The Monster and the Man
Roberto Hernandez
When I was a toddler, I vividly remember arguing coming from my parents’ room. I stood on the other side of their large door and began to grow concerned as the argument escalated towards yelling, then screaming.
I quickly opened the door and saw my mother on the floor, telling me to leave the room.
“Todo está bien” (“Everything is fine”), she said.
Immediately, my father closed the door. I heard the doorknob “click.” Then, there was absolute silence…
As my mother cried, possibly still lying on the floor, I heard him struggling. I couldn’t see it, but I could imagine it. Based on the excessive jingles of its buckle, the tall man, too drunk to comprehend his actions, was trying his best to take off his belt. Soon, the horror began. My mother shrieked, as I heard the first whip of the belt hit her skin. More came after, as she cried, “Heriberto, no…por favor!” My concern grew every time my knocking was ignored. I then used my entire body, hoping to break the hinges to recuse her, despite how much it hurt my shoulder, but it was to no avail. I was just a child.
Even so, I continued. I shouted, “Mami abre la puerta por favor, qué está pasando?!” (“Mom open the door please, what is going on?!”).
My father responded, “Cállate, chamaco” (“Shut up, brat”).
I was out of options, and I yelled my sister’s name for help, but she was nowhere to be found. It was only me left alone to listen to the cruel beating.
Eventually, the whipping stopped. And soon after, the door opened. I saw him, my father, leave the room with bloodshot eyes, reddened skin, and an intense odor of alcohol. He was barely recognizable as the man I usually saw. I turned my attention to the room, seeing my sister consoling my mother, still lying on the floor, finally having the opportunity to be in agony. What I last remember were her words, “Me mordiste” (“You bit me”).
That day was the sign that everything was going to be shit.
Every night I crawled under my bed, waiting to see if there was going to be another beating or temporary peace. This fear of my father’s excessive rage made me take precautions. I bugged my mom about his condition, asking, “Does he sound drunk?” “Is he drinking?” “Will he come home?” “Yes” to any of these questions left a bad feeling in my stomach, which I called my sixth sense. Any time this feeling appeared, I knew something would go wrong, and unfortunately, this theory was correct.
One day, as I was around the age of ten or eleven, my mother and I were searching for my father, who had not returned home for many days. After searching block after block, we were successful. We searched across half the city to find him hanging around with his drunkard friends. I knew my mother was relieved but also furious, as she reminded him that he was a husband and a father.
He tried to excuse himself and claimed, “I was going to be home soon and bring you guys Chinese food.”
This was obviously a lie. Even though I urged my mother to leave him be, she wanted him to return, because of love, I guess. After waiting for him to finish his drinks, we started to depart from the unhinged group of people he called “friends.” Soon, after a couple of blocks, he hugged me, saying how much he missed me. He then asked for fist bumps and, weirdly enough, questioned my love for him.
“¿Me amas, hijo mío?” (“You love me, my son?”).
I replied, “Te amo, Papá” (“I love you, Dad”) out of fear of what he would do if I said anything else.
Funny enough, he also suggested that we bring Chinese food for my sister, which he didn’t have the common decency to pay for. By then, we were making our way home, as a complete family, and I saw the sunset over the horizon of Orange, New Jersey. That day, I developed a fear of sunsets, and mind you, this was not the last time we found him there, drunk out of his mind, and prepared with excuses.
By high school, I noticed that my mother began to fight against my father’s bullshit, asking him to not come home until he had his “five senses,”after each of his drunken phone calls. During that time, we were left with eviction notices, or we returned home from school with no power or hot water. Just because he couldn’t stay sober enough to work or sober enough to not spend his money. I find it funny how this so-called “man of the house” always asked my mother for lunch money.
Every morning it was the same. “What am I going to eat? I have no money,” he argued.
And she responded, “Then how come you have money to drink?”
Even if we gave him money, even if he promised not to drink, he just came home drunk. Fucked out of his mind and holding a 12-pack.
This pattern my father developed, from going between an honest man to an angry drunk, complicated my affection for him. I remember being loyal to him, despite the amount of pain he caused us.
I remember bringing him his sandals as soon as he returned from work.
I remember saving the last can of Ginger Ale I hid when he couldn’t find any.
I remember being satisfied by his fucking lies, his promises for better days.
Year after year, he gave me the same nonsense:
“Son, we will get a house.”
“Son, we will get a car.”
“Son, we will move to a better state.”
“Son, I will get a better job.”
“Son, you don’t have to worry, I will stop drinking.”
After years of these lies, I was finally fed up. One night, I stared at my ceiling, feeling emotionally and mentally drained from his fuckery. “No more,” I said to myself. “No more.”
I declared not to love him.
I declared to hate him.
I declared not to recognize him.
I declared to ignore him.
I declared not to see him as family.
I declared to personally disown him.
Even after all these thoughts, I broke down. I teared in silence, alone in this misery, because I knew I still loved him. I missed and yearned for this monster to return to the father he used to be. The father who put his family first in front of everything. The father who brought my mother flowers, brought his children toys and affection, the father who was once motivated, strong, and passionate.
