Recalling my Father on His Birthday

Today marks the birthday of my late father, who passed away from lung cancer at the age of 64 in August of 2007. This post was first published in 2016 and has been revised slightly. Francis DiClemente Sr. was a quiet man who led a solitary life.

My late father, Francis DiClemente Sr.

He put in 32 years at the Sears Roebuck store in Rome, New York, before the company decided to close it in the early 1990s. He rose to the ranks of a sales manager after starting his employment in his late teens, and he served in all departments: electronics, home improvement, heating and cooling, paints, and even the automotive center.

The Sears store in Rome in 1993. Photo by John Clifford/Daily Sentinel.

One of my childhood thrills was visiting him at the store after school, as we would descend a flight of stairs into a warehouse in the basement—filled with washers and dryers, lawnmowers, rolls of carpet, and other merchandise. We would go into the break room, and he would buy me a soda from the glass vending machine—usually Nehi grape, root beer, or Dr. Pepper—and then pour a cup of coffee for himself. We’d sit and talk at a little round table covered with the latest edition of the Utica Observer-Dispatch or the Rome Daily Sentinel newspaper.

Things I recall about him:

His lupine face with dark, searching eyes, bushy eyebrows and thick, black hair.

Being a devoted player of the New York Lottery. He scored some jackpots on occasion, including one that totaled more than a thousand dollars. But the scant prizes could never make up for what he spent on a daily basis.

After he died, I went through his room to clean out things, and I discovered innumerable losing lottery tickets stuffed inside one of his dresser drawers. I couldn’t understand why he would save tickets that held zero value. Was he trying to run the numbers through some elaborate mathematical system in order to calculate a winning combination, some key to unlock the mystery of how to beat the odds?

Being a habitual gambler with a penchant for playing football parlays. But his real joy came from betting the horses at the local OTB, sharing camaraderie with other men infected with the same urges, all of them standing around scribbling in the margins of the Daily Racing Form.

After the Sears store closed, he took a low-paying sales job at a carpet store. He complained about the crumbling upstate New York economy and grumbled about his bad luck, repeating the phrase, “I can never catch a break.” Even so, he endured his situation and became a valued employee at the store—one who was highly regarded for treating customers well and giving them deals whenever he could.

When he was diagnosed with cancer, the doctor told him he could try chemotherapy, but it would only give him a slim chance of living slightly longer. He decided against the treatment, noting, “What’s the point?” And so in February of 2007, he stoically accepted his fate, knowing he had only about six to nine months left to live.

Dad in his chair. It’s out of focus, but I love how he looks directly at the camera. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I had recently relocated to Central New York from Arizona, and I was fortunate enough to spend a lot of time with him before he passed.

He lived with his mother, my grandmother Amelia, a stooped, red-haired woman who had coddled my father from the early days of his youth. He clung to her as the anchor of his life, which contributed to the demise of my parents’ marriage and also affected our relationship.

My late grandmother, Amelia DiClemente.

I don’t fault my grandmother because I don’t think she could have helped herself when it came to trying to protect my dad. He had been born with a hole in his heart, and the life-threatening condition worsened as he grew. He was a short, frail, and underweight boy who was mocked by other kids about his size, labeled as a “shrimp.”

In the late 1950s, my grandparents took my father to Minneapolis, where pioneering heart surgeon C. Walton Lillehei repaired the ventricular septal defect in a seven-and-a-half-hour operation at the University of Minnesota Heart Hospital.

And Dad was proud to have been among the first batch of patients to survive open-heart surgery in the U.S. Whenever he told the story to someone, he would lift up his shirt and show off the long scar snaking down the middle of his chest.

His medical history inspired this short poem:

Open Heart

My father was born
with a hole in his heart,
and although repaired,
nothing in his life,
ever filled it up.
The defect remained,
despite the surgeon’s work—
a void, a place I could never touch.

Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019)

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As the months passed in the spring and early summer of 2007, he became weaker and weaker as the cancer ate away at his body, leaving him looking like a shriveled scarecrow.

He had always eschewed desserts and when offered them, would say, “No. I hate sweets.” But as his time on earth elapsed, he went all out when it came to food—eating Klondike bars, Little Debbie snacks, Hostess cupcakes, and other junk food. His philosophy was “Why not?”

Although he had Medicaid, Dad left behind a staggering amount of unpaid medical bills. But what troubles me more, what I have been unable to reconcile, is how he ran up thousands of dollars in debt in the last few months of his life, the largest chunk coming from ATM cash withdrawals using my grandmother’s credit card.

I was never able to pin down how he spent the money. He made no large purchases of electronics or home furnishings. I assumed he used the money to gamble; but in some way I wish he had supported a mistress or a family he never told us about, or that he gave away the cash to charities. Instead, I am only left with unanswerable questions. I helped him to file for bankruptcy, but in an ironic turn to the story, he died before a decision was reached in the case.

Dad, side angle. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

I remember a funny conversation I had with him one afternoon while we sat in the living room of my grandmother’s small ranch house in north Rome. Sunlight poured through a large bay window, past the partially opened silk curtains. Outside I could see a clear sky and trees burgeoning with leaves—a bright, saturated landscape of blue and green.

I sat in a corner of the room and he sat in a forest-green recliner covered with worn upholstery.

“What’s the name of the angel of death?” he asked me.

I was surprised by the question, and I said, “I think he’s just called the angel of death.”

“No, he has another name,” he said.

And after a few seconds it came to me. “The Grim Reaper.”

“That’s right, that’s it,” he said.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Did you see him in a dream or something?

“No, but I want to know his name when he comes.”

That conversation sparked an idea for a full-length play, entitled Awaiting the Reaper. I could go on and on about my dad, but that’s the strongest memory I have of him in his waning days.

Dad in the kitchen. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Dad never earned prestigious academic honors, never published a book, never ran a company or made enough money in his lifetime to buy a retirement home in Florida.

Instead, he toiled away in obscurity and mediocrity as a working-class person. My sister and I received no inheritance, save a small insurance policy that paid out after his death. And his shy, aloof nature created a buffer with other people, a barrier to forming deep relationships (except with a few close friends).

A photo of my father and me following my Confirmation in 1984.

Yet in reviewing his life, I know his kindness, work ethic, and willingness to help others set an example for me that I have tried to uphold. And the debts he accrued do not cancel out those qualities.

The one word I keep coming back to is decency. My father was a good and decent man. That may not be cause for celebration in our society. But it’s enough to fill me with pride, and I hope to carry on his values as I carry on his name.

I’ll close this post with two poems. The second one also mentions my late mother, Carmella.

The Galliano Club

From street-level sunlight to cavernous darkness,
then down a few steps and you enter The Galliano Club.
Cigar smoke wafts in the air above a cramped poker table.
Scoopy, Fat Pat and Jules are stationed there,
along with Dominic, who monitors it all,
pacing pensively with fingers clasped behind his back.

A pool of red wine spilled on the glossy cherry wood bar,
matches the hue of blood splattered on the bathroom wall.
A cracked crucifix and an Italian flag loom above,
as luck is coaxed into the club with a roll of dice
and a sign of the cross.

Pepperoni and provolone are piled high for Tony’s boys,
who man the five phone lines
and scrawl point spreads on thick yellow legal pads.
Bocce balls collide as profanity whirls about . . .
and in between tosses, players brag about
cooking calamari (pronounced “calamad”).

Each Sunday during football season,
after St. John’s noon Mass,
my father strolls across East Dominick Street
and places his bets,
catapulting his hopes on the shoulder pads of
Bears, Bills, Packers and Giants.
His teams never cover
and he’s grown accustomed to losing . . .
as everything in Rome, New York exacts a toll,
paid in working class weariness and three feet of snow.

