Tag Archives: memoir

Rome Event and Excerpt

I traveled to my hometown earlier this week to do a reading at Cafe Vinci. It was a perfect fall day, and I witnessed the peak foliage colors of orange, yellow, red, and maroon as I drove from Syracuse to Rome along Route 5. And it was a wonderful experience being surrounded by friends as I shared my story.

Here is a photo of me with Bill Vinci (left), the owner of Cafe Vinci, and two other childhood friends, Phil Schillaci and Bob Taylor.

I also thought I would share another excerpt from my memoir, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood.

Chapter One: No Growth

In the early summer of 1984, as I prepared to enter high school in my hometown of Rome, New York, the feeling that I was different from other kids intensified. I had always been one of the shortest students in my elementary and junior high classes, but my lack of stature never held me back. I excelled academically, played competitive sports, and was popular with my classmates.

But now, while the other boys had added height and mass to their frames and surged with signs of puberty, I remained unaltered—a short, chubby figure with soft, feminine features. I had no summer growth spurt. No germinating of coarse fibers on the upper lip or patches of pubic or underarm hair. My high-pitched voice did not deepen, and I didn’t require deodorant because I rarely broke a sweat or reeked of body odor. The gap between me and the other kids widened, and I felt like I was standing in place on a deserted highway while they were whizzing past me in fast cars, squealing with laughter as they looked back at me in the rearview mirror.

Terror devoured me as I anticipated walking the halls of Rome Free Academy as a sophomore. I dreaded making the jump from ninth to tenth grade, going from the safety of Staley Junior High to the public high school in Rome, a squat, imposing building with a tan brick facade. I wondered how I could fit in if I still looked like a child—if my physical presence could not match the maturity of the other students.

Would bullies stuff me in a locker or douse my head in a toilet bowl? Would the boys call me names and the girls laugh at me for being so small? But when I started high school, the girls in my grade would not mock me; instead, they would consider me cute and cuddly, treating me like a little French poodle—a soft, sweet creature meant to pet and pamper but not date.

During that summer, I lifted weights, ran mile after mile, and performed numerous drills with a soccer ball as I intended to try out for the junior varsity soccer team at RFA. An underlying motivation drove me to push myself, as I believed if I did not grow in height, I would continue spreading out in width and would become a fat, short kid instead of just a shrimp.

Around this time, on a weeknight, one of my mother’s colleagues from the bank where she worked came to our house to have coffee and talk with my mother.

My mother, Carmella, began her professional career as an entry-level teller at Rome Savings Bank and rose to become a branch manager and later a compliance officer and assistant vice president. She baked cakes for employees on their birthdays, brought trays of Italian Christmas cookies to the office during the holidays, and invited co-workers to our house for coffee, dinner, and family celebrations. So it was common for people to visit from time to time.

Here’s me kissing my mom, Carmella, sometime in the late 1970s or early 1980s.

Sandra was a short woman with sandy-brown hair who sported round, silver glasses and had a pasty complexion. My mother must have informed Sandra about my growth concerns because when I came into the kitchen to grab a slice of zucchini bread, Sandra said, “Fran, do you mind if I tell you something?”

“Sure,” I said and sat down next to her. Mom’s ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and smoke hung in the air. The women sipped coffee from green ceramic mugs, and a warm, yellow light emanating from an overhead tungsten bulb suffused the table, making the gold cross Mom wore around her neck sparkle.

“Your mom mentioned that you’re worried about not growing,” Sandra said.

“Yeah,” I said, glaring at Mom. Although I was annoyed at my mother for not respecting my privacy by sharing my secret fears with a stranger, something about Sandra’s polite and soft-spoken manner disarmed me, and I remained calm as I listened to her words.

She turned to me and said, “I just want you to know, my husband, Scott, is short and he looks young for his age. And do you know what?”

“What?”

“Honestly, it doesn’t make a bit of difference. I love him, and he’s no different from anyone else. He’s fine.”

