouth. I don't
like to tell certain things. He can't understand it. Nobody can. Nobody who has not
lived in misery, in a shanty, dirty, hungry, surrounded by rats. That's why my parents
came to Spain. They work on what they can. For little money, but now we eat every
day. My mother is a caregiver for the elderly and my father has been a waiter and a
bricklayer, and now, unemployed. Since a month ago. That's why I cried, because
he says there is no work and that maybe we have to go back to our country. I do not
want. (Very affected.) I don't want to. I want to study, although it is difficult for me
because I have many doubts because I did not study almost when I was a child, I
want to study. Prepare myself. My dream is to go to university, although the
teachers say it is very difficult. I'm going to fight. (About to cry.) If necessary I will
look for a job and study at night. I don't want to go back there. That's why I cried.
And he will never know.
 FIFTEEN
The abyss shakes me

(Alejandro is located at the edge of the stage, but he will not look towards the
audience, he can do so in various directions, but he will always avoid the audience,
his gaze.)

ALEJANDRO: Today I delved into the soul of my parents. I have glimpsed your fear.
His fear that he won't be happy. His fear floods everything. It shakes me. The other
day I learned this word: shudder. To make something tremble or tremble with
sudden agitated movement. Feeling a sudden nervous jolt or jolt in your mood. I
liked it, not only its meaning, which helped me understand it a little. To understand
your fear. Also its sound. There are words that I don't know why, I like them, they
shake me. Your languor shakes me. Languor, what a beautiful word. Your enigmatic
languor shakes me. I feel like an enigma to them. That's why they are afraid. I know.
But I can't breathe it. It hurts me. Today, because of that, because of that pain, I
have delved into his soul. But a deep abyss separates us. An unfathomable abyss.
Unfathomable, the other day I read this word in class, in a text. I do not know what it
means. Could an unfathomable abyss be well said? I think so, it will be a very big,
deep abyss. I don't understand your fear, your lack of confidence. Your fear scares
me. I would like to approach them and tell them something simple that would
destroy that look of guilt. Or is it not to blame? What does that distant look tell me?
Where does this anguish come from? Don't know. That's why I slip away from his
fear, I hide, I avoid his presence. His reproaches. I just want to tell you to trust me,
but I don't know how to do it. That's why I shudder before that unfathomable abyss.

DARK
 SIXTEEN
They should have told us the truth

(While the character is speaking, he is packing objects that he keeps in some

moving boxes.)

BEA: I say this without any rancor. Maybe in his place I wouldn't have known either.
Maybe it wasn't about saying or explaining. Maybe crying would have been enough,
not always, one day, just one day in the five years I was there. A brief cry, lasting a
few minutes. Looking at our eyes. Possibly they didn't know or we or I didn't know
how to see it. Maybe they should have put aside, if not always, then at least for a
day, so much empty explanation. Those direct complements couldn't be that
important or the title of that Mozart composition. Were those equations essential that
day? Why didn't they tell us the truth? (Silence. The character seems to make an
effort to find the right words.) That we should prepare ourselves to resist lying. That
we should have doubted so much. Unite to resist together. And cry, sometimes cry.
Get angry so often. And being on the street for so many days. To shout, to resist, to
defend ourselves. (Pause.) No, without a doubt, they were not prepared. Of course,
the programs, the notes, the textbooks, those very important authors, those
scientific laws, they were there, they had to reach us. Well, okay, I respect that, but
what about the other truth? Suffering, hunger, misery, and the other side,
enrichment, power, profit. Where were you? Why weren't these truths the
protagonists for at least a few hours among so many days, so many months, so
many years? Sorry, maybe I couldn't hear you, maybe one day you whispered it and
I wasn't prepared while I looked at him and played at not listening to you. Maybe you
should have taught me to listen to you, maybe you did and I learned it too late.
(Silence. Bea is finishing packing the last items.) But now, what will become of me?
They have made me remember you, I don't know why. Tomorrow they kick me out
of my house, you know, the unemployment, the mortgage, the eviction, the usury.
And I don't know why I remembered that you told me to study, and I believed you, I
did it, but here I am. It hasn't helped me at all. Tomorrow I'm leaving, I'm emigrating.
I will look for work outside. It doesn't matter much, there are worse situations than
mine. I have supports. Well, I'll leave it, I'm about to close my last box, I haven't
managed to gather many things yet. I don't need them either. I want you to stop
being a sad memory. If you are still there, among the boys and girls who learn, don't
forget to tell them not to believe their lies. A kiss.

