by Tavis Smiley
I always knew William would die young. Felicia and I often discussed it, even tried to prepare ourselves for it. From the time he reached puberty up until age twenty or so, Billy was almost always in trouble.
Billy and I were extremely close as children. When Billy reached adolescence, we began to drift apart. Suddenly, having two young sisters straggling behind him wasn’t the answer for him.
An adolescent male growing up on the streets of Newark, New Jersey, in the seventies, with no father around, was an invitation for trouble. The street became his school, peers and pushers his teachers, and a police record his diploma. Once Billy got to high school, the proverbial shit hit the fan. He teamed up with his best friend, Alvie (who died in 1980), to get kicked out of two of the best boys’ Catholic schools in Newark. Mom put Billy in Weequahic High School, where he dropped out a few months before graduation. Despite his Catholic school background (he had been an altar boy as a child) and good upbringing, Billy hit the streets. He was into everything from petty larceny to grand theft auto.
William had a passion for cars but couldn’t drive a lick! He once stole my father’s 1977 classic Mark V and ran smack into an East Orange police station.
Trouble came to Billy; he didn’t have to go looking for it. If it wasn’t the wrong time or the wrong place, it was the wrong crowd. Most of his friends, like himself, were brought up in good Catholic homes, and they were the craziest bunch of hellions ever to graduate from Blessed Sacrament Grammar School. They weren’t bad per se, just boys gone wayward. They did things like jump out of the second-floor kitchen window at our house on Hedden Terrace for recreation and sniff glue for intoxication. They were all handsome and popular in the neighborhood. They were not out bustin’ heads, carjacking, or robbing banks—just having what they thought was good, wholesome fun. Aaron and Lionel are the only living members of that gang now.
At age twenty-one, Billy went to jail on an armed robbery charge. He had a beef with the manager of a local movie theater where he had been employed and decided to rip off the box office. He was allegedly armed with a knife, although Billy never would have used it; he never hurt anyone unless it was in self-defense.
Eight police cars came to the house in the middle of the night and dragged Billy down the back stairs and into a patrol car. Of course, they beat him. Billy knew his luck had run out. The judge said that he had to put Billy away before he hurt somebody or hurt himself.
The eighteen months William spent in a correctional facility in south Jersey did him a world of good. I think deep down inside William wanted to be put away. In fact, one time he went to a police station and asked to be put away, to be taken out of society before he did irreparable damage to himself or someone else. The judge who sentenced him to Bordentown had the foresight to know that this kid could be saved but that he needed the jolt of incarceration to bring him around.
That Saturday, May 20, 1983, I received a call at work from my mother, who was inviting me to Billy’s apartment for a celebratory dinner. He had just been accepted for the training program with IBM and would be relocating to North Carolina. Feeling a bit down, I begged off.
When the phone rang again, it was Mom calling, this time to tell me that the third-floor apartment—Billy’s apartment—was on fire, and as far as she knew, he was up there. Billy had been in and out of many scrapes during his young life. He had been hit by a car at sixteen, slashed with a machete at twenty, beaten by the cops, jailed, and injured in car accidents. But in my gut, I knew he would not survive this one.
I arrived at the house about 5 P.M. The block was backed up to the corner with fire trucks. Felicia, my mother, and Aunt Bennie arrived as well. His girlfriend was standing outside looking crazy and wild. They had just taken William away in the ambulance. Someone from the Red Cross stuck a business card in my hand, and a man from the Newark Fire Department stood in front of me moving his lips while my eyes frantically scanned the scene for some sign that my brother was all right.
A hundred people stood around watching us as we returned to our cars to make that trek to University Hospital. I arrived at the emergency room first. My brother was nowhere in sight, and the nurse behind the desk asked me what seemed like a thousand stupid questions about who I was and my relationship to the patient. She told me to go to a private waiting room, where a doctor would meet with me and my family. My mother and sister arrived moments later.
