Shurtleff's guideposts for educational leadership

Guideposts

Death of a Salesman: Biff's monologue

I've got to make Pop see me. I've got to make Willy see me for who I really am, not the dream son he wanted me to be so many years ago, the smiling, smart-mouthed kid with the football.

They say you can't go home again. I say it's too easy to go home. Coming back home, and having to listen to all of Pop's fancy dreaming is really getting to me. My dad has never been able to see things as they really are -- all he has are his dreams of making it big some day. Well, it's pretty obvious that he's all washed up. Then again, so am I. I remember when I was in high school and I felt so carefree when I was the big shot, talking back to my teachers, and thinking I had it all figured out. Like the world was my oyster in a pigskin. Well, that's all over. That ended when I failed math and ended up seeing dad with that strange lady.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn't go back and try to graduate and get that athletic scholarship. Maybe because I knew it was all a lie. I faked myself through high school, and the only person who convinced me that I was good as everyone said I was, was Pop. Well, maybe Happy a little bit. But there was always something eating inside of me, feeling hollow. Then when I realized that you couldn't count on anyone, you could only count on yourself, I decided to turn and run.

It eats me alive to see Pop so broken. But it also kind of eats me up to see that he still has all of these plans. Pop isn't happy unless he's scheming something. He can't accept the fact that I'm just not the kind of guy who is going to make a million bucks. I'm not going to sit in the office all day, trying to make nice with my superiors. Pop worked for a boss in an office his whole life, and look where it got him.

I need to get back out West where I feel free. I know it's childish -- no wife, no kids, no real ambition, no stability -- but at least it's honest work out there. At least I'm doing something, which is more than most salesmen or even most lawyers like Bernard can say.

I'm standing here, yelling at Pop, trying to make him hear the truth. I somehow feel that if I can say exactly what I think, all of the words that have been humming in my ears for all those years when I was riding horses on ranches in the West, then I can make us both feel better about ourselves. Of course, the truth won't make us rich, and it won't bring back the years I've spent away from Pop. But maybe some real love is possible if we can see one another clearly, and see ourselves clearly.

My father is dying. I don't like to admit it to myself, and certainly not to mom, but I can see it in his face. If we don't reach some sort of truth and reconciliation right now, we'll be lost to one another for good, and then for my entire life I'll be saying to myself -- you never made peace with your father, Biff. You never made things right with Willy. I would hate for my father to go to the grave not knowing how I feel. And I would hate to go to the grave without him understanding why I am so angry about the lies that have held this family together.