“Thanks,” I said. My mother smiled at me because I didn’t storm off when Sandra mentioned my short stature, as I was prone to do when someone brought up my height or youthful appearance.

“He’s sensitive about it,” Mom said. “But like I told him, ‘His father’s short and I’m short, so he’s probably going to be short too.’ And he needs to accept that.” (Dad stood about five feet five inches tall, while Mom was about five foot tall.)

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

“I know,” I said. But it doesn’t help me much now.”

“Don’t worry, Fran,” Sandra said. “You’ll grow soon.” I stayed at the table for a little longer before getting up and leaving the kitchen. I appreciated Sandra’s kind words, and I understood they came from her heart, motivated by a desire to assuage my concerns; but at the same time, I ignored her sentiments, casting them out of my mind as soon as I walked away.

I sought tangible results in my body—evidence of physical changes—not empty, pat reassurances that would do me no good when I strode through the hallways of a high school packed with tall and muscular male students.

Flash forward to a warm, sunny day later in the summer when my mother hosted a party at our house on a Sunday afternoon.

My best friend, Billy, and I were playing kickball in the backyard with a group of kids, mostly neighbors from our rural area in south Rome that I had invited to the party.

Bill Vinci and me after we graduated from sixth grade in 1981.

The air was redolent with the smell of fresh-cut grass, the sunlight had a soft, milky quality, and you could hear crickets chirping and the rush of cars speeding along State Route 365 behind our house.

Kids were scattered throughout the yard, and Billy rolled the ball to me as I stood at home plate, waiting to wallop it. But the game was suspended when Mom came around the side of the house and asked us to stop playing for a moment.

Mom and Sandra walked toward me, accompanied by a small, chubby, dough-faced man I presumed was Sandra’s husband. Mom introduced us. “Fran, this is Sandra’s husband, Scott. I wanted you to meet him.”

I greeted Sandra and shook Scott’s hand. After the introductions were made, Mom and Sandra walked away, rejoining the party, leaving Scott standing next to me at home plate. He wore glasses, a striped rugby shirt, and a baseball cap too small for his head; for some reason, whenever I recollect this scene, I conjure the image of a little beanie divided into red, green, and blue sections with a propeller on top, which I want to flick so I can watch it spin on Scott’s head.

During the break in the action, the players chatted among themselves in the field while Scott started addressing me like a teacher in an after-school special on TV. He didn’t waste any time with small talk, saying, “Fran, I just want you to know it’s OK to be short.”

As other people had done, he tried to tell me I would eventually grow, but he added an important disclaimer to the lesson he tried to impart. Using himself as an example, he told me that even if I remained short and young looking for my age when I became an adult, I could still have a normal, productive, happy life.

“Look at me,” he said. “I’m grown up, and I’m happily married.”

“OK, thanks,” I said. But I refused to look him in the eyes, and I didn’t listen to the words he spoke. I let them bounce off me in the sunlight. I had no use for them because they could not help me. I sought normalcy as a teenager. I needed growth and maturation in the present.

Here’s me, likely in mid-1980s.

I had no interest in being told everything would work out eventually. Eventually meant nothing to a fifteen-year-old boy. I couldn’t wait for “eventually” to come. I couldn’t see beyond the start of the school year in September. And I viewed myself as an athlete playing a game, not a boy needing a pep talk.

I yelled to Billy, asking him to resume the game and roll the ball to me; the other players got ready. I kicked a ball into the field and reached base safely. Standing on the white paper plate that served as first base, I cheered on the next “batter” as the inning stayed alive.

Scott stood a few feet from home plate, looking uncomfortable with his arms held stiffly at his sides. He watched the game for a little while longer and then sauntered away, disappearing around the side of the house. I think he was bored or annoyed by my lack of respect or lack of interest in his presence. Watching him walk away, I felt a twinge of guilt.