But once inside The Galliano, he feels right at home,
recalling his heritage, playing cards with his friends.
And here he’s no longer alone,
as all have stories of chronic defeat.
Blown parlays, slashed pensions
and wives sleeping around,
constitute the cries of small-town men
who have long given up on their out-of-reach dreams.

For now, they savor the moment—
a winning over/under ticket, a sip of Sambuca
and Sunday afternoons shared in a place all their own.

Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019)

Vestiges

My parents are gone.
They walk the earth no more,
both succumbing to lung cancer,
both cremated and turned to ash.

With each passing year,
their images become more turbid in my mind,
as if their faces are shielded
by expanding gray-black clouds.
I try to retain what I remember—
my father’s deep-set, dark eyes and aquiline nose,
my mother’s small head bowed in thought or prayer
while smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

I search for their eyes
in the constellations of the night sky.
I listen for their voices in the wind.
Is that Rite Aid plastic bag snapping in the breeze
the voice of my father whispering,
letting me know he’s still around . . .
somewhere . . . over there?
Does the squawking crow
perched in the leafless maple tree
carry the voice of my mother,
admonishing me for wearing a stained sweater?

Resorting to a dangerous habit,
I use people and objects as “stand-ins”
for my mother and father,
seeking in these replacements
some aspect of my parents’ identities.

A sloping, two-story duplex with cracked green paint
embodies the spirit of my father saddled with debt,
playing the lottery, hoping for one big payoff.
I want to climb up the porch steps and ring the doorbell,
if only to discover who resides there.

In a grocery store aisle on a Saturday night
I spot an older woman
standing in front of a row of Duncan Hines cake mixes.
With her short frame, dark hair, and glasses,
she casts a similar appearance to my mother.
She is scanning the labels,
perhaps looking for a new flavor,
maybe Apple Caramel, Red Velvet, or Lemon Supreme,
just something different to bake
as a surprise for her husband.
A feeling strikes me and
I wish to claim her as my “fill-in” mother.
I long to reach out to this stranger in the store,
fighting the compulsion
to place a hand on her shoulder
and tell her how much I miss her.

I fear that if my parents disappear
from my consciousness,
then I too will become invisible.
And the reality of a finite lifespan sets in,
as I calculate how many years I have left.
But I realize I am torturing myself
with this twisted personification game.
I must remember my parents are dead
and possess no spark of the living.
And I can no longer enslave them in my mind,
or try to resurrect them in other earthly forms.
I have to let them go.
I have to dismiss the need for physical ties,
while holding on to the memories they left behind.

And so on the night I see the woman
in the grocery store aisle,
I do not speak to her,
and she does not notice me lurking nearby.
But as I walk away from her,
I cannot resist the impulse to turn around
and look at her one last time—
just to make sure
my mother’s “double” is still standing there.
I want her to lift her head and smile at me,
but she never diverts her eyes
from the boxes of cake mixes lining the shelf.

Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017)

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41st Tumorversary

Today marks the forty-first anniversary of my first brain surgery. As I’ve written about before, on Dec. 12, 1984, when I was fifteen years old and a sophomore in high school, surgeons at SUNY Upstate Medical Center (now named Upstate University Hospital) in Syracuse, New York, removed a large craniopharyngioma that had engulfed my pituitary gland, leading to stunted growth and delayed puberty. Since then, I’ve had four additional surgeries and two Gamma Knife radiosurgery treatments at Upstate.

Posing with my parents prior to my surgery in 1984.

Prior to the initial surgery, in the fall of 1984, a scan of my head had revealed a cloudy mass in the sella region at the base of the skull, and the results of a follow-up CT scan with radiation contrast came a few weeks later.

I received the news about the brain tumor diagnosis from my father when he picked me up from wrestling practice on a cold November night. This essay describes that encounter.

Craniopharyngioma

##

After I put on my black wool pea coat, pulled a knit hat down around my ears, and slung my book bag over my shoulders, I pushed open the back door of the gym and walked outside to meet my father, who had parked behind the high school.