DARK
 SEVENTEEN
A matter of two?

(Shadow Theather. We will see Olga's shadow behind a sheet. If it is of interest to

the director, we can use the music from the INJUVE 14 “Pregnancy is a 2”
campaign.)

OLGA: I know that my Language teacher is after me to write about my condition and
doesn't dare ask me. I don't know how to tell him either. He is always writing about
what happens to us. He says it is to talk to us, to tell us in our ear what he doesn't
know how to tell us any other way. Can not be. But I would like to tell you something
about my doubt. About this doubt that is hurting me so much that I am about to
scream. I'm pregnant. They say I'm too young. I turned sixteen two months ago. I
have been pregnant for two months. It's been two months since that party. I would
tell him, but I won't dare, that it was my first time, that it was raining, that it was cold,
that I had drunk, that I don't know how we were left alone, that he smelled so good,
that he always looked at me like that, with that dark look, that That day he said
congratulations very softly, in a whisper, very close to my neck, that he gave me this
ring and this bracelet and a book that I have not yet read and with a very strange
title that I do not remember. (Pause.) I would tell him that we don't use condoms.
That we don't even think about anything other than... how to say it? How can I tell
him without being embarrassed? We were just thinking about how to do it. He didn't
know either. I hadn't even imagined it could happen. That I would hug him, that he
would kiss me, that...Yes, I know. We had information, they had recently reminded
us in a talk at the institute, that you had to carry a condom, yes, I know. (Pause.) But
this is not the only thing I would like to tell you if I dared. I would tell him, although I
won't dare, that my head is spinning, that a lot of images, different, contrary, hit me
day after day, that I have lost my appetite, that I need to scream... that I have to tell
someone. I see him so small in my arms, looking for my chest, I see him crawling on
the floor, calling me, laughing, crying, sleeping... I see these images and I don't
know if I like them or not. I hear different voices, some that I can abort, others that it
is not right... And I, I am, so alone. But my voice is blocked, closed, I can't speak, I
just want to scream, scream. (Prolonged scream saying NO. Maybe closing music.
Dark.)
 EIGHTEEN
The end of the world 15

Óscar: Tomorrow the world ends. I don't really know why. I have never been
interested in the news; The news programs and the newspapers seem disgusting to
me. It seems safe, everyone says it: the president of the government, the pope, my
aunt, the teachers. I have received more than a hundred emails confirming it. (Once
in a while he will tear up a manuscript after looking at it.) I'll have to tear them all up.
(Pause.) Everyone is restless. It is logical. My mother doesn't stop crying. I,
however, am almost glad. And I say almost to soften a little what I strongly think. I'm
very happy. So much unemployment, so much poverty, so much exploitation, so
much empty future, everything to hell. I'm glad because the bargain has run out for
so many smart money-hoarders at the expense of others. What now, huh? What
good has it done for you to reduce public health for your private businesses, eh?
About what? (He stops in front of a new letter, looks at it and crumples it violently.
Then he opens it again and looks at it and hurriedly tears it to pieces.) I have to
finish this, lest the end come too soon. I don't want even a letter left in case
someone survives and takes my secret. Maybe I should have sent them. Maybe I
would have gotten, at least, his appreciation. Although I don't know if I would have
tolerated the presence of his eyes. Thank goodness it's all over. (Angrily.) If this
meteorite, if this nuclear bomb, if this solar explosion or whatever it is doesn't
destroy this damned planet, someone should finish me off if I myself can't put an
end to... What I did is unforgivable. I'm miserable. A damned wretch. Why did I have
to yell at him? Why did I threaten her the only day I got her to look at me? I've
already lost everything. She separated from me in fear. He fled like so many will
want to flee tomorrow from that definitive end. I don't. Not me because I deserve
their hate. And I can't stand it. Tomorrow I will run to the epicenter of the destruction.
Wherever it comes from. Tomorrow I won't try to hide. It is possible that this way I
will purify this disgust that I feel towards myself. I wrote her letters that I didn't send
and I thought, why did I think that?, that if everything was going to end she could be
mine for a day. But he ran away, he ran away from me in fear. And that fear in his
eyes… it hurts me so much. That's why tomorrow I will run towards the tongue of
fire, the great wave, or whatever. (Tears up the last letter.) But I will continue to love
you, forgive me. (Dark very, very slow.)
 NINETEEN
Without mobile 16

