Following up on my last post, I wanted to share some photos of Colin from his birthday celebrations, which stretched from last Thursday (2/26) until Saturday evening (2/28). These are just unedited shots taken with my shoddy iPhone 8. But I wanted to save them here so I can find them in the future.
I hope everyone has a great week ahead.
My son, Colin, turns ten years old today. I wasn’t planning to write about his birthday, but the significance of the occasion struck me as I warmed my coffee in the microwave this morning.
And right or wrong, every thought and emotion about Colin is filtered through the lens of his autism. He was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018. I wrote about that experience in this essay.
I realize how lucky I am to be Colin’s dad, especially since I was so late to the game of marriage and family. His presence reframes my existence. My job, my creative ambitions, and everything else in my life are secondary to being a good husband to my wife, Pam, and a good father to Colin.
Before rushing off to work, I wanted to share some previously published poems about parenthood and Colin, along with some photos of him.
Colin Joseph DiClemente at the pediatrician’s office.
Entrance
As blood, urine and feces stain the hospital sheets,
a nurse tells a mother-to-be,
“Honey, don’t be embarrassed.
What happens in the delivery room,
stays in the delivery room.”
The mother-to-be moans and sheds tears
as the epidural wears off and the labor reaches its climax
with a medieval torture method known as “Tug of War”—
sheets wrapped around ankles, legs hoisted in the air
and pulled apart as the mother-to-be screams
and squeezes her muscles and makes the final push until …
a tiny male human, slimy and alien-looking,
pops out of the womb with a full head of downy, brown hair
and soft, pliable ears like a Teddy bear.
The mother blurts out three words:
“Baby, baby, baby.”
The doctor transfers the squirming newborn to her breast,
and the two bond with skin-to-skin contact.
Love and happiness flow.
The task is completed, the effort done.
The child has safely entered the world.
But the real hard work has just begun.
Colin Joseph DiClemente. Age 2 years, 8 months.
The Great Equalizer
The democratic nature of parenthood.
It doesn’t matter who you are—
man, woman or trans, gay or straight,
Black, white or any other shade,
tall or short, skinny or fat, rich or poor—
when your toddler is wailing
in a grocery store or shopping mall,
when the feet are stomping, the arms swinging,
the cheeks reddened and the tears rolling—
all you want to do is pick up the child
and make the crying stop.
Wealth, social standing and comely looks
mean nothing to kids; they’re not impressed
by your credentials and you can’t negotiate
with these little angels and tyrants who rule the world.
Two clichés apply here:
parenting wipes the slate clean
and levels the playing field.
All mothers and fathers desire the same thing—
the health, safety and
development of their offspring.
The goals are simple amid the frenzy
of a life marked by stress and lack of sleep.
They are: eat the chicken nuggets, drink the apple juice,
recite the alphabet, put away the toys, finish the milk,
wave bye-bye and go down easy at nap time.
Pam and Colin outside NBT Bank Stadium.
Human Anatomy
Beneath the ribs
beats the heart
of a child,
waiting for its mother,
longing to be fed—
not just with milk and food,
but also with love.
Colin playing in the feeding therapy room.
Nap Time
Late afternoon, Sunday, gray light
seeping in through parted curtains.
Mother and baby sleeping on the couch,
hair tousled, right cheek against left breast,
elbows curved at equal angles.
I am awake, drinking coffee,
watching their chests rise and fall,
and trying not to make any noise.
My whole life revealed in the space
of three sofa cushions occupied by
two human beings who need me.
Soon the boy will stir;
soon he will squirm and cry, scatter his toys
and race around the cluttered living room.
Soon we will fix dinner
and wash dishes and take out the garbage.
But now time is suspended like a Rod Serling
freeze frame in a Twilight Zone episode—
a halting of activity, a pause in my Sunday
leading to reflection and gratitude for my blessings.
Warmth, safety and responsibility
are the words that pop into my head
while I observe mother and child stretched out together.
I don’t think about what I lack
or what I hope to attain and achieve.
In this moment, I have everything I need.
Pam and Colin.
Exam Room Revelation
“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
The moment those words
escape the doctor’s lips,
our son’s future
appears bleaker.
The phrases
“special needs,
delayed communication
and lack of
social interaction” follow.
Sorrow for my son Colin
gushes inside me.
I feel sadness
for the challenges
he will endure,
and for his inability
to have a normal life.
In this case,
love proves impotent.
You can’t intercede
with your heart.
And compassion won’t fix
the little boy
sleeping in his bed
as I type out
this bad poem
while lamenting
the diagnosis.
But love for him
does not decrease.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I am grateful
for the blessing
of the boy he is …
and the man
I hope
he will become—
regardless of autism.
Bedtime
Eventually, I’ll fall asleep,
but until then my kid
keeps annoying me,
flicking on the bedroom light
and screaming incoherent phrases—
bits of songs that make
some sense inside his mind.
Telling him “shh” does no good,
and I can’t decipher the words he speaks,
but I do enjoy hearing the sounds they make
when they escape his mouth,
as I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.
Crying at Bedtime
Nothing prepares a parent
for the tantrums of an autistic child.
