I could even be Irish...

Such is life...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could even be Irish...

 

 

Mono; that’s what my father always called me. In Spanish the word means monkey, but my father was not Hispanic. I always assumed he mocked me by the name because my hair and features were dark like cinnamon and my mother and he both had light colored hair and fair skin. Nonetheless, whether for real or imagined reasons I was never fully accepted in his life. I just knew I didn't look at all Irish like him.

            Complicating this aspect of my existence was the fact that the baker was Hispanic, the milkman was Italian, and the butcher was Croatian, and all of them were exceptionally nice to my mother. She thrived on all of their attentions, for she certainly received none at home from my father. When sent away on errands, more regularly than most of my friends, I could see my eyes in the baker, my cheekbones in the milkman, and my stocky build in the butcher and they would all offer me free food at various times. None of this gave me a dime’s peace.

Without a doubt my father wanted my mother around, for if she was out of his sight for a moment something might be amiss, so all day long he yelled for his coffee, or his paper, or his blankets. For ten years he had been bedridden, though I still wonder if it wasn’t simply to keep her close by, to make her wear her guilt like some rich women wear pearls.

            Mother was certainly no angel, unless angels are actually restless and perverse. On more than one occasion I saw her spit in my father’s soup then later cry in her own. She would often wash his clothes with lavender oil, knowing full well it made him itch. Never once did she touch him, in love or anger; it was as if he were a leper. For his pain he took a prescription, and for her pain she gave him twice the dose.

Often when he would fall into a medicated sleep she would leave me alone with him for hours so she could “get some fresh air,” she would say. During these times I would look at his face and wonder at his dreams, knowing that when he was awake my eyes could stare only at my feet in his presence. His dreams came through his mumbling lips in groans and sobs. In the depths of his mind lay some horrid indescribable monster that fed on his sleep.

            As he lay restless on his bed I would stare at a faint wedding picture of my parents in the drawer beside his bed, the only photo of them together that I ever saw. My mother appeared in a beautiful wedding gown and for once they seemed happy in each other’s company. My birthday came just one year after their wedding, though neither date was ever celebrated in our home. From the day of my birth I became the obstacle that kept them apart, so for each I was like a curse.  

            Shortly after I turned nine my parents began to send me to church each Sunday. It wasn’t to find God I later realized; it was more like taking a dry log off your fire to let the flames cool just slightly in its absence. While I was away for those few hours their upturned life was at least quiet, even if the storm was approaching just outside and wiping the mud off his feet. Unknowingly, my presence became like smoke filling a room, and the longer I stayed the darker things grew.

September 15^th still rattles my body and mind. It was never a date celebrated in our family, but I will never forget the significance. Papers came on that date to my father. All he did all day between his sobs and ranting was scream my mother’s name. It had been their anniversary, but now it would be the final resting place of their marriage. 

Not surprisingly there was no battle for my custody, as if I hadn’t been in custody all my life. At eighteen I was now on my own. I knew most likely why my father would not want me around, but my mother’s reason was less obvious. Either she was ashamed of what she had done nearly nineteen years ago or regretful of what she had not.

Within a year my father, or so I had come to call him slipped into a trance and died mumbling my mother’s name. Not once did I hear him call my name or whisper for me to stand at his side, yet there I was wishing somehow that his arm would accidentally slip and touch mine. Somehow I wished he would call me Mono one more time. At least his clothing did not make him itch in those last few months; I made certain of that.

For a time my mother dated several men trying to find one who would provide for her, so she had plenty of free meat, bread, and milk from the butcher, the baker, and the milkman. Last I heard she was with a farmer who could supply her with all three, but it doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. The simple act of divorce gave my mother the freedom she craved, even from me, and my father the nightmare he feared. Loneliness can be a most ravenous monster when you sleep.

I have neither mother nor father to embrace me now or strike my cheek, though I still dream of such things. A pastor in a sermon on a Sunday years ago had said that “hell’s not so hot as a marriage grown cold.” It had been so cold in my home for so many years that a simple touch can feel like a fire to me even now.