CÉSAR: Today they invited me to speak at the institute's cultural conferences. Next
week. I'm very nervous. You'll see, they'll laugh, as always. The teacher says no, if
there is laughter she will intervene. And all because of the article I wrote last year for
our newspaper. I didn't invent anything either, I had read it in Public and I only
summarized it a little. Well, I also later saw a video of an organization on YouTube.
She says she didn't invite me because of the article but because of what I did
afterwards. I'm very nervous, I don't know how I'll dare to go up there in front of
everyone. What they have laughed at. And just for not wanting to have a fucking cell
phone. They'll laugh again, you'll see. It's not just because of the coltan and the war.
Besides, no one controls me like this. Before, when I was a little late, my mother
was already there... Also, since I can't talk on the phone, I talk and hang out more
with my friends and Lorena. Lorena told me that she is also going to get rid of her
cell phone. Give it time, it's not that easy. I don't force her, everyone can do what
they want. I simply got pissed when I read that news and did a little more research.
And I threw it away. Yes, I threw it away, I could have sold it, but no, I got angry and
threw it away. Then I found out that it could be recycled, I didn't know and I got
angry. I guess I'll have to say something about the coltan thing, well, if I can,
because with the nerves I have... Public speaking is not my thing. Let's see if I try a
little. (From here on you will read from some pages that you have taken out of your
pocket.) Coltan is an alloy from which tantalum is extracted; this, due to its qualities,
is irreplaceable in the manufacture of mobile phones, video game consoles and
everything. type of electronic equipment. If it is so necessary, we could think that the
country that had deposits would be a prosperous country, but that is not the case.
Quite the contrary, this wealth is their misery. In the Democratic Republic of the
Congo, where the most important deposits are located, there are wars provoked and
financed by the control of the mines. Children and adolescents are exploited and
work for meager salaries or are enslaved. It is estimated that for every kilo of coltan,
between two and three children have died. The armed groups that control its
extraction rape and murder women and girls. Forests and their fauna are also in
danger. (Pause, puts the papers away.) I'm sure I can't read it. I will start to tremble
and… (Silence. He moves nervously, but decisively, as if he were realizing
something.) Well, maybe I'll tremble, but what I'm going to say is important, very
important, we cannot allow anyone to profit from the suffering of others. others
should not be consented to. Maybe I tremble, but maybe people think about it and
don't change their cell phone every now and then or recycle it or stop giving so
much importance to these and other devices. (Dark thrilling.)
 TWENTY
Laughter, so long ago

(A very serious boy, he wears a black suit, his face is very white, he will barely
move. Minimal gestures except when indicated.)

