Hope Saved Me From Being a Statistic

zayla dogs

**This piece is a dramatic monologue and is read as a playwright piece. **

Fourteen-year-old girl, Zayla enters wearing jeans and her favorite blue shirt with the words “Science Olympiad” on the front and had clip art images of a microscope, an atom, and a ruler. Zayla stands in the middle of a dark stage with one spot light on her.  She carries a stuffed dog in her arms.

            In the U.S. there are over 18 million alcoholics. Those 18 million alcoholics are affecting about 26.8 million children. I am one of those children. Just because my father is an alcoholic that makes me more likely to follow his footsteps and develop a drug abuse problem when compared to other children without alcoholic parents.

[Zayla starts moving her hands when talking. Keeping motions light and within her body frame.]

Also, I am more likely to develop depression or anxiety, antisocial and behavioral problems, just because my dad decided that this liquid is more important than his own family. All the times he yelled at us because he ran out of beer. All the times that I stayed in my room crying because my mom was at work, and Dad was too wasted to drive for a beer run. But, you see, I won’t be another statistic.

[Zayla starts evenly pacing while looking focused, almost thinking out loud. The hand motions continue]

My mother words too hard to support my father, his habit, and myself. She always makes my education a priority. She always loves to hear the nerdy things I learn in class every day or how I am preparing for the Science Olympiad competition coming up.

[Zayla lets out a small chuckle, followed by a brief pause.] We both have seen the effects of what alcoholism can do. [Zayla adds emphasis to the words ‘refuse/refuses’ every time] My mom refuses my future to become dependent on alcohol. She refuses to let this monster consume me and even consume herself. I refuse to let myself fall into that hole. I refuse to be consumed by this nasty disease. I refuse to be another statistic.

[Zayla holds up her stuffed dog at chest level. Admiring the dog’s short brown fuzz and floppy dark brown ears. She lifts one front paw and lets it fall back down]

This dog; is just not a stuffed dog that a fourteen-year-old girl is attached to for materialistic reasons. This dog represents hope and strength. When I was five, my dad was on a drinking binge all day. He consumed more than usual and he also became madder than usual. Mother just got home, she was late because work made her stay over. My dad had been out of beer for about two hours too long. [Zayla’s hand motions become larger and more frequent. The motions extending outside her body frame.] The yelling… the cussing… made our living room seem like a battle field. I covered my ears behind my closed bedroom door. Mother came to my room and told me with a sob in her voice… [Zayla stands still in the middle of the stage, her tone is depressed. Both of her hands grasp the dog and lowered to her waist.] “We’re going on a beer run.” I remember looking in her eyes and it looked like an ocean was going to pour out.

[Pause, and starts with a calm tone]

We walked up to the gas station that was down the street from our house. There I found this dog [Zayla brings the dog up to eye level, then lowering the dog and hands to a more relaxed position at chest level.] I named it hope. My mother bought a six pack for my dad instead of a twelve pack so she could buy me this stuffed dog. She got down on one knee in that gas station and told me that if she buys me this dog, the dog will protect me from dad’s actions. She told me the dog will keep me safe and always be there when I need someone to talk to. My mom told me that Hope, the dog, will always be there for me when she’s not there.

Since the age of five, Hope has been there for me. Hope has never left me nor I left it. Hope is there making sure I do not become like my father. [Pause] Hope makes sure I do not become another statistic.

[Zayla hugs the dog and exits the stage.]


Ode To Softball

I grab my helmet and my lucky bat,

High five my team on the way out,

I run to the plate and get into my stance.

Knees bent and hands close to my ear; perfect.

While the crowd cheers on for my homerun chance,

The cheers from my teammates echo from the dugout.


The games on the line,

The scores 8 to 9.

Two outs and my last at bat,

Here comes the ball,

Strike one,

Strike two.


My heart’s beating like tap dancing shoes,

One more strike and my team will lose.

The pitcher starts her wind up,

Here comes the ball, again.

I see the neon ball hit my bat,



I smack the ball,

Like a rocket ship through the skies.