When we switched sides at the end of the inning and Billy’s team came in to “hit,” Billy asked me, “Hey, who was that guy?” I told him he was the husband of one of my mom’s co-workers.

“Oh, I thought he was a kid,” he said. “I was gonna ask him if he wanted to play.”

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Reading and Reviews

For those in the Central New York area, I am doing a reading this week at Cafè Vinci in Rome, which is owned by my childhood friend Bill Vinci. The event is at 6 p.m. on Tuesday, Oct. 27.

Also, I wanted to share a couple recent reviews for Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood. One is from Manhattan Book Review, and blogger John Avery wrote another one. Here’s the full review.

I really like how the reviewer frames the story:

“A story this tied to physical vulnerability, sexuality, and shame during the exact years when those things feel most exposed and high-stakes—putting that on the page for anyone to read takes a kind of nerve that the book itself seems to be arguing is its own form of manhood. The writing doesn’t feel like it’s performing courage; it feels like it’s actually being courageous, which is a different thing entirely.

If you’ve ever felt like your body, your timeline, or your circumstances put you at odds with the version of adulthood everyone else seemed to be handed automatically, this memoir is going to speak to something you probably haven’t seen articulated quite this directly before. It’s not a book about overcoming a diagnosis in the triumphant, feel-good sense. It’s a book about redefining what it means to become a man when the body refuses to follow the script — and by the end, that redefinition feels like the real victory.”

And I really liked an animation that was included in one of the social posts for the review.

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Cafe and Bookstore Visits

I’m sharing some photos from visits to two local businesses last weekend. On Saturday, I traveled to my hometown of Rome, New York, stopping for coffee at Café Vinci, which is owned by my good friend Bill Vinci. I caught up with Bill and other friends from high school. It was so much richer talking to these guys in person instead of on social media. And it’s a strange, magical phenomenon that the bonds you construct with classmates when you are still young and unformed hold up in adulthood, despite a large gap in time. The connection is stamped permanently, and you can pick up right where you left off.

Bill asked me to bring some books to sell at the café, and he took my picture before I left. For those in Central New York who want to visit it, the business is located in Griffiss Business and Technology Park.

On Sunday, I was the guest of the “It Really Happened” nonfiction book club at Parthenon Books on Salina Street in downtown Syracuse. It was fun and rewarding to talk about my memoir and connect with readers. They asked some good questions, and I found their insight helpful, especially as I work on my follow-up memoir.

A bonus was seeing copies of my minimalistic poetry collection, Poecabulary, on the shelf—in both the poetry and “staff recommended” sections.

Poecabulary on the shelf at Parthenon Books.

And whenever I go to Parthenon, I always buy books. The store is beautiful, and the layout is clean and welcoming. The shelves are not jammed, and you can tell the staff curates the selections.

Here are the books I purchased:

The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
Verity by Colleen Hoover
Atom and Void by Aaron Fagan
And The Troublesome Tooth by Jacqueline Pilon, who is a member of the book club.

One other note: I am currently running a free Kindle promotion for Poecabulary. You can grab a free digital copy through Oct. 19.

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What’s Kraken Podcast

Earlier this summer, I was the guest on the podcast What’s Kraken with Jo Szewczyk. I had fun talking to Jo about writing, books, music, and life. Jo is the author of the memoir Surviving Gen X and the forthcoming novel Scarlet Shadows. You can follow him on Instagram @szewczyk.jo or find out more about him here.

The episode is also available on Spotify and Apple Podcasts.

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Senior Moment

The Central New York magazine 55 Plus recently did a nice feature article about me. You can read it here.

And yesterday, I participated in a local author “meet and greet” event at the Barnes and Noble store in Dewitt. I had the pleasure of meeting fellow author and leadership expert Julie Ann Whitten, who wrote The People Stack: Why Change Fails (and What Actually Fixes It)

A co-worker took this photo of me at the Barnes and Noble store in Dewitt.