STUDENT: They say that a long time ago there was something called laughter. And
a verb: laugh. Sometimes, they say, it sounded ha, ha, ha; others, heh, heh, heh;
even, ho, ho, ho and hee, hee, hee. Stranger was ju, ju, ju. Apparently, it was a way
to express joy or fun. Now I am very happy and fun and I don't need to make those
ridiculous sounds. (Pause.) People laughed at good news, at a joke, at a success, at
a joke, even at...a fart. (He says this with obvious discomfort.) Thank goodness the
laughter disappeared. (Pause.) But why did he disappear, you may wonder. I asked
myself this too and that's why I chose this topic for my quarterly research. I have
spoken with many grandfathers and grandmothers who still suffered from this
abominable custom. This custom they have hidden from their descendants due to its
despicable character. Why did it disappear? (He takes a token out of his pocket and
looks at it surreptitiously.) It disappeared due to disuse. Little by little, filmmakers,
playwrights, writers in general, screenwriters... stopped writing comedies. The
people on the street stopped telling jokes. There were statements to the effect that it
was difficult for them to invent funny situations in the midst of so much adversity.
Many grandfathers and grandmothers remember that it was because of the crisis.
(Expression of ignorance.) I also don't know what the crisis is, but Pablito will explain
it to us below, he has chosen this topic for his quarterly historical exhibition. (Pause.)
Another grandmother told me that they overcame crying and sadness. I don't know
what it means to cry either. (Looks at someone in the audience and corroborates.)
Yes, Laurita will tell us about this verb later. (He looks to his right and greets with a
slight bow of his head.) Since the professor has asked us to try to recover the past,
next and to finish, I am going to try to make you laugh. Something practically
impossible because it takes learning, as I have read, and none of us has ever
laughed. (The student begins to gesture histrionically. The director and the actor -
although it can also be an actress - will decide the gestures and movements of the
character, among which the imitation of an animal should not be missing. Of course,
we will try to maintain, in parallel with the ridiculous gesture, a certain hieraticism in
the actor's or actress's countenance. When faced with laughter, real or produced
among the audience by several collaborating actors, the student reacts immediately
with a mixture of surprise and shock.) What was that? Was it laughter? Can anyone
tell me if it was laughter? (Looks at the audience, someone, a grandfather or
grandmother, has confirmed that it was laughter.) Yes? But, but... it's wonderful. (On
the verge of crying, very emotional.) I want to laugh, I want to laugh, I want to
laugh... (He will repeat it over and over again very slowly while slowly fading into
darkness.)
 GIVE ME YOUR HAND

(X and Y are two teenagers, 15, 16, 17, I don't think they will reach 18 years old.
When I wrote I saw a boy and a girl, but I don't know very well who it was. Maybe
I'm wrong and it's two boys or two girls. Maybe this is not the important thing. Or if.
Who knows. Certainly, in these moments I am more aware of their looks, their
gestures and their speech, the tone of their voice, their feelings. I'm interested in
what they say and how they say it. So, really.)

X: Please give me your hand.