There’s no well of patience to draw from.
You adapt. You divert. You distract.
You do whatever it takes to calm the child down—
until you earn that blessed moment of peace,
when his eyelids drop and he drifts off to sleep,
his small body folded in the cradle of your arms.
Colin drew with a Sharpie on the living room floor.
Autism Sleeps
My son sleeps,
curled under a blanket
on the couch.
His outbursts have ceased.
His cries and screams quieted.
His stimming stopped.
It’s like his autism
is in remission.
In sleep, he becomes
like any other child.
Observation After Eating Out
Pity for my son swells.
Yet I feel helpless,
Unable to intervene
To make his autism
Go away.
Our patience dwindles
As his outbursts intensify.
But love does not wane.
Instead, it grows stronger.
I have only one son.
Yes, he is different.
He is noisy and
Requires constant attention.
But I am thankful for
His presence in my life.
And who needs the quiet anyway?
My experimental documentary short Glimpses of Existence (2021) is now available for viewing on YouTube. I consider it a companion piece to Fragments of the Living (2015).
Glimpses of Existence is a zero-budget film in the form of video collage. Using scenes captured with an old iPhone—mostly during the pandemic—it attempts to find meaning in the mundane moments of our lives, seeking the extraordinary amid the ordinary.
The central focus of the film is my son, Colin, who is autistic. He’s nine years old now, but he was about five when this was made. Despite his condition, Colin finds joy in everyday activities, and through his eyes we recognize the importance of treasuring the tiny segments of life we are granted—minutes, seconds, hours—while being reminded about the transitory nature of existence.
Produced, Directed and Edited by Francis DiClemente.
Distributed by OTV – Open Television
Film Festivals:
2023: Official Selection in the Festival of Arts and Cinema, London
2022: Official Selection, Life is Short Film Festival, Los Angeles
2021: Honorable Mention, Global Shorts Film Festival, Los Angeles
2021: Official Selection, NewFilmmakers NY Short Films Program, New York
2021: Semifinalist, Official Selection, Blow-Up International Arthouse Filmfest, Chicago
Here is an original artwork by my nine-year-old son, Colin (with minimal photo editing). It made me think that sometimes the chaos wrought by autism can render beauty. I like the use of white space and the Jackson Pollock feel.
Untitled by Colin DiClemente.
But the sundry objects and paper cutouts scattered in his bedroom and on our dining room table might indicate his preferred medium will be collage.
Dining room scene.
Often, when Colin is doing his repetitive tasks, such as lining up blocks or wooden letters of the alphabet, I’ll ask him questions, like, “What job do you want to do when you grow up?” If you could only be one, would it be a police officer, a firefighter, a doctor, a teacher, an artist, or a cook? And I’ll name a whole bunch of other occupations. But nearly every time, Colin’s answer will either be Artist or Cook (he loves mixing the batter for pancakes and muffins).
I joke with my wife, Pam, that we should encourage him to pursue a career as an accountant because earning a living will be easier than working as an artist or chef. I also tell her we should let Colin pursue his artistic endeavors so that he can 1) Explore and develop his creative expression 2) Maybe sell a few paintings one day that will pay off the mortgage and perhaps fund some experimental or documentary film projects.
I also realize that the parents of an autistic child have to let go of any desire for a neat and orderly home. It’s just not possible, at least in my experience. Pam and I try to laugh about it and embrace the futility of those moments when Colin takes up too much real estate in our house with his strewn objects or refuses to pick up his mess.
I celebrated my birthday yesterday by relaxing at home with my family. As kids are wont to do, my son, Colin, blew out the candle on the cake, so we had to light it twice.
Colin Joe getting reading to blow out the candle.
I snuck in a couple of wishes, but mostly I felt enormous gratitude for still being here for another day and another year.
The night before I reflected on my recovery from surgery and my birthday, journaling for a few minutes while standing near my bedroom dresser. I am not a habitual journal writer, but I have notebooks scattered throughout the house to be available when the urge strikes me. Often my journal entries—which I always convert to a long-running Word document—contain mundane facts and banal thoughts with no potential to become raw material for a poem, story, or essay. However, sometimes the act of moving my pen on paper will lead me to a line that initiates energy.
And this is what I came up with the other night. It’s not a great poem, but I was happy I wrote it in a spontaneous burst and finished it in one draft.
On the Eve of My Fifty-Fourth Birthday
There has to be more
to this life than
just what we see.
Or else there isn’t—
in which case
death won’t be
so scary.
It’ll just be a
harmless place
devoid of life.
And you and I
can handle that, right?
Here’s a short poem I wrote. I know it’s corny, but I like the sentiment it expresses. And I’m posting it today because of the Monday theme.
Wish on a Monday Morning
For the week ahead—
May kindness flourish.
May peace reign.
May the children
Have a reason to smile
When they greet
The morning sun.
A bout of insomnia last night produced a short poem. At 3 a.m., my five-year-old son Colin and I were both wide awake. While he squirmed and rolled around in bed, I covered up to prevent getting struck by his flailing elbows and knees. And in the early morning darkness, these words came to me:
To create is to make something
that did not exist before—
something no one requested
and something the world
does not want or need.