We didn’t get a lot visitors stopping by our table, but I enjoyed talking to Julie and sharing stories about our publication journeys.

I also had to take a photo of some wall art in the in-store Starbucks. This image depicts one of my favorite authors, Langston Hughes.

And speaking of poets and poetry, I am currently reading The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 by Charles Bukowski. This brief piece of text by Buk rings true for me:

“Poetry”

It
takes
a lot of
desperation,
dissatisfaction,
and
disillusion
to
write
a
few
good
poems.

It’s not
for
everybody
either to
write
it
or even to
read
it.

 

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Stunted Excerpt: Prologue

Here’s another excerpt from my memoir, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood. I added a couple of baseball related photos.

During a summer baseball camp in the early 1980s, I huddle with a group of infielders on the main baseball diamond on the campus of Le Moyne College in Syracuse, New York. I’m the smallest figure in the bunch, the top of my head reaching the shoulders of the other players.

Early morning sunlight slants across the field, and a pinging sound ricochets off the brick dormitory buildings set on a hill overlooking the diamond as a garrulous coach with a Long Island accent and a potbelly stands near home plate, swinging a fungo bat and smacking ground balls to us.

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

Another coach, dressed in a gray T-shirt and baseball pants, stands near our group in the infield, observing our defensive mechanics. I charge the ball and crouch low to the ground, keeping my head down and my glove open. I field several balls without a bobble and fire them to first base. The Long Island coach then lines a laser in the air toward second base, and I leap to my right—my body parallel to the ground as the ball smacks the pocket of my Mizuno mitt. The diving backhand catch produces cheers from several camp-goers nearby.

The coach hitting the fungoes yells, “Wow. Nice play out there. Way to look alive.” The coach standing near second base says in a Southern accent, “Hey, what’s your name?”

After I tell him, he says, “You’re a good ballplayer and a good-looking kid. The girls must love you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” I say.

“No. Why not?”

Before I can ponder the question, I say, “I’m too small.”

“Too small—what’s that got to do with anything?” the coach says.

“I don’t know,” I say. I dig my cleats into the dirt and smack my mitt, trying to come up with an explanation. “Girls don’t like short guys.”

The coach and some older players standing near me break into laughter. I laugh too, and then I resume my place in line, kicking dirt and bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for the next ground ball to be hit toward me.

Playing freshman baseball in Rome, New York, in 1984.

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Accepting Limitations

This past Thursday, July 30, I held a local author talk and Q-and-A at Utica Public Library on Genesee Street in Utica, New York. Two senior citizens attended, and their presence pleased me because as the time for the 6 p.m. event drew near, I thought no one would show up.

Utica Public Library exterior. Photo by Kenneth C. Zirkel.

The talk was held in the Music Room on the second floor of the brick Neoclassical building erected in the early 1900s. I took an Uber because I was nervous about getting lost in Utica (as I had so often done in my youth when traveling to the city from my nearby hometown of Rome). As we traversed eastbound along the New York State Thruway, the Uber driver and I had a nice conversation. He’s a retired journalist and corporate communications professional who still does freelance work. We discussed the decline of journalism, the state of higher education, and writers we admire, including Stephen King and Richard Russo.

I arrived shortly after 3:30 p.m., and an easel displaying a large poster board with my book cover image greeted me as I entered the library. Flyers were also posted. The library was busy with mothers and their children perusing and checking out books and some adults using the computer room.

I introduced myself to the staff member who reserved the space and booked the event for me. She directed me to the second floor. I walked around for a bit, then headed upstairs, passing through an art gallery on the second floor and gazing at works by local artists hanging on the walls.

As the afternoon wore on, I debated going outside to walk along Genesee Street, maybe stopping at a Starbucks or another coffee shop. But I didn’t want to leave my books behind, and I didn’t want to carry my heavy book bag. I also had some trepidation about the safety of the neighborhood, so I stayed inside.

