Citing its accessible approach to identity issues on campus and facey social media advertising campaign, the Duke student body reported Sunday that thanks to the Me Too Monologues, their annual privilege check had been completed. The larger Duke community, which has become known for its excessive privilege and debauchery over the years and goes otherwise unchecked, reports feeling thankful to have such committed students who write and act in the monologues to remind them of the hardships that otherwise seem “unreal.”
The production, which has been around for nearly a decade, began as a way of extending the sorts of conversations about identity issues—such as race, gender, class and, more recently, frat emails—that typically arise from the conversations on the Common Ground retreat. The Duke student body, however, has instead used the two-hour long performance of anonymously-submitted monologues to complete their one and only privilege check of the entire calendar year.
“Honestly, I just feel so thankful after I go see Me Too,” a sophomore female-identifying student who stood next to Monday Monday while waiting in line to get into the production told her male-identifying friend. “Between Wednesday and Saturday night Shooters I sometimes feel like I lose sight of what’s important, as well as the sorts of struggles that others face. My life is so rich in friendship and in riches—I’m big enough to acknowledge that I’m from Connecticut, white and blonde, after all—it’s nice to be reminded that there are some people who are so close to me but struggling way more that I do.”
After seeing the annual production, many students reported feeling “moved” by the touching monologues and the sorts of problems highlighted, which may not have otherwise been known on Duke’s campus.
“One of the monologues last year was about being black at Duke. I was so touched that for, like, 30 seconds, I considered attending one of those Black Lives Matter protests or reaching out to a friend about the pervasive institutionalized racism he experiences here on campus and in the larger United States,” a male-identifying, top-tier-identifying fraternity brother told Monday Monday.
When asked if he’d followed through on those impulses, the brother—who asked to remain anonymous, much like those who composed the show’s monologues—told Monday Monday “nah” because he had “a midterm and an away-formal that week” so that conversation would be “too much” and would distract from his Goldman Sachs internship application. He also reported being afraid of what his black friend would think if he used the word “black” to describe his race.
Much of Me Too’s production value is rooted in its ability to cultivate a collection of monologues from far corners of campus and from a wide range of experiences, despite the institutional tendency to facilitate activities that only half of the student body would actually enjoy.
“I’m really happy my monologue was accepted,” some random student who had probably never been to Shooters or a basketball game in his life unpromptedly told Monday Monday in line. “I tend to feel really alone on campus and like nobody can hear me. Most of the people up there on stage would probably never even give me the time of day, after all. But yet here they are, telling my story and sharing it with the whole school. It’s really special, even if the kid who performed my monologue cut me in line for the nitrogen ice cream in West Union and then told me to f**k off the next day.”
“We may be fairly unrepresentative of the writers themselves,” one anonymous performer told Monday Monday after the show. “But we’re definitely much more representative of the people who come to see the show.”
One performer cited feeling much more aware of income disparity at Duke after giving a monologue about a student who came from a working class background, despite the fact that she herself drove a BMW and practiced the monologue in front of the mirror at her luxury Berkshire Main apartment, completely furnished by Pottery Barn. Another former performer told Monday Monday he recites his old monologue in the mirror anytime he wears pastels or feels like a little too much of a d*****bag.
“It really puts me in my place,” he said, before crushing a beer on his forehead in the walk-up line for the UNC game.
DukeEnrage, which Monday Monday was surprised to see still see existed, is reportedly “aghast” at the performance, saying that the performances “didn’t go far enough.”
“It’s not enough to have a well-attended show that highlights important identity issues on campus and broadcasts them to a large audience who wouldn’t otherwise interact with them,” an anonymous member of the organization who runs their Tumblr page told Monday Monday. “How dare they try to talk about those issues in such a reasonable and accessible way. The only truly acceptable way of talking about issues is to pitch a fit and take over a random bench on Abele Quad with a bullhorn. Duh.”
Counseling and Psychological Services, which is still attempting to deal with the influx of appointments in the wake of Greek rush, is reportedly “overwhelmed” by the number of calls they are getting after each weekend performance.
“I have a tiny voodoo Larry Moneta in my drawer which I pull out once in awhile,” one CAPS psychologist told Monday Monday in their weekly session that is strictly journalistic and totally unrelated to the mental health implications of criticizing individuals and institutions anonymously. “Putting us in this new central location in the student health building was supposed to be great, but all it has done is make my life more difficult thanks to all these stressed out, hyper-privileged kids. At least when we were in the Flowers building, nobody could find us, even if they tried.”
Monday Monday wrote this from a Safe Space in the Sanford Building.
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