The cold air hit my face and stung my gloveless hands as I strode toward the car; a floodlight cast a large net of bright, white light on the pavement. Dad drove up, and I got in.

He left the car idling, and as I slid into the passenger seat and adjusted myself, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, his tan winter coat brushing against the steering wheel. I felt a trace of his beard stubble against my skin, and I could smell a faint odor of Aqua Velva or Brut combined with cigarette smoke. The heater hummed, and he lowered the blast of air and turned and looked at me. I wondered why we weren’t moving yet. He wasn’t crying, but he appeared on the verge of spilling emotions.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” I asked.

“Upstate called your mother today,” he said. He switched on the overhead light, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a torn piece of paper. “Here,” he said, handing me the slip of paper, “this is what they think you have. I wrote it down, but I don’t think I spelled it right.”

In a slashing style in faint, blue ink, my father had scribbled a misspelling of the word craniopharyngioma. His voice cracked as he said, “It’s cranio-phah-reng . . . something like that . . . oh, I don’t know. It’s some kind of brain tumor.”

I looked at the paper as my father let out a sigh. He shook his head and said, “I prayed to God when you were born that this wouldn’t happen to you, that you wouldn’t have to go through the same thing I did.” His words referred to his health crisis as a teenager, one that caused small stature and delayed puberty and led to ridicule by his classmates.

Francis DiClemente Sr. was born with a hole in his heart, a ventricular septal defect. On June 12, 1959, when he was sixteen years old, pioneering cardiac surgeon C. Walton Lillehei performed open-heart surgery on him at the University of Minnesota Hospital, successfully repairing the defect.

The heart problem disrupted Dad’s high school years, and he faced a long recovery; but he rebounded after the surgery, lifting weights to become stronger and adding muscle to his thin frame. He grew to his final adult height, graduated high school from St. Aloysius Academy in Rome, and went to work at the city’s Sears Roebuck store.

After sharing the information with me, he pressed his lips together and shook his head again, and he seemed locked in position in the driver’s seat, unable to contend with the news, incapable of going through the motions of driving away. We clenched hands, and I said, “It’s OK, Dad. Don’t worry. But what do we do now? What’s next?”

“You have to go back there for more tests. You may need surgery.”

“All right,” I said. “It’s OK.”

“I hope so,” he said. “All we can do is pray.”

He switched off the overhead light, put the car in drive, and drove out of the parking lot. We grew silent as we passed the naked trees lining Pine Street in our city of Rome, New York.. We crossed the intersection at James Street and made our way toward Black River Boulevard.

While my father was anxious and crestfallen, I felt elated as I gripped my book bag in the passenger seat. The CT scan with contrast had confirmed my suspicions, indicating a grave medical condition was responsible for my growth failure at age fifteen, offering a reason why my body had not changed, why I had not progressed through puberty, and why I remained so different from the other boys my age. I still considered myself a physical anomaly, but the tumor proved it wasn’t my fault.

I looked down at the piece of paper again and studied the word. Craniopharyngioma. I tried to sound it out in my head while my dad steered the vehicle, and I thought the word would twirl off my tongue like poetry if I rolled down the window and yelled it. Craniopharyngioma. Cranio-Phar-Ryng-Ee-Oh-Mah. It reminded me of onomatopoeia, which I had learned about in my tenth-grade English class.

##

And here are two related poems:

Case History

Stricken with pituitary insufficiency,
I felt my way through
a stage of delayed puberty.
When adolescence took hold for other kids,
I remained like a boy wrapped in toddler’s clothes.

My face looks older now,
and my body has grown.
But I could not escape
the endocrine impact of that cranial intrusion.
For even though benign,
the tissue overtook me,
and in effect, the tumor
scarred my life and altered my future.