Y: The hand? Because?
X: I'm afraid. Don't you hear what they say everywhere?
Y: What do you mean?
X: Damn, what am I going to mean? What world do you live in? Everything they say.
And: Who?
X: Well, everyone, on TV, my father, my mother, all of everyone's parents, I suppose
yours too. Teachers, including us, also say it more and more.
Y: Yeah, everything is shit.
X: Yes, that.
Y: And you think it's to be afraid?
X: No?
Y: Well, it worries me, but fear, fear...
X: Aren't you afraid of not having a job? That your parents become unemployed, that
they cannot pay the mortgage and that they kick you out of the house?
Y: Well, seen like that. (He holds out his hand. They caress each other. After a few
moments, X separates. Something strange has happened to the character.)
X: (With a different attitude, he has lost his fear. Now he will be sure of himself.)
Thank you, thank you, truly, your hand has saved me. Thank you for your support,
for your affection. I'm not afraid anymore. Now I know everything that happens. And
knowing it, I have become strong, resistant...
Y: (Cutting him off.) Stop, stop. I don't understand you, you are very strange today.
What is happening? How has my hand simply made you strong?
X: I don't understand it either. I don't know how it happened. But now I know, I know
it and it's very simple. They are lying to us.
Y: Well, we can imagine that.
X: Imagine no, listen. I didn't know before that... (Pause, the teenage character gets
up, perhaps, if possible, an overhead light or another type of resource that breaks
the "normality" of the scene. We will observe that the character's indignation will
grow as each new piece of information is provided.) I did not know that 0.16% of the
world's population already appropriates the equivalent of 66 percent of the annual
world income 17 . I did not know that 28 of the 35 largest Spanish companies and the
majority of banks use tax havens to facilitate tax evasion and economic crimes by
their large clients 18 . I didn't know that the Chicago Stock Exchange speculates on
the price of food, sweaty men in brightly colored jackets decide the fate of millions of
people. The hunger of the planet in exchange for the wealth of a few 19 . I did not
know that in Spain 0.0035 percent of the population controls resources that are
equivalent to 80.5 percent of the wealth, what they call the GDP 20 . I did not know
that global military spending, despite the 4 years of economic crisis, increased
worldwide for another year, reaching the scandalous figure of 1.6 trillion dollars 21 .
And while the Millennium Goals 22 are forgotten. I didn't know that... (And he
approached and delicately took her hand. X, little by little, calms down. End of visual
effect.)
Y: Where did you get that data from?
X: From a book, from pages of organizations on the Internet...
Y: You have to leave me that book.
X: Sure.
And: What do we do?
X: Are we going to play the game?
Y: Yes, that's how we clear our heads a little.
X: Enough of strong emotions.
Y: Yes, that's fine.
X: Although another day I have to talk to you about coltan.
Y: From coltan?
X: (As they leave.) Yes, a mineral that is used in the manufacture of electronic
devices. In some African countries, children work as slaves in the mines...
GRADES:
1 See my book Learning to write theater in Secondary School, Madrid, Editorial
CCS, 2004.
2 On the website of the Association of Theater Authors http://www. Aat. It is/we can
find the publication of a Marathon series of monologues from various years (from
2002 to 2007). Likewise, two volumes of Size Doesn't Matter, short texts written to
present current dramaturgy to secondary school students.
3 De la Parra, M. TO. The word in the abyss. Theatrical Rehearsal Notebooks,
number 13. Editorial Paso de Gato, Mexico City, 2010.
4 The character appears male or female depending on the character of the
monologue, obviously, we can give freedom for change.
5 Miralles, A. 23 Monologues for exercises. La Avispa Essay Collection, number 1.,
Madrid, 1984.
6 Sanchos Sinisterra, J. The art of the monologue. Theatrical Rehearsal Notebooks,
number 13. Editorial Paso de Gato, Mexico City, 2010.
7 Published in Marathon of Monologues 2003, Association of Theater Authors,
Madrid, 2003.
8 This monologue along with 8 and 11 are part of the multi-author volume titled Size
Doesn't Matter. Short texts from here and now, Association of Theater Authors,
2011. I have news of one of them being performed by the children's group of the
“Pilar Rey” Theater School of Santa Cruz de la Palma to celebrate World Theater
Day in March 2012. (http://teatrojuvenilmaxidediego.Blogspot. Com.
Es/2012/03/gratitude-for-representation.Html)
9 The reference to the anti-globalization movement takes us back to a few years
ago, when this monologue was written. I leave it to the discretion of whoever puts it
on stage to change it to another more current movement, like the 15M. Reading the
text with this terminology can lead to an explanation of a movement that, although it
has not disappeared, is no longer front-page news.
10 Published in Marathon of Monologues 2008, Association of Theater Authors,
Madrid, 2009.
11 The origin of this character is another of the same name and with similar
characteristics from my work Los Raros (When the Moor's Scream), published
together with Quisimos Tanto a Bapu by Ediciones de la Torre in 2010.
12 I dare to propose here the option of having each student who represents the
monologue write a dream, an illusion.
13 Idea taken from the production La confession, a project created by Walter
Manfré, published by the Association of Theater Authors in 2001. I participated in it
with the creation of one of the texts. The original production was performed at the
Autumn Festival and the Madrid Sur Festival in 2001.
14 http://www.Embarazoescosade2.Es/indice.jsp
15 Based on an idea by Juan Carlos Díaz, screenwriter of the film Los Días No
Vividas.
16 http://www.Youtube.Com/watch?v=1Y8-0VCvBig
http://www.Publico.Es/ciencias/244572/coltan-el-futuro-insostenible
http://www.Abc.Es/agencies/noticia.Asp?noticia=1162520
http://elpais.Com/elpais/2012/02/29/opinion/1330535854_387176.Html
17 From the book There are alternatives. Proposals to create employment, Vicenç
Navarro, Juan Torres López and Alberto Garzón Espinosa, Ed. Sequitur and ATTAC
Spain, Madrid, 2011. Page 64.
18 Same book, page 62.
19 From the report El Hunger is listed on the stock market, H. Knaup / M. Schiessl
and A. Seith.
Http://elpais.Com/diario/2011/09/04/domingo/1315108356_850215.Html
20 From the cited book, page 39.
21 Various sources, for example, the report South America leads world rearmament,
Andra Rizzi.
Http://elpais.Com/diario/2011/04/11/internacional/1302472803_850215.Html
22 This list of data can grow or decrease depending on the capacity of the actor, on
the one hand, and the receptivity of the public, on the other.