We saw him, and we cared.

 A Story of Frank Clayton

I imagine a child born into piedmont North Carolina during the 1950s,

with a strong-willed dad who worked at the Pepsi plant in Durham,

with a strong-willed mother who worked in Burlington at the textile mill,

a tightness to the connections of parents with child

so that father and son would act as one,

while brothers and sister lived away from the old home

Frank stayed near his parents,

very much a junior to his father,

in the garden, in hunting, in taking care of each other,

in the cemetery where his parents rest

they saved a plot next to them for Frank,

and even had his name and birthdate chiseled on the stone,

Frank worked at a printing shop for years, 

along with his younger brother,

and then he no longer worked there,

a relationship with a woman also went away,

despite his mother's hopes,

for the last decades his world narrowed,

the gruffness of his attitude increased,

just a few days ago he kidded a neighbor

who works very hard to keep the road graded:

"You can tell if a man has too much time on his hands:

he moves rock around,"

an emptiness opened in him when his father died,

he didn't want to acknowledge any feelings,

when we asked him about how it felt to have his childhood home torn down,

he rubbed his eyes and mimicked what he thought of emotionality:

"Oh, boo, hoo, hoo. . ."

he had trouble persevering,

a good friend kept trying to get him

to get off the couch, away from the TV,

Frank would have none of it

until new neighbors moved in next door,

and he was as good a neighbor as they could have hoped for,

they saw past the gruffness into the sweet soul

and loved him for who he was,

and he could express more of that sweet self

than he could regularly share with most of us,

when they would offer him water to drink, he would decline:

"water rusts the pipes!" he'd say,

I wonder how much Frank was limited

by segregated, diminished schools and society,

in which he was not seen, appreciated,

helped to move forward into releasing his best,

if you were African-American in the 1950s,

the deck was stacked against you,

what responsibility does society have 

and how much was his own choice?

I just know Frank was a good person,

and the world often seemed not to notice,

not to care.

by Henry H. Walker

March 16, ‘24