GET OFF MY BACK

Dominick Joseph Gelonese

It was a summer that stamped itself on my soul. My mom and dad took us to a camp—not your average camp, not some getaway in the woods. This was different. Sacred, even.

Uncle Joe came too. Joe Gelonese: my father’s goomba. A wild Italian with a heart bigger than his laugh and a pocket comb he never put down. He headed the projectionist union, which meant endless free movie passes and popcorn bags so big they could feed the block.

But this wasn’t a story about movies. It was a picnic for kids with disabilities—CP, developmental challenges, limitations that didn’t define their spirit.

That’s where I met Dominick.

Same age. Same generation. But Dominick lived at the facility. And I had questions.

He sat in a wheelchair, arms curled, drool slipping past his excitement, clutching a pen-style tool that helped him communicate. He typed fast— “GET OFF MY BACK.”   He was smiling when he typed it. His version of a joke. A spark.

Eric and Dominick

I didn’t see his limitations. I saw connection.   I saw someone who, like me, was born into a fight.

My mother and Rochelle—friends since Catholic school—had carried us at the same time. Both young moms navigating the unknown. But fate had its fork: I came out fist first, cord wrapped around my neck.

I survived. I thrived. Dominick didn’t get the same break. He had CP from oxygen loss at birth. But that day? We were equals. We were brothers.

I pushed his wheelchair through the crowd, him laughing like we’d known each other forever. Something deeper clicked.

He wasn’t just a kid in a center. He was a Steven Hawking of heart and humor. He understood me. And I understood him.

That bond stretched beyond the camp: I had him in my yard wearing a helmet, catching footballs— We went to movies, concerts, hung out as pre-teens.

Dominick taught me how compassion rewrites limits.  " Get Off My Back"

My love made his heart light up. And his presence? It made mine grow.