To my childhood I say adios, arrivederci, and doveejehñah, for I may never know just who’s I am but I will keep searching for who I am the rest of my days. Maybe it’s best that way; I don’t have to be held back by the chains of heritage or custom anymore. It is up to me to write my story from here on and cover my past like one kicks sand on a dying fire. Hell, I could even be Irish!

Author's Note

A young man must make peace with his life and his father... either the Hispanic baker, the Italian milkman, or the Croatian butcher... Ah, life...

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Perhaps the best story of the Irish that has ever been
written. It is horribly sad, tugs at the heartstrings in every
paragraph. Sick, dissalusioned, melancholy, all of the things
that keep the Irish telling jokes, kidding and singing songs of
love and daring-do.
Perhaps the history of the Irish explains it all. The 'Scandinavian
people invaded and taught them how to fish, giving the Irish their
blonde, good looks, the English over-ran them, but left a language.
The French came over and built the only cathedrals and fancy churches.
The Italians gave them a religion and the Spanish gave them color.
To the credit of the Irish, though they have no idea who they are, they
have fought and will always fight to preserve their identity, they will fight
and love and die because they are Irish.
You have written a composite of the Irish story in your poor, sad story.
It is genius, it is brilliant, I love it---- Thank you!
=---- Eagle Cruagh

[Sunni Davis]

This is a really great story, wonderfully written and one I can sadly relate to. You are an excellent storyteller and I feel honored to be able to read your work.

[Brandon]

I really am at a loss for words. I wish I could give you a review that would be something useful or of value. But all I can say is that this is perfection. I loved every word, every line and every beautifully tragic image they envoked.

[Sunflower/Sara Kendrick]

Yes, you could..We never know how those genes will line up and what they will produce..There is the black Irish you know..Enjoyed reading your short story..You should win a prize with this one..Sunflower

[creatorx2]

First of all, great job winning the contest. This story was among the first that got submitted and it just stuck with me for quite a while.
I loved the way you used imagery, and the style in which the story was written. It made me think back and be glad I'm not the main character, but at the same time made me wish I could meet him.
The little details were especially vibrant, things like his nickname, going off to church, the pain pills, the little ways you used heat and cold as a metaphor... Every sentence had some greater purpose to the story.
Despite all of the troubles in the main character's life, he still remains optimistic at the end, willing to leave everything behind him and start anew. It left me feeling good at the end, despite all of the sadness that came before it. Very well done.
Overall, this was a beautiful piece of writing, and I'm probably not going to forget it any time soon. It was very enjoyable to read.

[Sean M. Addams]

very well done .. i thought the storyline in this was interesting and well done .. very deep !!! overall i thought you did amazing job ... very impressive !!

[.]

this is a brilliantly crafted piece of work - I was engaged from the first line, the sense of loneliness from each character was outstanding, it covers so many different aspects of marriage, life, death, pain, resentment and acceptance..truly a story to be proud of ..a favourite.

[Cherrie Palmer]

You told this story so very well, heart-breaking as it was for a child. I am glad I read it.

[thedaydreamer]

Wow... Great writing. One of the best pieces of work I have ever seen. The theme and the tone about the gruesome life of the character is consistent throughout the story. Even if the story is predictable... the style of writing makes a great difference.

And the ending line..."Hell, I could even be Irish" (or I can even be Irish) ... gave me goosebumps. Exciting.

[Jillian Alexis]

wow this was so amazing...
i was captivated the entire time while reading..
thank you for sharing this with us!

[Enthusiast]

Thank you for sharing this truly engaging read. I most enjoyed the sense of "heartfelt detachment" (an oxymoron on purpose) that you were able to conjure. On one hand, your prose was so down to earth, nearly as if you were telling someone else's story, and on the other, one could not help but be drawn into the emotional complexities affecting the narrator.

A wonderful piece of writing. Please keep up the good work!