FATHER

This second-generation photograph originally appeared in a Long Island newspaper.
Since I was eight years old, the man facing Pope John Paul II has been known to me
as "Father Frank." The photo commemorates the moment in 1998 when my uncle
officially became "Monsignor Oliverio."

He will always be Father Frank to me.
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"Why were you laughing when you were facing the Pope, Father?"

He looked left, he looked right.
He made sure no one else was within hearing distance.

"If I tell you the truth, Nephew, promise me you will never tell anyone else."
"You have my word, Father Frank."

Again, my Uncle looked left; he looked right. Slowly, his eyes scanned
the entire Long Island patio on which there were only the two of us.
All kinds of noise came from inside the house where a dozen other relatives
were preparing Thanksgiving dinner.
We were the only smokers in the family.

Puffing on his Cuban cigar, Father Frank looked heavenward. With the cigar,
he made a quick sign of the cross then he riveted his eyes on me.
I felt as if I was the center of the universe.

"About two hundred priests were part of the Vatican ceremony to be anointed as Monsignors. We stood in a line that moved pretty fast but when it was my turn, the Pontiff–after branding me–leaned over and whispered into my ear. The priests behind me started getting restless."
"What was the Pope saying."
"Johnny was telling me a joke about a Norwegian pole dancer."

"You call the Pontiff Johnny?"
"Only when we were alone. It was his idea. He called me 'Frankie.'"
"In Italian or English?"
"In English but everything else we said was in Italian."
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In the "Employment Office" of the Vatican, a very important position
had to be filled in 1996 but it was not in Rome, nor anywhere in Italy.
It was smack dab in the middle of New York City.
Can you guess which of the new monsignors got the gig?


"What was it like to serve mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, Father?"
"I only enjoyed it when I was the con-celebrant."
"What's that?"
"Well, if the priest saying mass was Tony Orlando, then I was Dawn.
I was the equivalent of a back-up singer."

"Did you sing in Latin or English?"
"Both but more importantly, I had to sit in the back of the altar
and look priestly–until we served Holy Communion."
"Why didn't you enjoy being the lead priest?
"You mean the celebrant?"
"If you say so."

"Because Sunday was supposed to be my day of rest."
"I thought all priests had to work Sundays."
"Not if their title was 'Business Manager of St. Patrick's Cathedral.'"

"What business did you manage?"
"Distributing church money to the needy."
"You mean helping the homeless?"
"Amongst many other needy people, places and things. I worked six days a week
–at least sixty hours–mostly in neighborhoods where white people fear to tread."

"But you weren't afraid?"
"Not only did I have God on my side, I had the Crips & the Bloods outdo each other
on how well they could protect me."
"How so?"

"A lot of my workdays didn't end until three o'clock in the morning
because I refereed Midnight Basketball Leagues. Then the gangbangers
would insist on taking me out for breakfast–my favorite part of the job."
"Why was that?"
"It was the only time I would not have to pick up the tab!
It may have also been the only time that Crips & Bloods sat peacefully together.
My gang name was Montz."
"Where did that name come from?"
"It is short for 'Monsignor.' One of those Crips–I should say former Crip–
is about to graduate from the prestigious School of Visual Arts
in Manhattan. His name is Tyrone Morse."
"A survivor of the mean streets."
"We helped him move to Staten Island to keep him out of trouble.
Tyrone painted a portrait of me holding a lamb."