A monologue from the play by Jules Feiffer
My trouble is, I’m named Bernard. Who made up my name? Did I make it my name? I don’t feel like a Bernard. I had hostile parents, and they named me Bernard.
Is that my fault? OK, Bernard is fine for other people, but all my life, when I was out on the street and people called me Bernard, I thought they were speaking to someone else.
I just can’t identify with the name. Inside I’m all different from a “Bernard.” If you knew me on the inside, you wouldn’t recognize me from knowing me on the outside.
You should see me when I’m by myself. The me on the inside begins to flower and come alive! And then somebody comes along and says “Bernard” and it remembers who I am and gets crushed.
I know I would be different if people would only call me by my outside name- “Spike”.