Performing Solo

This semester has been riddled with opportunities to practice different parts of my craft. Tonight was the performance for my Solo Performance class taught by Luis Alfaro. If you have not taken a class that involves different mediums, and would like to take one at USC, this class incorporates writing and performing personal pieces and to some extent directing them. Which meant that this class was right up my alley.

The performance was based on the 9 students in the class each performing a 5-7 minute personal monologue in front of an audience of friends, family, and peers. It was also our final. My monologue was entitled, "Big Girls," and is as follows...

I love him, I love him not

I love him, I love him not, I love him.

He’s my Dad, the only one I got,

Good, bad or crazy.

He’s my Dad, except when he wasn’t

Around I mean.

He’s my Dad, sometimes I think he forgot.

I am the oldest of 4, now the oldest of 7,

Forget that, it’s irrelevant

I’m the oldest.

I am always the big girl, the helper, the sidekick

The almost as good as Mom,

The messenger.poster child.

The big girl does chores, helps out, grows up

In the blink of an eye

You’re an adult.

It started at 6, my Dad wasn’t around,

He was upstairs in bed, sick,

I helped out.

He left to go on business, the constant provider.

I missed him, we all missed him.

I helped out.

A milestone. “Mommy, wow! I’m a big kid now!”

At some point that stops being a celebration.

I still helped out.

It was the same at 9, but worse this time,

My mom was pregnant, but not right,could have died,

My dad was working, couldn’t get back through the snow.

I helped out.

He’s my Dad, he makes me useless,

I can’t get Mom help.

He’s my Dad, he makes me scared,

What if she dies? You’re not here.

My head starts to throb.

He’s my Dad, but I’m doing his job.

I changed at 11, fought to be small,

I punched, I kicked, I yelled,

Just to get his attention.

I don’t want to be the big girl all the time.

I was the teenage rebel, well, more like a brat.

Negative attention.

Then one night, it all came to a head, over TV

So stupid really, I didn’t care, I refused to say sorry,

That got his attention.

A new form of punishment, “The Chokey” was invented that night,

I was doing sSolitary confinement at 12, in the dining room.

I stayed there 3 nights.

At 13 I stopped fighting back, against growing up,

All I know is it was the last real day of my childhood.

When everything changed on June 2, 2001.

Just another summer day, sunshine, soccer game.

Dad showed up and got kicked off the field,

He was that dad again.

He tried to say sorry, with 4-wheelers, and yelling, strange

My mom left; Andrea and I went to check it out,

Here was my Dad.

Driving tentatively round and around set off his temper,

Here I’ll show you! Helmet Daddy? No.

There goes my Dad.

Here he goes down the ditch.

What’s that noise? (revving noise)

He’s my Dad, and all I see is the bottom of the bike.

All is hear is him scream.

Oh my God!

He’s my Dad!

Running over,

Andrea jumps in,

Bike off Dad,

I’m at the top,

Looking at…

Blood dripping, ripped fabric, broken bones, spat out teeth.

He’s my Dad.

He runs up,

Jumps in truck,

I follow,

Grab phone,

Off we go,

Andrea behind,

Call 911.

Fail.

Breathe.

He’s my Dad.

Call mom.

Explain. Hang up.

Call 911.

Explain.

Look at Dad.

There’s blood everywhere, he’s wheezing through the spaces where his teeth used to be, his arm is on backwards, one eye sits lower, tears, blood…

We’re still driving!

Pull over.

Mmm.

Pull over, please.

Mmm.

PULL OVER!

We pull over.

Ah…Sirens.

Ambulance here.

Dad out.

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Did I answer?

Unknown.

Mom arrives.

Helicopter arrives.

Dad out.

Hospital.

Silence.

He’s my Dad.

When I look back on that day now, the day I saved my Dad’s life,

The day that is supposed to be good, because he survived…

Is the day he didn’t wear a helmet,

Is the day that Andrea did not see the blood,

Is the day the most talkative man in the world could only mumble,

Is the day where my childhood was forgotten at the top of a ditch while I called 911.

He’s my Dad, he has new teeth now,

And a new wife.

He’s my Dad, I took his job for awhile,

But now I have my own life.

Forgiveness is hard, but without it,

I could never enjoy the good today.

I love him…. I love him… a lot.

What was most interesting about performing this piece, is because my father and stepmother were in the audience. Having their reaction to the very personal piece was intriguing.

To badly paraphrase director David Cronenberg, "In order to make something great for you, you can't think about the audience when you are working on it. I couldn't think of what my mother would then I was working on A History of Violence because then it would never be at its most pure and essential and true." Luis Alfaro told us this, and without it I would never have been able to perform this piece.

I feel like I grew as a performer.