Craniopharyngioma (Youthful Diary Entry)

Craniopharyngioma gave me
an excuse for being unattractive.
I had a problem inside my head.
It wasn’t my fault
I stood four foot eight inches tall
and looked like I was
twelve years old instead of eighteen—
and then nineteen
instead of twenty-four.
I couldn’t be blamed for
my sans-testosterone body
straddling the line
between male and female.

The brain tumor
spurred questions
about my appearance,
aroused ridicule,
and provoked sympathy.
I heard voices whispering:
“Guess how old that guy is?”
And, “Is that a dude or a chick?”

And while I waited for my
body to mature, to fall in line,
and to achieve normal progression,
I remember wishing the surgeons
had left the scalpel
inside my skull
before they closed me up,
knitting the stitches
from ear to ear.

I prayed the scalpel
would twist and twirl
while I slept at night—
carving my brain
like a jack-o’-lantern—
splitting the left and right
hemispheres,
and effacing the memory
of my existence.

 

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Cue the Vince Guaraldi Music

Stoic Slanting Tree

A small tree on a hill
overlooking East Syracuse
leans and tilts but does not topple—
remaining unperturbed
as it wrestles daily
with the forces of gravity.
How many more days
will it stay upright?

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Thanksgiving Poem

Here is a short poem for Thanksgiving. I found it while transcribing some journals for a work-in-progress memoir project.

November 25, 2004 (Thanksgiving)

I exist.
I endure.
I survive.
I go on, for now,
bathed in the light.
That’s something
to be thankful for.

Toledo Trees by Francis DiClemente.

 

 

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Syracuse Art Exhibitions

I had a chance to see two art exhibitions in Syracuse recently. The first is “What If I Try This?”: Helen Frankenthaler in the 20th-Century Print Ecosystem, which is on view until Dec. 9 at the Syracuse University Art Museum.

According to the museum’s website, the exhibition “explores how Helen Frankenthaler, the noted 20th-century abstract artist, collaborated with printmakers in print studios and workshops throughout her long career.”

Personally, I was more interested in Frankenthaler as an artist than in her connection to printmakers and the printmaking process. My SU marketing colleague Jay Cox wrote an excellent long-form piece about her that’s worth checking out.

I have a routine when I view art exhibitions. I like to see the work in stages. First, I go through the whole exhibition from start to finish, looking at every piece and reading all of the wall text. I’ll usually take a few photos with my phone and then step back to get a wide-angle view of the works on display in one of the big rooms. Then I pick out my favorite works and view them again, this time lingering on the pieces that move me the most.

Here are some images from the Frankenthaler exhibit that caught my eye.

Monotype XI, 1991 by Helen Frankenthaler

Monoprint VII, 1987 by Helen Frankenthaler

Untitled, 1979 by Helen Frankenthaler

The museum also displayed many works from its permanent collection. And these works captured my attention.

[Reclining woman] by Man Ray (1913)

Figure Composition, 1959 by Roland Dorcely

Untitled by Louisa Chase (1988)

New Year’s Eve on Broadway by George L. K. Morris (1945)

Circuit of Space, 1957 by Irene Rice Pereira

Boy with Orange Aura, 2021 by Patrick Quarm

##

The second art exhibition I attended was Love Story: Legacy Works by Path Soong + Jeff Gordon, which is on view until early January at art haus SYR, located at 120 Walton Street. The exhibition was curated by Marianna Ranieri-Schwarzer (who is a warm and vivacious presence in the Syracuse art community).

Here is some information about the artists, from the art haus website:

“Jeff Gordon, an artist and audio producer, was a New York City-based creative who worked on projects like the Andy Warhol-themed exhibition Fifteen Minutes with his wife, conceptual artist Path Soong. The late artist was also known for creating art and music that explored audio and visual elements.”

“Path Soong was a Korean-born artist known for her large-scale, meditative abstract paintings, as well as her conceptual artworks, prints, and collaborations. Her work, which often features spare, linear gestures, evokes celestial and natural themes and is noted for its spiritual and minimalist quality.”

