Courtyard Theatre Monologue

Today is the day. The day we’ve spent the past eight weeks preparing for. Our task: to work with our team to write, produce, and perform a ten-minute play within 24 hours. We will also be required to incorporate a prop, and the first and last line of the play would be given to us. My team, a private theater group called Courtyard Theater, consists of nine young thespians, seven tech crew, and our beloved director and writer. We are raring to go, and as soon as we arrive, we rush to the costume shop, grab our gear, and return to our sponsor’s house where we will be spending the night.

In the air is a giddy feeling of excitement with an underlying, ominous fear of incompetence. All our knees knock together with the feelings of both elation and despair that are often experienced on a rollercoaster. But there will be time for

I wake up bleary-eyed to the first item of the day: the cast list. I look for my name and find I’m “Peggy,” described as, “the old Janitor.” Looking through the script, I become more and more agitated. Do I even have any lines? Yes! Here! What do I say? Oh. “I can lift these boxes just fine, Ethan.” That’s it? All my lines for this show? What did I do wrong? How could I have gotten this tiny part?

I’ll admit, I first indulge myself in a fair amount of angst. I’m one of the oldest students here, and somehow I have been cast as an old janitor? How humiliating! But I try to avoid the spiral, catch my breath and calm myself down. “You’re okay. This isn’t a reflection on you. Just play this part the best you can.” As the day goes on, I keep up this mindset, fully committing to my one-line character. We don costumes and makeup, and I’m pleased to find that my janitor suit is comfortable, and I get to wear fun makeup to make me look older. Things are looking up.

Now it’s time to perform. Everyone has jello legs and churning stomachs. Deep breath in, and exhale. Curtains up, let’s