It flies and flies and flies.

I run and run and run.

Rounding third base my coach tells me to head home,

It’s risky, head down and pumping my arms with every leap I take.


The ball rolls in,

Looking at the ball, then the plate, then the ball,

Will I make it home?

The catcher, ready to catch the ball and block my slide,

Inches away I am from home,

Teammates cheer on for a homerun.


I slide; I slide under the tag,

I’m safe and the score is mine,

The score is ours; my team’s.

I couldn’t have done it alone;

Teamwork is what I needed,

To make it home.

This was an assignment for my creative writing class; I had to write an Ode to a hobby or an object. I chose softball because it was such a big part of my life growing up. Starting at the age of five with tee-ball, I grew up spending my summers on dirt and winters inside on turf. Softball allowed me to be on many teams, meet a lot of other girls, have great coaches, and travel all over the country. This sport also allowed me to experience collegiate softball until medical issues occurred and I had to end my career.  I miss this sport, I miss the weekend-long tournaments, and I miss the sound of the ball hitting the bat.

One Patient At a Time

Nurses fill the hospital with a sense of hope,

The bright blue scrubs radiate in the chaos,

But the nurse is trying to save the patient’s life.

Doctors fill the patient’s families head with worry,

But their white long coat ensures they are trustworthy

And the family allows the doctor to continue treatment.

The hustle of the hospital stresses the workers,

the scrubs tell the story of their 12-hour shift

while they work as a team to save lives

The doctors stress over the loss of their patients,

Their scrubs are soaked in blood,

The doctor tried everything they could do

The family in the waiting room is filled with disbelief,

the bright colors of their clothes cannot even brighten this moment,

the family is morning the loss of a loved one

The lifeless body lays on the hospital bed,

Their clothes are ripped, torn, and soaked,

The team steps away to catch their breath

The room is cleaned and prepped,

The doctors change to fresh scrubs

And prepare for the next patient.


The Girl and the Ocean

Along the peaceful ocean, a girl sits in the sand while being overwhelmed by the thoughts raging in her head. She looks around not understanding why everybody is so calm and relaxed while she doesn’t remember what that feels like. The sound of the waves gently crashing along the shore invoke a sense of calmness like those recorded therapeutic CDs. The people are laying in the little sun that is left before it disappears under the horizon. The occasional couple passes while walking barefoot in the ankle-deep water. Their voices relaxed and are focused on the other person; too focused to notice the girl in sobs as they pass. The girl wishes to be normal and not have so many issues. She doesn’t know what normal means but has been told she isn’t it. The girl wishes to be able to engage in a normal conversation without her emotions getting the best of her. The issues come from what people have told her, but it’s not what she truly thinks of herself. The sun sets and the sky is filled with oranges and yellow, but inside she is filled with blues and blacks. Just as the sun leaves the sky, so do the people around her.The darkness is consuming the sky and she misses the feeling of light on her face. The girl wishes should run away from all those drowning thoughts as she nears the ocean. With her feet in the salt-filled water, she feels the individual waves hug her legs as they pass through. She now feels one with the large body of water that surrounds her. Not far from the shore, a sense of belonging radiates to her mind and fills her body as she slowly starts to accept herself for who she is. The girl found herself in the ocean instead of staying lost on land.

The Last Game

It’s game day,

The last softball game of my high school career.

Taking one last glance at the field,

Nothing has changed over 4 years.

The same old beaten up scoreboard,

Standing tall over the high fence that I’ve hit my share of balls over.

The outfield with that large indent in center field I always hated

Will continue to be there when I leave.

My four years were spent in the infield,

I know it like the back of my hand.

The dried groves in the dirt made it harder to field a ball,

But they taught me how to react better on defense.

The place that I truly loved,

Was the most important place on the field; home plate.

What seemed to be two ditches were only the batter’s boxes,

Where everybody had their own chance to do something big for their team.

Home plate was covered with scratch marks

From the player’s cleats that reached home plate to score.

I thought I would never miss a field of rock solid dirt,

I even happened to take a piece of the field with me when I left.