Monologues
DAD - from Water, Water

When I was a kid there was an old unused corn crib out back of our house. I slept in that crib a lot of nights. Some nights I’d go even further from the house, make a hole in a haystack and sleep there. Both places were more comfortable than my palette on the dirt floor in the house but that’s not why I slept there… A lot of times, if I could find some blackberries or something else to eat I wouldn’t even go home for supper. With six brothers no one really noticed if I wasn’t there. Some days I’d cut school and go looking for pop bottles. Glass bottles. In those days you could take empty pop bottles back to the store and they’d give you money for them. It wasn’t much but I saved every bit.

Mr. Posey had a grocery store a couple of miles from home and every day I’d walk there and sweep the floors for a few cents each time. I saved that too. Anytime there was hay that needed baling or a barn that needed mucking out, I’d do it. It didn’t matter what the job was, I’d do it and I saved every penny…

By the time I was sixteen I had saved enough to buy a bus ticket to Dallas, the nearest city big enough to have a recruiting office. I lied about my age and joined the Navy. Your description of how you see me... the look on your face as you said those things… struck a nerve. The reason I hunted for pop bottles, swept floors, shoveled shit, baled hay and joined the Navy was not because I wanted to see the world. It wasn’t out of any patriotic sense of duty. I did all that because I couldn’t stand to watch my drunk father beat my mother senseless anymore. I was tired of being beaten. He hated me and he hated my mother and my brothers. He hated Blacks and Mexicans and anybody who wasn’t just like him. It seemed like he hated everyone and, after a while, I hated everything about him just as much. I hated to see his face, I hated the sound of his voice. I hated myself for not killing him. I hated that I didn’t have the guts to do that. So, I had to get out. I left with nothing but the clothes on my back and didn’t look back. My father was… what did you call me? A “belligerant…abusive, racist jerk.” Everything you described in me to a tee. To be honest, I left with more than just the clothes on my back. I ran away from him carrying bitterness and prejudice and, surprise surprise, a big load of hate. I left believing I was no good, lazy, stupid, all those things he called me over and over. Somebody said “Whoever fights monsters should make sure he doesn’t become one.” All my life I have fought my father, tried to forget him, to bury him and I lost sight of who he was, even as I became him. It made me angry and mean. I’m not making excuses here. This is on me. I know that’s not what you want to hear and I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer. I can say I’m going to try. I’ll try to think before I speak and I’ll try to change the way I think about things— or people. Danny, you’ve somehow managed to put up with me without becoming me. Don’t.  I mean it.