A paternal mystery.

In Vietnam 1968, Texan born 2nd Lt. Robert Mac placed an ad asking “young ladies” to write him. Hundreds replied. Almost thirty years after Robert’s death, his son Taylor Mac manhandles these found texts into a show about war, romance, and fathers. Partially sung, the 80-minute solo performance contains original songs and text, along with the letters. By juxtaposing the images and circumstances of his father in Vietnam, with Taylor’s own drag-art visuals and New York lifestyle, the work attempts to bridge the gap between perceptions of masculinity and femininity, fathers and sons, and red and blue states.

Excerpt:

TAYLOR.  Dear Bob,I am writing in response to your advertisement, which was in the Daily Telegraph dated May 6th, 1968 asking Australian girls to write you.  I am not an Australian but I am called “girl” by many people who know me.  I’m thirty-four years old.  The same age you were, when you crossed the yellow divider line and smashed head on into the on-coming traffic.  I’m 5’11” in my stocking feet.  In my stilettos I’m anywhere between 6’2” and 6’5”.  I’m considered attractive and a happy type, especially at parties.  I have blue eyes, like my mom, and if it is not glued on I have no hair, like you.  Today however my hair is:  Best not to describe.  I also love the water and was pleased to learn it’s something you enjoy too.  I try to swim three days a week now, in an Olympic size swimming pool in Harlem.  There’s a skylight that lets the sunlight play games in the water.  I like to stay under for as long as possible and watch the fat bellied old men swim past.  Gliding by, submerged like that, they’re just about as graceful as a human being can be.  I can’t say I’m that fond of “Gutless Men” either but I have learned that bravery comes in all kinds of forms, as does fear.  I like to think I’m a brave a person although sometimes I falter.  Religious people aren’t my bag of tricks either and it’s really nice to know we have that in common.   They say 40% of the country considers themselves Evangelical Christians and that they interpret the bible literally.  Seems to me they do so because they’re not sophisticated enough to understand metaphor.  But perhaps that’s just judgmental.  My mother is a religious person and I do love her.  I guess we make exceptions with our dislikes; we must have that in common as well.  My favorite drink is, well anything that’s available… no really, alcohol humor, well if it’s not passé, it should be. Apparently you were an alcoholic.  You spent some time in Vietnam.  Perhaps that’s why you drank.  Did you own a necklace of ears? You did win the bronze star, which is supposed to be for an act of bravery.  Although I heard they gave awards out like candy back then so… well I must admit I find it difficult to be proud of someone who wins an award from the army and even harder to reconcile my extreme liberal politics with the desire to have an award winning soldier superman for a father.  I wonder if you were proud.  A lot has changed since 1968.  We have this thing called spell check now, which makes writing intelligent letters much easier, although people don’t write letters anymore.  I’d explain but…They want to start cloning humans, all these sad people who miss their dead loved ones so they saved skin samples to clone them.  I found an old book of yours.  Cracker crumbs fell out of the pages, from you eating and reading in bed over thirty years ago.  I thought I could have you cloned.  But you would probably come back as a bisquit.  I’d be fine with that.  There’s a war on terror.  I’d explain but…I blame John Wayne.  I do I blame John Wayne for The War On Terror.  I blame the great champion of masculinity for everything that’s wrong with this country.  He’s buried next to you.  John Wayne is buried directly next to you.  It’s true.  The man who gave me the map to your cemetery, showing me where your plot was, he was impressed.  “I’m sorry for you loss, but wow look who he’s buried next to.”  John’s stone has a metal carving of him riding a horse.  Your’s has a typo.  Well a mistake.  Well a lie.  It says you were a first Lt.  But we all know you only made it to 2nd.  Most likely, assumption, one of your brothers wanted you to mean more than you did.  Wanted your legacy to make them okay.  You were in competition with Mr. Wayne after all. John Wayne!  Exclamation point.  I don’t mean to disparage...well maybe he was a role model.  I have role models:  Nina Simone.  Judy Garland.  Who are the men?  Who are the father figures?  Long time ago. On the highway with mom.  Hell’s Angels would ride by on their motorcycles.  And I’d wave.  Mom tells me not to wave.  She says they like to kidnap people. So I do it even more.  I wave.  Hoping they’ll take notice.  Pull me from the passenger seat of suburbia, hold onto me with one hand and steer with the other.  Long time ago I got a letter from my estranged uncle Bill, your brother, telling me of my estranged grandfather’s, your father’s, death.  In the letter was an inheritence of a $1000 and a note that read, “Taylor, your grandpa always said if he had an extra $1,000 he’d spend $999 of it on pussy and just blow the rest.  Have fun.”  These were my father figures.  They taught me about the kind of man I did not want to be.  And so they are estranged.  And I did not lose my virginity to a prostitute, at 13.  And I was not dressed in drag as a baby to teach me that femininity was something to be made fun of.  And I do feel more fabulous for it.  But still I have to pull myself away from it, from this desire to know and be known: be loved by you... by people like you.  I have to pull myself away from what? Greedy, war mongering, closed minded, empty of empathy, numbnut, saturated fat induced, champions of idiocy and reality TV.  I have to pull myself away from that.  From a country, a belief system, a heritage that I don’t even want.  And yes I make assumptions.  You and your history, your heritage, your pride you are nothing but assumptions.  You offer nothing but what I am left to assume you are.  You risk nothing but homophobic, sexiest, middle-brow, stubborn, ideological, knee-jerk, reactionary, ignorant...Assumptions.  But the made up details I’ve collected  about you are not enough to bridge the mammoth gap between us...Drag Queen and soldier, glitter and guns, father and son.  Between you and I there is an entire polarized country.   I have been writing letters to you, to people like you my whole life, hoping my curiosity and effort will shrink the distance.  But not once has there ever been a real reply.   What is your favorite ice cream?  How ‘d you lose your virginity?  Have you ever kissed a boy?  What was growing up in Texas like?  What was surfing like, for you?  What does your voice sound like, what does your skin smell like?  I can’t remember. Are you messy like me?  Did you want to have children?   When were you happy?  When were you not?  How many times have you fallen in love?  Have you fallen in love?  Why did you like the sea?  How do you shave?  I already know how but I want to learn it from you. Are you proud of me?  Would you like my job?  Are you even someone worth wanting?  How long do you hold on for a love that will never come.  How long do you come so much more than half-way before it is time to stop.  So, this is my last... I want us to be better.  I have created this, for you, so that we could hate each other a little less.  So that you can have your one chance to come down and fix the trouble you helped create.  But what are you going to do with that chance?  Hit me so hard I can’t feel it at all?  Write me a letter to make up for the life time of letters I’ve sent you, the tens of thousands, no the millions of letters from lonely ladies...  No.  Scratch out.  Courageous, open, giving women who, despite the insurmountable odds at ever getting any real response back, wrote to you.  Oh.    I’m writing anyway.  I’m writing anyway.  I’m taking a chance.  I’m crossing my fingers.  I hope I’m not too late.  I hope you’ll consider me.  I hope.  Robin writes:  I’m hoping to see you.  Mary writes:  I’m hope to make your acquaintance.  Sandy writes:  I hope this letter finds you. I hope.  I hope.  I hope.  I hope.  I hope.  I hope.  I hope.

SHOW CREDITS

Premiered at Here Arts Center, NYC, 2007

Written and performed by Taylor Mac

Directed by Tracy Trevett

Costume by Taylor Mac

Puppets by Basil Twist