I set up my books on a long table at the front of the Music Room, answered work emails and Teams messages, and read the books I had brought—the novel Tepper Isn’t Going Out by Calvin Trillin (paperback), the memoir Educated by Tara Westover (paperback), and A Deadly Shade of Gold by John D. MacDonald (Kindle). The AC was blasting, the movement of cold air murmuring, and I had to keep my raincoat on the whole time because I was freezing.

Utica Public Library interior. Photo by Francis DIClemente.

After using the restroom on the first floor, I was excited to find my book in the library’s general circulation, sitting on a shelf next to some other memoirs. It had a Utica Public Library stamp inside.

My memoir, Stunted, on a shelf at Utica Public Library.

Then I went upstairs and sat in the Music Room, waiting as 5:30 and then 5:45 p.m. came and went. I stood up and took some photos of the empty space and a selfie to document the “no-show” turnout.

And as I stared out the window of the library, looking at the Munson art museum across the street, I acknowledged within myself the discouragement I feel about my memoir’s reception in the world more than two months after its release.

I poured everything I had into this book, writing it over the course of ten years while working a full-time day job and managing family responsibilities. And while I never expected a TED Talk or a Today show appearance to follow the release of my memoir, it’s disheartening that events have been sparsely attended and I remain stuck on four reviews on Amazon (although they have been positive). Even more so, I thought the book’s universal message of self-acceptance would resonate with a wide variety of readers.

But as I walked around the Music Room, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet, I tried to console myself by thinking a writer or artist’s career has ups and downs, highs and lows, and it’s all part of the journey.

I am also grateful to the people who have read the book and commented on it, the libraries and booksellers who have hosted me, and the local media outlets that have interviewed me or written stories about the book.

I also knew that my wife and son would greet me when I arrived home that night, and I would get up the next day and write before heading off to work at a job that paid my bills and provided health coverage for my family and me.

I was about to pack up my stuff and head downstairs to open the Uber app and book a ride home when a small, older man wearing a blue shirt and jeans held up by suspenders entered the Music Room and sat down. I thought, “OK, one is better than none.”

I asked, “Are you here for the reading?”

“Yes,” he said.

I introduced myself. His name was Bob. We shook hands, and we talked about the Utica area and its history. I asked Bob where the Saranac Brewery was located, and he rose and walked toward a window in the corner. I followed him, and he pointed toward the brewery in an area behind St. Joseph and St. Patrick Church, which could be seen in the distance.

At 6 p.m., I sat down and told Bob I’d read a little bit and then answer any questions he might have. I put on my reading glasses and was reading the prologue when I looked up and saw an older woman seated in the audience. I nodded and said “hello,” and she smiled. She said her name was Lorraine and she lived nearby. She had blond hair and glasses, was dressed in a black shirt and leopard-print pants, and wore a red baseball cap with a Flash Gordon lightning bolt on the front.

I was elated, and I made a point of listening to their questions and being fully present in the moment, giving my best effort for the two people who took time out of their day to attend a local author event.

And we had a pleasant conversation. They asked me about where I grew up, my educational background, medical and family history, and how long it took me to write the book. I enjoyed hearing about their lives. Lorraine claimed she owned more than four-thousand books. She also said she was born premature and the doctor who delivered her tossed her tiny body on a bed and said to Lorraine’s mother, “Don’t bother with her. She’s not gonna make it.”

Lorraine said she wanted to tell the doctor now, “I’m 77 years old, and I’m still here.”

Bob said he likes reading nonfiction, primarily autobiographies, nature books, and books about dogs. He asked me if I was Italian, and when I said, “Yes,” he told me he’s full-blooded Italian. He said he lives alone and shared details about two solo trips he took to Italy and Sicily, including how he met some distant cousins on one of the journeys.

Toward the end of our discussion, Bob asked if he could look at a book. I said, “Sure,” and he grabbed a book, flipped through it, stopping at certain pages, pointing to pictures, and asking me questions.