I attended a reception yesterday and took a few photos with my old iPhone 8:

Paths that Cross by Patti Smith with paintings by Path Soong

Untitled 11 by Path Soong

Untitled 4 (polyptych) by Path Soong

Chaos 1 by Path Soong

I encourage anyone in the CNY area to check out art haus. It’s a really cool space, and Marianna and her partner, Michael Schwarzer, who is a co-founder of art haus, are very friendly and enjoy talking about art.

I found out about them when I saw some of Michael’s artwork in a downtown window display in 2023. I really dig his style—abstract images with bold colors and big text. You can see some of his work here.

I think he created this bench piece using a pseudonym.

Find Your Truth Bench by Not Miscellaneous

 

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Book Sighting

It’s always a thrill when I see one of my books hanging out in a library. Last week, while working a B-roll shoot at Bird Library at Syracuse University, I found my latest book, Poecabulary, residing in this section. I’m SU staff, not faculty or alumni, but it was exciting to find one of my books in physical form resting on a shelf, waiting to be discovered by a reader (or so one hopes).

Bird Library at Syracuse University.

Poecabulary at Bird Library.

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The Schoolyard Chase

This essay first appeared in the Spring/Summer 2015 issue of South 85 Journal, an online literary magazine.

##

I once used the N-word as a weapon to achieve a goal.

It happened when I was in fifth or sixth grade at DeWitt Clinton elementary school in my hometown of Rome, New York. During recess on a cool, sunny day in early spring, I started playing a game called “Catch the Fly” with my friend Mike. The shouts of kids congregating on the school grounds mingled to form a cacophony. Weeds, broken bottles, and scattered bubble gum and Now and Later candy wrappers lined a chain-link fence that separated the schoolyard from an alley.

In the game, two players took turns throwing a tennis ball or a squishy pink ball against the brick facade of the school building. The person throwing the ball acted as a hitter in baseball. The goal was for the fielder to make three outs and retire the side, while the thrower tried to get the ball past the fielder and thus move imaginary runners around the imaginary bases.

I was playing the field, and Mike tossed the ball against the building. I can’t remember if it was a pop fly or a grounder, but as I raced to catch the ball, Cassie Donaldson (name changed), a tall, Black girl, stole it from me. She either snagged the ball in midair or retrieved it after it skirted by me toward the chain-link fence.

School building. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

“Hey, give it back,” I yelled to Cassie. No recess monitors or adults were stationed outside to enforce fair play. Cassie looked at me while standing a few feet away. She flashed a smile, almost begging me to give chase. And so, I did.

I took off and rushed after her as she bolted, cutting through a crowd of kids gathered in the middle of the schoolyard. Her long legs pumped with fluid motion, and she outran me easily.

It’s worth mentioning that she was one of the fastest and most athletic students in our class. She beat most of the boys in the 50 and 100-yard dashes timed in gym class, and she was often one of the first players chosen by captains when dividing teams for kickball or soccer games.

As the chase continued, Cassie circled the building, running on the sidewalk along Ann Street. She opened a wide gap as I pursued her. We were then alone near the front of the school. She was galloping away, and the futility of the chase became obvious. My short legs failed me; I grew tired and gave up.

After I stopped running, my eyes focused on her back, and her figure appeared smaller with every passing second. I recall she was wearing a long-sleeve green shirt. I caught my breath and screamed, “Give it back, you N-word.”

She broke stride, pulling up instantly. She did not turn around; instead, she hurled the ball over her shoulder and walked away, heading in the same direction she had been running.

The ball bounced toward me, and I picked it up. I walked back to the schoolyard with a tightness building in my stomach. By now, Mike had found some other kids to play with, but once he saw I had the ball, we picked up where we left off.

Playing third base in youth league baseball in Rome, New York, in the late 1970s.

But I lost my enthusiasm for the game. And while I felt vindicated because Cassie had taken the ball without provocation, I knew what I said was wrong and had stung her. Yet despite the viciousness of the N-word, its usage had produced the desired result: I had reclaimed possession of my ball.