And yet, you decided
to make it anyway.
So now it’s here for others
to accept or reject.
Either way, your job is done.
And I have realized from experience that if some lines, words, thoughts, characters or plots float in my head when I’m in bed, that I must jot down the ideas immediately or I will forget them upon awakening.
And on a totally unrelated note, here is a photo of Colin holding his pre-K diploma, which he received on the last day of school on Thursday.
If ten years ago, someone would have told me that I would be a father now, I would not have believed it. I’ve always been a late bloomer—in physical development, in the realm of romance and in the area of family life. Yet here I am, a husband and the father of a three-year-old boy. I can provide little advice, except this: being a parent means surrendering control of your life to others. It’s as simple as that; your individual life ends, but a new, collective one begins.
And so on Father’s Day, I offer these words in the form of a poem. This is what being a father means to me, as I learned from my two role models—my dad Francis and my stepfather Bill.
Being a Dad
Being a dad
means improvisation.
It means peeing in the sink
when your wife and son
occupy the john during
the nightly ritual of bath time.
Being a dad
means admitting
you don’t always
know the answers,
can’t figure out the solutions,
don’t have a fucking clue
how to stop that kid from crying.
Being a dad
means living with less—
less money, less time,
less sleep, less sex.
Being a dad
means doing
your best every day,
but accepting the failure
built into the equation
of marriage and parenthood.
Being a dad
means loving
your child
even when
you’re exhausted
and when your
patience is tested.
Being a dad
means being grateful
for the gift
of being a dad.
©2019 Francis DiClemente
In visiting the Everson Museum in Syracuse, you could easily miss the exhibition Julie Blackmon: Other Tales from Home tucked in the small Robineau Gallery on the main floor. The exhibit, which closes Sept. 2, contains eight large-scale color photographs depicting family scenes. The images are a cross between common family snapshots and an artfully arranged tableau depicting the chaos of modern family life; and Blackmon seems comfortable straddling the line between reality and manipulation and taking the viewer along for the ride.
Blackmon fills the frame with so much information—in the form of kids, pets, food, plastic toys and other props—the viewer can linger in front of the works, as countless narrative connections spark the imagination. You also find yourself counting the number of kids and the different props in each scene.
Blackmon lives and works in Missouri. In her artist statement, found on her website, julieblackmon.com, she cites the lively narrative paintings of 17th century Dutch artist Jan Steen as an influence on her work. However, it may be Blackmon’s own family life that provides the most inspiration. She is the oldest of nine children and the mother of three, and she says, “These images are both fictional and auto-biographical, and reflect not only our lives today and as children growing up in a large family, but also move beyond the documentary to explore the fantastic elements of our everyday lives, both imagined and real.”
One of the most compelling aspects of her work is the care she takes in capturing children. The young subjects, whether they are her own children, her nieces and nephews or children from the neighborhood, reflect a sweet innocence in front of the camera. They play, pout, and cry, but cuteness is not the aim of the artist; these are not Facebook photos uploaded by proud parents. Instead, even though the scenes are staged, we get the sense these are kids acting like kids in a safe environment surrounded by family. In many cases, the subjects seem unaware of the camera’s presence. The result is Blackmon’s photos possess a timeless quality resembling the iconic American paintings of Norman Rockwell, but with an odd twist thrown in.
In Patio, for example, one of the works in the exhibit, we see what looks like a modern house in a sun-bleached California-type setting. There is a blue inflatable ball on the roof in the top right of the frame and a pink ball in the bottom left. A little girl in a white dress is looking at her reflection in the window, a toddler is scooting around on a blue stroller and a third child is crawling on the floor in the house, just inside the doorway.
A red charcoal grill stands in the middle of the frame with orange flames shooting out, and a large box of McDonald’s French fries rests on a circular table covered with a green tablecloth. A barefoot woman sits in a chair, her face buried in a large-scale glossy magazine called New You. A bag of Lay’s Classic potato chips has been placed near her feet. The viewer is left to wonder: does she know there are children playing close to the open fire? Does she care?
And that’s the beauty of this exhibition. The images remain fertile in your mind, as you think about the families depicted in the scenes. You get the sense it would be fun to spend an evening with them, to take part in the chaos of their meals, games and merriment, while at the same time having the freedom—like an aunt or an uncle—of being able to leave the house at the end of the night.
It also seems Blackmon could revisit this work over and over again, dreaming up more scenarios for her family to act out without the images becoming repetitive. You can just imagine scenes of kids getting ready for school, a baby screaming after dropping its pacifier, toddlers sitting on the kitchen floor and struggling to tie their shoes, little boys chasing frogs or fireflies on the front lawn on a summer evening and little girls standing in front of a full-length mirror, modeling their mothers’ clothes and jewelry.
The one question I keep asking myself again and again in rethinking this exhibition is, for each photograph, how long did it take Blackmon to get the kids to pose exactly as she wanted? And did she have to bribe them with promises of ice cream sundaes or trips to a local water park?
Francis DiClemente 