I felt so happy that Bob and Lorraine had rescued my night that I signed two copies of my book and gave them away to my new friends.

The experience made me think about one of my favorite scenes in the movie Vision Quest. It’s when high school wrestler Louden Swain (Matthew Modine) visits his friend, hotel worker Elmo (J.C. Quinn), who has taken the night off to watch Louden wrestle against Brian Shute, the best wrestler in the state of Washington. The writing and acting in the scene deliver such emotional power.

Louden tells Elmo that he shouldn’t have taken a night off from work because his pay would be docked, and that his six-minute wrestling match is “not that big of a deal.” Elmo gives a monologue about watching Pelé on TV during a soccer game, and he ends his speech with the line, “It ain’t the six minutes. It’s what happens in that six minutes.”

And the lesson for me is: It isn’t about how many people show up at a reading or event or the number of ratings and reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. It’s about the connection you form with the people who do read your book and attend your events.

I also thought, OK, so I’ll never win a Guggenheim fellowship, sell the movie rights to my book, be a bestselling author, or earn a living from my writing alone. Still, I can continue to write in my spare time and contribute something positive in my own small way.

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Parthenon Reading

I had a fun time at yesterday’s reading at Parthenon Books in Syracuse. The crowd was sparse, likely due to the Syracuse Arts & Crafts Festival taking place in the downtown area.

But I signed some copies of my book, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood, which are available for sale at the store. I also caught up with a former colleague from SU, Stephen, and we chatted about poetry, writing, and film (just like we used to do in the break room at work).

And I used my store credit to purchase Calvin Trillin’s novel Tepper Isn’t Going Out.

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Upcoming Book Events

For friends and readers in the Central New York area, I have some events scheduled to promote my memoir, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood (Toplight Books, an imprint of McFarland and Company, 2026).

I’ll be giving a reading and signing books at Parthenon Books on Salina Street in downtown Syracuse this Saturday, July 25 at 1 p.m. I’m also excited to use up $15 in store credit.

A “Local Author Talk” is scheduled for 6 p.m. on Thursday, July 30 at Utica Public Library on Genesee Street in Utica.

And on Saturday, August 8, I’ll be joining other writers at a Local Author Showcase at the Barnes & Noble store in Dewitt. The time is 2 to 4 p.m.

For those unfamiliar with the book, here is a description, along with some archival photos (which appear in black and white in the book).

Overview of Stunted:

For most children, puberty marks their rite of passage into the cusp of adulthood—a time of profound physical and emotional transformation. It’s a period where they grapple with questions about identity, their place in the world, and what they desire from life’s experiences.

Here’s me, likely in the mid-1980s.

For Francis DiClemente, during his turbulent adolescent and early adult years spanning 1984 to 1995, frustration and shame consume him. When he turns fifteen, his growth stops, and he watches helplessly as his friends cross through puberty and into adulthood. Doctors diagnose him with hypopituitarism, uncovering a tumor engulfing his pituitary gland. Yet the removal of the tumor fails to fix the problem. DiClemente enters college as a youthful, androgynous figure—a prodigy sans the hyper-smarts.

During my college years, in the late 1980s.

He lags behind his male peers in every aspect—lacking the stature, hair growth, and muscle definition that come naturally to others his age. This disparity further erodes his self-confidence, particularly in his interactions with women.

When DiClemente leaves his childhood home after college and embarks on a career in journalism, he discovers a new perspective on masculinity. Living independently and embracing this responsibility, he learns that manhood is determined by behavior, not physical characteristics.

Through the lens of personal experience, Stunted: A Memoir of Delayed Manhood delves into the universal themes of belonging and resilience, providing a message of hope and inspiration for those navigating their paths of self-acceptance.

With my cousins Fiore DeCosty (left) and Derek DeCosty (standing) with our grandmother, Josephine, in the bottom right of the frame (1990).

 

 

 

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