I had learned the N-word from my father. He used it on occasion when complaining about some of the residents in our city or when watching sports on television.

I know he had a racist disposition. But at times, race seemed to matter little to him. Some of his co-workers at the Sears store where he worked were Black, and I remember he enjoyed chatting and joking with them. He also knew Cassie’s parents, and he would stop to talk to them if we saw them at school or in the grocery store. He also used to give them good discounts on kitchen, electrical, and hardware products at Sears.

So why did he use the N-word? I think it became a habit for him, and I made the mistake of emulating his bad behavior.

Even so, I considered myself colorblind in elementary school. Some of my friends at DeWitt Clinton were Black, and I had grown accustomed to playing sports with Black kids in Rome. Race did not seem like an issue to us.

Yet when I felt humiliated on the school grounds, I had yelled the insult without thinking about who I was targeting.

I must have apologized to Cassie at some point because we remained friends all the way through high school. But I don’t remember what I said to her or the circumstances surrounding the mea culpa. Most likely, I would have apologized to Cassie either before class resumed that day or later on the bus ride home. Or maybe I never told her how sorry I was for what I had done. Maybe we carried our unspoken knowledge of the incident with us as we climbed the grades in school.

And I faced no repercussions. I was not called to the principal’s office to explain my actions, nor was I confronted by my parents after school. And not being punished made me feel even guiltier about my behavior.

It would have been easy for Cassie to squeal on me. We lived on the same street as the Donaldsons on a rural road in South Rome. Her parents could have stopped by our house after work that night and shared the news with my parents.

I often wondered why Cassie never told anyone what I said (or at least I believe she didn’t). Maybe she thought, what good could come from telling her parents one of her classmates had called her a racial slur at recess? What could be gained from it except making her mother and father feel anger and heartache over the treatment of their daughter?

But I had gained something. I learned about the power of words and their impact on others. I discovered how one racial epithet could imbue a girl with shame, altering her body language and stopping her from running freely on a sidewalk.

I can’t say for sure that I never used the N-word again or that it hasn’t popped into my head on occasion. But from that day forward, I don’t remember ever speaking it aloud or directing it at anyone. And I realize racism cannot be cured in one passing swoop. We must struggle every day to reject the baser tendencies of our personalities.

Fortunately, Cassie never held a grudge against me for my childhood misconduct. And I never forgot her or the lesson she taught me in the schoolyard on a spring day in the early 1980s.

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Hallowed Verse

1.

Halloween on Lamphear Road (1970s)

Blackness shrouds the land
between the houses on a
long stretch of rural road
in Rome, New York.

You and your best friend, Billy,
are shining flashlights
as you go trick-or-treating
on a Halloween night.
The smells of cow manure,
burning leaves and ripe apples
permeate the air.

You and Billy walk briskly
along the edge of the road,
chattering about sports,
movies and girls—
trying not to express
the terror you both feel as you
navigate the darkness.

You fear a witch, a ghost
or another malevolent force
will emerge from the adjacent fields,
snatch you and fly away.

You tell yourself to calm down
and keep walking—you are safe
and there’s nothing to be afraid of
on this country road.
And all you have to do is make it
to the next house, the next doorbell,
and the next fun-size Snickers bar.

2. 

Halloween Screening

You can’t fault
Frankenstein’s creature
For what he became.

He never had a choice.
He didn’t ask to be born.
He didn’t seek existence.

With an abnormal brain
And cobbled parts,
He can’t be blamed for
The terror he unleashed.

He was only acting
According to his nature.
The real monster here
Is the man who
Created the creature.

The Truth I Must Invent (Poets Choice, 2023)

3. 

In Need of Houdini

You are wrapped in chains
and stuffed in a metal chest.
The key has been discarded
and the box dumped
into the ocean.

