"I Had a Fraternity and His Name was Frank"

I had a fraternity. I had a fraternity and his name was Frank...

I had a fraternity. I had a fraternity and his name was Frank.

Some years ago, after having stayed at home with my kids for ten years, I went back to work. It was financially necessary. At first only part-time, but even part-time meant I would change my weekly school of community meeting. I left the “mom” Wednesday morning SOC and joined another (for convenience), which met in my neighborhood on Thursday nights. Frank was leading. Frank is my brother-in-law and while we had had many conversations in the past, our friendship became more concrete in the SOC. We spoke often after meetings. I think almost every week. He would call me and say, “It’s really important to me. I would go, pray, and read even if no one else showed up. I don’t want to scandalize you, but it’s more important to me than going to church.” As you know Frank has quite a story: drugs, homelessness, ten years living on the street before meeting and marrying my sister.

So we talked, after school of community, about the school of community. It was during this these conversations that I spoke to him about my desire to belong to a small fraternity group. I had belonged to a small fraternity group and that group ended. But I still had the desire to follow the indication to belong to one. At the time I did not think it, but in retrospect, it (the belonging), was for me defined by the form, the formalism: the meeting on such and such a night, read the indicated text, pray the prayer. But I didn’t think I was that way. I didn’t think I was that way at the time.
I think these conversations were a provocation for Frank. He asked a lot of questions. He had a lot of comments. He too had belonged to a small fraternity group. “I’m not interested in meetings. What’s the difference between school of community and fraternity? We already have a meeting, but I want to be open.” I’m not sure I had any good answers but it continued to come up in conversation.
It was during one of these conversations that I realized he had been thinking about the “fraternity” issue in a much deeper way. One day he suddenly said, “Ok, I will be in a fraternity with you.” And from then on he called me his “secret fraternity sister.” Whenever he greeted me it was, “Suzy Wooz, How’s my secret fraternity sister?” Not much changed except that we spoke more often. If I had a problem or concern, he followed up. When I get stressed, I get insomnia. Frank worked nights. He told me, “Call me when that happens. You know I’m awake.”
He commented on experiences we had together. Frank started to go to the CL summer vacations. He had acrophobia but wanted to follow the gestures and went on the big hike anyway. At the top of the mountain he became very affected. I offered to walk back down with him. No big deal. We walked back down together, got to the bottom, looked up and waved to everyone at the top. Many, many times he commented to me about how much it meant to him to be accompanied.
He bought a new car and came to my house to show me. “I know this is not a big deal for most people,” he said, “but when I think of where I came from, and where I am now, I’m real proud. I changed. I wanted to show you because it’s more than the car.”
I changed jobs. I started to work full-time. It was a very difficult job and in many ways went badly. I worked in the administration and was to become director of a soup kitchen and women’s shelter. A place Frank new well as, during his time on the streets, he had eaten there often. Getting through that job was a real New York story, a navigational nightmare. Frank was there with an insight I did not have. I have never been homeless. There were objective difficulties at this job and injustices, terrible injustices. Frank was a rock. He was able to judge the situation. I just couldn’t. With his companionship, with his clarity, I remained in a tough situation until I changed jobs.
From time to time, my sense of “formalism” crept in. I would ask Frank about inviting people into our group, and having meetings. Frank had this facial expression that communicated a mix between discomfort and irritation. “I don’t feel obligated to do that,” he’d say “That’s not what this is for me.” One year after I came home from the fraternity exercises (Frank could not go because of work), I called him and said, “You know, we need a prayer. Something simple. We just pray it everyday for the intention of our fraternity.” “Ok, that’s cool.” “Whatever you want, it can be the Our Father.” So it was, the Our Father. It was his prayer of preference. He called me, almost daily, “Yo, Suzy Wooz, Let’s do it!” Later, we would pray the Angelus.
Over the course of our little fraternity, many, many events took place. My brother Paul was in a near fatal car accident. My sister Mary was diagnosed with brain cancer and died 10 months later. Frank was diagnosed with cancer. He called me. I remember exactly where I was when I received that phone call, under the elevated train walking down New Utrecht Avenue in Brooklyn. “I’m gonna beat this!” he said. I cried.
And life went on. Our little fraternity started to grow, Maurizio, Rita and Jonathan joined. Maurizio took a job in California. Frank called me and told me. He said, “I know we will still be friends. I’m certain of that, but when I get into bed at night and I hold my wife in my arms, it’s different.”
Frank’s illness progressed. He remained very, very positive. I took a new job and went back to school, first receiving two certificates, then enrolling in a master’s program. Frank fought his illness. I started a job in Long Island City, Queens. I left home everyday on the 6:31AM train and arrived at 36th Street in Queens usually at 7:25AM and walked ten minutes to my job. Usually between 7:30 and 7:35AM my phone rang, “Yo, Suzy Wooz, Let’s do it!”
I went to see Frank at his home on December 8th. He had had a difficult setback. I walked into his bedroom, my sister Rita sitting on the opposite side of the bed said, “Your secret fraternity sister is here to see you.” There are moments in time when you realize a separation is coming. All the facts point to it, but somehow you’re never prepared. That night, entering that room, looking at Frank, fully conscious looking at me, I wept and wept and wept. The more I wept, the more irritated he became, “Come on Suzy we can talk about this.” “I can’t,” I said. After, my sister and I sat together at their dining room table, “I’m so sorry,” I said over and over again, “I just wasn’t prepared.” “It’s ok,” she said, “he has to realize what’s really happening.”
I started to call Rita on my morning walk to work, “How’s it going,” I said. “Hard,” she replied. My mother came and went for extended periods in these last few months, then my sister Regina came to help and care and decide. As a family we had been through the drill before. It was time to make some decisions. Eventually he went to Calvary hospice, in the hospital ten blocks from my house. I could walk there to see him. Proximity is a big deal in New York City. Frank rallied (as my father and sister before him had rallied). I cancelled the winter semester classes I signed up for and went to see him as often as possible after work. Family came. Friends came. One day as I walked into his room, he looked up and said, “Yo, Suzy Wooz, I’ve been thinking a lot about you.” “You have,” I said. “Yes,” he said, “because you’re following. Not many people would take the risks you’re taking. You’re going back to school. You found something you love.” Listening to him speak to me as if it was the beginning, as if he wasn’t really dying, as if his participation in life, in my life was going to continue was just a marvel. It was comfortable. It was familiar. It was a gift. And I knew it. Sometimes during these visits Frank cried a lot, “Take care of my kids,” he said. “Okay,” I said. Sometimes we laughed. “Yo, Suzy do you have a razor blade?” “I’m not giving you a razor blade.” “Com’on Suzy, you know you can trust me.” “It’s not a problem of trust. You’re on morphine. It’s not safe.” “Then give me that straw.” “Okay.” He cleaned his nails. “Oh,” I said, “I’m really glad I didn’t give you the razor blade.”
Frank died on January 19th in the early morning. I still take the 6:31 train every morning. As my foot falls on 36th Avenue in Long Island City and I pass the Key Food on my right, come to the curb to cross the street, I start to list all the things that need to be done: what I need to accomplish, materials to prepare for my students, articles to download and print to read for class, bills to pay, my own children’s needs, my husband’s job difficulties and then, as I look at my phone, I have this acute awareness that it is not going to ring, that I will not hear that familiar call, “Yo, Suzy Wooz, Let’s do it.” That first moment I’m incredulous, “How can this be?” The second moment is prayer, the Angelus.