Over the next few days several of last year's Finalist Winners will share their process of getting from the festival prompt to a monologue they felt excited to submit to Hear Me Out Monologue Competition.
Today, we hear from:
Janet Kenney, author of "What I Wear Outside" (2020 Hear Me Out Finalist Winner)
When I first heard the prompt, I thought: I’m doomed. I really wanted to enter the contest because a) there was significant cash involved and, b) I’m studying with Mr. Tec at the moment and I wanted him to have a good turnout from among his students. But I had that “I’m doomed” thought because every little thought shows on my face. Always has. When I was a junior in high school, our history teacher, Miss DePietro, exhorted, begged us to ask questions if we were confused. “Except Janet,” she said. “If Janet’s confused she looks like she’s going to cry.” A friendly laugh from my classmates, a flush and a laugh from me. During my years of acting on the stage, I only had to think a thing to have my strong, fine-tuned body respond. A mask? I wish. So I did some scribbling in my notebook and, after I pushed through several vague ideas, I finally came to admit that I did have a mask: my dog, Grace, who’s snoring gently by my side as I write this.
We live in the city so there are always plenty of people around, mostly lovely neighbors, the rare annoying neighbor, new people, always. I’m much more shy than people think I am. Before an occasion where I’ll meet new people,
I’m up all night. Not consciously worried (will they like me?) but, up, nevertheless. Unless I’ll have the dog with me. There’s always something to talk about, even with strangers: boy or girl? (if the hot pink leash and the red and pink-flowered collar are not enough, girl), how old is she? (15 in two weeks) Wow! She looks like a puppy! What is she? (she’s a white fluffy mutt, mostly poodle for sure)…and we’re off.
We’re chatting. This is especially important during pandemic times, when I’m starved for human interaction. If I go to a family party, I insist on bringing the dog. She’s legit assistive so I can, and do, take her everywhere with me. She’s perfectly well-mannered – no small feat – and has “inside behavior” (no barking, no fussing). Always, my little sidekick. And she, I realized, was my mask. The one that I wear outside.
There’s another mask that dog-owners wear. The minute you love the dog, you have to march on, knowing that, barring unforeseen disaster, she’ll die before you. It’s the bargain you make with the dog. Mask up. Working from David Mamet’s advice to, “Write into what scares you,” I got to work on the monologue about her last moments, which haunt me and would haunt anyone with a fifteen-year old dog. I’ve had her for a quarter of my life. For this project, I used a technique I almost never use: I improvised the monologue three or four times, recorded it, then culled the material I liked. Because I knew those feelings were pretty close to the surface, and they were. And then, when the time comes and she has been naughty and refused to die peacefully in her sleep or, better, in your arms, I’m told and I can imagine that you throw on another mask: at the vet, you are brave for the dog so she doesn’t panic. They catch everything about you, and if you fall apart, they will. And then yet another mask to make people think you survived this loss, but your heart has been blown out and you march around trying to wear that outside mask, except now, you don’t have one.