The first couple of weeks of “making him dead to me” was weird since we still lived in the same house. Even so, I had to remain true to my word or else I would remain as his enabler. I forbid myself to talk to, acknowledge, or even look him in the eye.
Weeks soon turned to months, and he stopped trying to communicate with me. Not even questioning why I ignored him in the first place. Once I realized this, I was gravely disappointed in him, because you would have expected a parent to grow concerned over their child’s sudden change in behavior, but no. He just stopped trying. He gave up. Threw in the towel. This made me figure out another thing about him. He was no man at all.
Soon after, I finally graduated high school. My friends and I celebrated this achievement by throwing a party, which my mother attended. I didn’t feel accomplished. Even though I was enjoying good food, drinking alcohol, and joking around like the clown I was, I felt empty. I knew once I returned home, the situation would remain the same. My family still had to deal with my dad. Once we returned home, my mother congratulated me and spoke these touching words:
“Hijo, estoy tan orgulloso de ti, ok. Aunque tu padre no nos está ayudando, todavía nos tenemos el uno al otro. Te amo mucho y juntos superaremos este infierno.” (“Son, I’m so proud of you, okay. Although your father is not helping us, we still have each other. I love you so much and together we will get through this hell”).
In March of 2020, we moved to a new city. I finally had my own room after five years of having the living room as my private quarters. I could finally change clothes without waiting for the room to be empty. I could stay up late without disturbing my mother. I could finally be the teenager I wanted to be, as an adult. My new home promised new beginnings, or it was supposed to. During the moving process, I was both surprised and disappointed when my father continued with his vices. He’d return home drunk, leaving the packing and transporting all to my mother. Even though he wasn’t as violent as he had been before, this poisonous attitude of his sickened us.
Then, it happened.
I was just about to go to sleep, when I heard shrieks. They were my mother’s. I refused to believe it since my father hadn’t gone back to his violent ways for a long time. However, the second I heard banging, I rushed to my mother’s room, and saw him. I saw that bastard punching her right in the face, as if it was nothing. He broke my silence. My rule.
I questioned him, “What are you doing?”
He calmly answered, “Son, it’s your mother’s fault, she doesn’t love me anymore.”
She left the room and rushed to the kitchen, looking for salt, a rag, and some ice. I immediately followed. I took a long look at her face and…I was broken. Her left eye was bruised, bulged, and purple. My mother’s beautiful face. The same face that kissed me goodnight as a kid, the same face that lectured me, the same face that expressed happiness over my accomplishments, was ruined by that monster.
He had the nerve to confront my mother and ordered, “Call the police! Ask them to come here and kill me! Kill me here! Dead! This is what you want!”
We ignored him because I was concerned about my mother’s eye, but she said it was okay. It was not okay to me. After his show was finished, he went to my mother’s room and locked himself there, the coward he was. I couldn’t hold back. All I ever wanted to do was to smash his face in, stomp him into the ground and give him the death he desperately desired. I grabbed a pole, and just before I reached the room, my mother stopped me.
I told her boldly, “Mom, don’t stop me. I’m going to kill him. He needs to die or else we won’t be at peace.”
She quickly answered, “What would happen next, you will be in jail, and I would be alone. Stop this nonsense and please calm yourself. Tomorrow I will have a talk with him.” After many minutes of convincing, I gave her the pole, and hugged her.
“Lo siento mamá.” (“I’m sorry mom”).
The next morning, he left. My mother talked to him and demanded that he pack his things and leave. For the first time, I felt at peace. I was able to live the remainder of my life without him, because I knew my family would be okay with just my mother. She was the only parent I needed and the only one who deserved my love.
Even though he is gone, his existence continues to haunt me. Every living moment, I am reminded that I am his son. My knees easily crack like his, my back hurts like his, my bones are as frail as his. I am his replica. I even hate the fact that I have his temper, his hair, his face, his goddamn name. Ever since he left, I have questioned myself. I knew that this hatred I bare isn’t healthy, as my mother told me that hatred will never bring me peace and that I should learn to forgive. Her words are indeed wise, but I am not forgiving him. I think it’s best to keep being angry at him so that I will never forget that kind of person he is. Last thing I need is for him to return to us with the same promises as before. No more. To keep the peace I have, I must sacrifice the piece of humanity I have remaining. I’ll do it, just to protect my mother. Even though she doesn’t accept how I view him, I’ll still do it. There must be a compromise for peace. I don’t know what it’s like to be a man. I learned mostly from a monster, so here’s my final statement:
My father is a monster.
But I am a man?
Roberto Hernandez writes, “It was difficult to forget these memories while residing between small cities like Orange and East Orange. Parks, stores, and restaurants held precious memories, but were infected with my past. At the time, it was difficult to enjoy anything since everything was a reminder of what had happened. All my life, I have striven for peace, and writing happens to help me obtain it, ever so slightly. I was glad to become a Rutgers student since the university allowed me to test my ability to write. Importantly, it allowed me to see new settings, offering me ideas, new spaces, giving the potential to form pieces and memories. I’ll try to take in everything I can while I remain a student here. I am a member of the class of 2023.
This piece was produced in a class taught by Lindsay Haber, who selected the work for inclusion in WHR.