Maceo Clardy died in Oakland on February 8, 2025. Here, a daughter’s letter to her father, a note on his legacy, and a reflection on the homeless crisis in America
I was 7 years old when I first remember seeing his tall slender frame as he ducked his head to enter my grandparents’ living room. Here was this handsome, well-dressed man, with his hair pulled back into a slick ponytail, calling me “baby girl.” It was the first time I remember seeing him, and I had no photos of him, but as soon as I saw him, I just knew. My shy, reserved persona went out the window as I ran to his arms, yelling, “Daddddddy!” As a child, I remember sitting at my grandparents’ large picture window, waiting, hoping, and wishing for another visit. I’d even swear I’d see him driving by or standing at the Piggly Wiggly, a few check stands over. Secretly, I’d build up hope that today would be the day I would see him again and would quietly get let down when he never showed.
He wouldn’t show up until I was 16 years old. By that time, I was long gone in the foster care system in Los Angeles. My grandma called me as I walked down the street with my best friend, “Sweetheart, I have someone here who wants to talk to you… Hey Baby Girl, do you know who this is?” I nearly fainted the day I heard his voice on the other end of my line. Dad? Was this my long-lost father? Because I was in foster care at the time, my grandma was not supposed to call me and connect us. But I was happy she did because I was able to build my relationship with him on my terms. By the time I was 16, I was well aware of his battle with addiction, but I didn’t know much about his story. We talked the rest of the summer when I could sneak a call in, but by the time I was 17, the dial tone clicked on the other end. Just like that, I wouldn’t hear from him for nearly two years.
For the last 19 years, our relationship has been fraught with disconnected lines, years of lost contact, resentment, anger, and pride. But at the core of it, there was always
forgiveness and love underneath our hard surfaces. On our best days, I would sit on the phone with him for hours on end, laughing at his stories and anecdotes. On our worst days, I would ignore his calls and the grumpy man on the other end of the phone. What I’m left with at the end of his life are memories and the stories and bits of wisdom he imparted on me. When he would get worked up he would say, “I am somebody dammit, I ain’t a nobody.” I spent a lot of our time together trying to understand his story.
My father, Maceo Clardy, was born at home on April 27, 1958, in Kansas City, MO, to Fletcher Clardy SR. and Thelma Lee Harvey. He was raised in a big family that reflected generations of a changing America. My father was one of 18 siblings, with both of his parents entering their second marriage. They had a collective of 11 children before having another seven together. Born between generations with siblings as much as 20 years older, my father grew up amongst siblings, nieces, and nephews. My grandmother, Thelma Lee Harvey, was born in Tonganoxie, Kansas in 1922 to Rollie Harvey born in 1899, and Ervie Fowler born in 1893. My grandfather, Fletcher Clardy SR, was born in 1911 in Centerpoint Arkansas, to Sandford Clardy, born in 1865, and Sarah Williams, born in 1871. I know without a doubt that slavery’s legacy doesn’t just live in the past, it’s with us every day, yet we refuse to repair the generational harm. I often think about how distant yet close these three generations are in my family, from the end of slavery to Jim Crow, the great migration, and post civil rights and I get a glimpse of a picture that’s not often painted for everyone, about the legacy of slavery and its deep impact well into the 20th century.
My father did not have a typical childhood. He never learned to read or write, and by the third grade, he dropped out of school and would find himself being sent off to boys camp – or, “the farm,” as he would call it – for truancy. At the height of his adolescence came the expansion of Child Protective Services and the start of the government-sponsored era we know now. After the Social Security Act of 1935 was amended in 1962, these services expanded their reach in the Black community. My father entered the system at 9. By the time he was 12, he was used to running away from camp and home. My family tells this story of around this time: The farm called my grandmother, tired of my father’s constant running away, and said they wanted to perform a lobotomy to keep him still. My Grandmother and Aunt Francis jumped in the car and drove straight to the boy’s camp to take him home. My father would spend the next few years floating between homes and different siblings scattered across the country, trying to find his way in the world.
His love for California was sparked on one of his travels to Los Angeles with his older sister Cecilia, who started her life in Compton, California. Unsurprisingly, when he was old enough, he returned to California – a place he would call his home for most of his adult life. As a young man, he spent a lot of time in Northern California and fell in love with the Bay Area, where his brother Ivan lived. In 1985, he married his first love, Katrina Winnefield. He always told me how she was the only woman he’d ever marry and how he’d always have love in his heart for her. He liked to reminisce on those early years hanging out with his favorite brother Ivan, his wife, and even hometown Bay hero OJ Simpson.
My father was a known sharp dresser. People always admired his swagger and clothing, and he took pride in how he presented himself to the world. He had an affection for music; no matter what, he would always have a speaker and figure out how to connect it. Music to him was like therapy. He could be seen listening to his gospel on Sundays and his 90’s R&B when he was relaxing.
I remember the first time I met my dad as an adult. I was 19 and visiting Kansas City when I pulled up to his friend Reggie’s, where he asked me to pick him up. My father was cutting the grass when I arrived so he signaled for me to hold while he put away the lawn mover and proceeded to enter a large orange tent in the backyard of this home. I was shocked. A few minutes later, he steps out with a fresh pair of Gators dress shoes, hair slicked back and a summer suit looking like a million bucks! Before I could get my thoughts together, he said “Bet you ain’t ever seen a fresher homeless man than me!” and let out a full-bellied laugh. I laughed too, but I vividly remember realizing in that moment for the first time that my dad was homeless.