You can’t stretch your legs
or flap your arms,
and you’re stuck in the box—
unable to lift the latch
and swim free.

How long can you
hold your breath?

Outward Arrangements: Poems (independently published, 2021)

4. 

Hike

The trees are haunted with ten-thousand eyes,
hanging in the place where leaves should be—
the remains of those who came this way before,
but did not survive in the forest.

They study me as I hike along the path,
searching for an opening to the other side.
I grow weary and stop to rest.

And then ten-thousand eyes blink in unison.
It seems like a signal.
And as I look around,
buzzards and crows fly at me,
then peck away at the flesh.
I fall to the ground and
the birds snatch pieces of me
as they take off in flight.

Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017)

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Seasonal Verse

Fall in upstate New York is a season of heightened senses as nature produces its splendid display of vibrant colors. For me, autumn is a time of reflection, often inspiring me to write poetry.

Einhorn Family Walk at Syracuse University. Photo by Francis DiClemente.

Here are some fall-themed selections.

Stadium Nights

Friday nights in Central New York,
crumpling leaves of bursting gold
and breathing in the October cold
as a pigskin spirals tight
and shadows collide under stadium lights.

Small town pride surges like an offensive line,
bursting open a gaping hole,
springing the halfback
en route to the chalk-lined goal.
And fathers perched in the stands
holler until hoarse and reminisce
about the glory days, when they wore the jerseys—
bloodied and mud-caked—
and walked with shoulders back,
receiving cheers as Friday night gladiators.

Under the bleachers, first-time kisses
are punctuated with quivers and giggles
in between swigs of peppermint schnapps.
Holding hands means everything,
and halftime comes far too quick.
The curfew looms as the scoreboard clock winds down.
Just five more minutes you say,
then head home grudgingly.

Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems by Francis DiClemente (Finishing Line Press, 2019)

Autumn Acknowledgment

On this glorious autumn day—
with bright sunshine, blue skies
and refulgent orange, red and golden leaves
shimmering on the trees—
I am not thinking about
freezing temperatures and lake effect snow.
I know winter will come.
I know we cannot stave off
the inevitable despair that accompanies
the turn of the seasons.

But winter is not here yet.
So I will enjoy this fall weather
while I still have the chance—
while the green grass remains uncovered
and while the warm sunshine lasts,
at least for another day.

Falling Leaf

The golden maple leaf
fell to the ground
in front of my feet,
making a slapping sound.
It greeted me
on this frosty November morning,
reminding me that one day
I too will lie on the ground,
and others will pass by
without stopping
or looking down.

Sidewalk Stories by Francis DiClemente (Kelsay Books, 2017).

The Last Leaf

The last maple leaf
did not want to leave the tree,
even though his mother
told him it was time to go,
time to break free from the limb
and fall to the ground.

The little leaf said,
“Why, why must I leave
when I can still cling to this tree?”

“Because,” his mother replied,
“it’s part of life, the cycle of nature—
we drop to the ground during fall
and return in the spring.
So come on, let go.”

“I will not. I will not,” the little leaf said.

But a stiff wind stirred and the leaf
lost his grip and twirled to the earth,
falling into his mother’s grasp.

“See, that’s not so bad, is it?” his mother said.
“No Mom,” the little leaf said.
But then he asked, “Mom, am I still a leaf
if I’m no longer connected to the tree?”

Outward Arrangements: Poems by Francis DiClemente (independently published, 2021).

And I’ll wrap up with a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

October Day

Oh Lord, it is time, it’s time. It was a great summer.
Lay your shadow on the sundials,
and on the open fields let the winds go!

Give the tardy fruits the hint to fill;
give them two more Mediterranean days,
drive them on into their greatness, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house by now will not build.
Whoever is alone now will remain alone,
will wait up, read, write long letters,
and walk along sidewalks under large tress,
not going home, as the leaves fall and blow away.

Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke. Translated and with commentary by Robert Bly. New York: Harper Perennial, 1981.

 

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