In March 2021, I received a frantic call from my aunts Sharon and KK telling me my father was on his deathbed. He had just returned to Kansas City, and she needed my help. It was the first time in nearly 6 years I heard a word about him. I was happy to hear he was alive. In those lost years, I realized that I had so many things I wanted to talk to him about. Within a few weeks, my two young daughters and I were on a flight to Kansas City to see my father. With the few dollars I could scrape together, I helped my dad move into a place while I was in town. I remember as we went around getting his essentials, stopping by a local Black-owned thrift store. Like a kid in a candy shop, he had his heart set on a red leather antique sitting chair. He was ok with not getting it, but his admiration for this chair meant I couldn’t leave it behind. The owner cut us a deal on everything and even delivered it to where he would be staying. He loved that chair.
Something about this trip healed part of my inner child as I took him across the city and down memory lane. He showed me his stomping grounds and where he grew up. We ate Gates BBQ a ridiculous number of times and spent the week taking my girls around his family and friends, and stopping to play at every park in between. My girls fondly remember the parks from this visit to this day. Growing up in Kansas City, I lived
behind a park. On one of our outings in 2021, we went there and climbed the rock mountain that sits oddly next to a freeway overpass designed by internationally acclaimed sculptor Dale Eldred. As we reached the top of the structure, my father began playing “I Need You To Survive” by Hezekiah Walker. As the words, “I won’t harm you with words from my heart, I love you, I need you to survive,” played, he told me how he would sit out here on this rock and watch me as a child from a distance, ashamed of his choices in life. I confirmed I was not crazy, and I did see him driving past the house often and in that time at the Piggly Wiggly. At that moment, I didn’t feel anger – just sadness for what addiction had deprived us of.
On the last day of my visit, I insisted that I would help my father set up his room and situate him, since his eyesight was not the best. As the girls sat on the patio with my father, I began sweeping the room. When I picked up the mattress to sweep underneath it, I stepped on something glass that shattered under my foot. As I picked up my foot, I saw the pieces of a shattered pipe. Instantly, the blood rushed to my face as I tried not to go into panic mode. A few deep breaths later, all I could think of was to get out of there – and that this couldn’t be how this visit was ending. I quickly swept up the mess, finished making his bed, and set his TV up. I loaded my girls in the car, let them say their last goodbyes, said my goodbyes and love you’s, and drove off with him waving in the rearview mirror. As I headed to the airport with tears streaming down my face, I made peace with the fact that this might be our last time seeing each other.
But I was wrong: A few months later, he would make his way back to the Bay Area, and my phone would ring from a random 510 number with the sound of ongoing traffic in the background; he had set up camp in an intersection. After losing his housing in Kansas City, he wanted to go back to Berkeley, where he had lived for the last 40 years. This was a cycle I knew too often: KC never lasted long.
In 2023, my father would contact me again from a new number, this time happy to finally share that he had housing and was off the streets. It was a short-lived moment; only a few weeks later, he would be fighting an eviction notice and working with local community organizations, lawyers, and reporters to fight for his right to housing. My father was a very smart man. I always joked with him that he would make a fine lawyer. During the process, he was proud to finally share his story and make his mark in the world, as he would put it. He felt like his story could help someone else going through what he was going through, and he believed that he could make that difference.
As I started to do more research on my dad, I found an article published by SF Gate on June 28th, 2002 — which would have coincidentally been my 12th birthday. As I read his words, I felt like I was transported back in time and provided a small glimpse into his journey, and It broke my heart to read him say, “I’m just tired of being a nobody, and I’m a somebody,” a sentiment he lived with till the end, and one that I heard often.
As I reflect on his life, I question how we as a society can work to support people before they become homeless, through economic policies that support affordable housing, better educational outcomes, mental health and trauma informed support. I list these in this particular order because when economic policies benefit the few, they leave many hurting, leaving instability in communities and people’s lives. As an advocate of racial and social justice, I strongly believe the circumstances many people are faced with when they become homeless are a result of all of these cracks in the system, a system not built to support us.
When you see a homeless person walking down the street, you might think they must not have anyone who cares about them. This was once a naive notion of mine. I’d think that if they just had someone who cared enough about them, they’d be fine. But over the years, through my own experience with my father, I’ve come to learn that humans are not like stray animals. Even stray animals aren’t that simple. My father once gave me a stray flea-ridden puppy, but I soon realized, after bringing it across state lines, that I was not equipped to take care of it. I had to make the hard decision to rehouse Marley, who landed in a family with a set of triplets in a loving home. Not everyone ends up like Marley.
My father battled addiction for nearly 40 years. He didn’t receive a birth certificate or Social Security number until he was 57, and never learned to read or write. From a young age, he was always a free spirit with a strong will. Despite his shortcomings, I was always inspired by his will to fight and advocate for himself and at the end, I’m inspired most by his courage to survive. In these last few years, he has been able to do something he always wanted to do: Tell his story to the world. I am hopefully closing that loop.
Maceo Granado Clardy went home February 8, 2025. He is survived by his brothers, Kevin, Kerry and Fletcher Jr, his baby sis K, and Sharon, daughter Destanie (me), his grandchildren Niko, Nomi Jade, and Irie, and a slew of nieces and nephews – notably his beloved niece Tippy, who was with him in the end, and his nephew, Rufus. He was laid to rest at the Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Hayward, CA, on Thursday, April 24, 2025, and will forever be remembered in our hearts.
Destaine Newell is a mother, wife, and racial justice advocate, working to challenge mainstream narratives, build community, and fight for a more fair and just world for Black people in America.