The doctor marched in with a nurse trailing behind him. They settled against a piece of furniture. Three beats … and the news was delivered. My brother had died of smoke inhalation. Two beats later, I was screaming. My mother must have missed a beat in there somewhere, because she didn’t seem to know what was happening. She didn’t know why her older daughter was screaming hysterically nor why her younger one stared at her blankly.
There had to be a mistake. My brother could not be dead. He could not have died the day he had gotten that long-awaited job. Tired from working on a neighbor’s house, he’d put a pan on the stove to prepare a celebratory meal for his family, collapsed on his bed, and, from all the evidence, fell fast asleep.
Pausing at the door, the doctor asked if we wanted to see William. My mother bravely followed him to the room where he lay. Felicia and I were not up to it. When Mom returned, she said William looked peaceful, his face slightly seared by the fire. Her face was strangely luminous, her manner serene and resigned.
Those next few days before the funeral were trying. Felicia and I lived off vodka and orange juice, and I lost a considerable amount of weight. I’ll never forget the scene at the cemetery and the sound of the vault when it clicked shut, sealing my brother’s casket from the moisture and earth. A volume in our life as a family had come to a close.
Through it all, we remained faithful and positive. We tried to view William’s death not as an ending but as a rebirth. We celebrated his journey home to the Father. The world is too cruel for some people. Some cannot bounce back from the blows life deals. At times I considered William weak. But he wasn’t weak; he was sensitive and vulnerable. The world is too wild for people like him.
It has now been nineteen years since William’s death. He communicates with me and I with him on a spiritual level. He watches over me and my sons. I know he’s there, and that gives me comfort. It has helped me to heal in more ways than I can describe.
THE ACCIDENT
Elnora Massey
I was lying in bed one night in June of 1994, somewhere between consciousness and sleep, for it had been a tedious day at work. My youngest daughter, Crystal, was already asleep; Joanna, our middle child, was talking on the telephone with her friends. Wendell, my son, was on his way to pick up his father from his night job, or so I thought. This was a difficult time for us in the transportation arena. We were all using the same car. My van had been stolen, my husband’s car was in the shop for repairs, and Wendell’s car was servicing everyone’s needs. This is how the routine went: Wendell would take me downtown to work at eight o’clock in the morning. Jim would drive the car back downtown at four o’clock in the afternoon and leave it in the parking lot near the building in which I worked. At that point, he walked over a few blocks to his night job, and I drove the car home at four-thirty. When I got home that particular day, Wendell was on his way out the door to pick up his friends, Jason Duval and Terrence Williams, for work. They had been working for only a few weeks. Wendell had just completed his first year at the University of Florida in Gainesville, and he and Jason and Terrence had a summer job doing customer service for a weed-control company.
My daughter Joanna came running into my bedroom that night shouting, “Mom, Wendell has been in a bad car accident. University Hospital trauma is on the line.” My mind barely comprehended what she was trying to tell me. My heart started to race. The trauma nurse told me he was critical and I should come right away. As I hung up the telephone, I felt dizzy and the bed began to twirl. This could not be happening. I called my husband and told him what happened. I wondered the
n where Wendell had been when this happened. He must have been on Interstate 10 on his way to get his father from work. As I was going out the door to my neighbor’s house, I realized that the girls should not be left alone, so I called a friend, explained what happened, and asked if she would come and stay with the girls.
When my dear friend Barbara and I arrived at the hospital, she took that long slow walk with me inside. She realized just how frightened I was. We found the information center and were directed to the family waiting room for the trauma center. Wendell was in one of the best places he could be—the trauma center at what is now Shands Hospital in Jacksonville is one of the best in the country. My husband and his friend arrived at the hospital soon after. We all just sat and waited for the doctor to come and talk to us. As I sat there waiting, my stomach was sick with pure fear. I had so many questions running through my mind. Were Jason and Terrence with him? If so, were they alive? Was my son going to die?
The doctor finally came into the waiting room. She explained that Wendell had sustained a serious brain injury and that they were working to keep the swelling to a minimum. He also had a badly burned leg, a broken jaw, a cracked spine, and several other minor injuries. The brain injury was the most severe. He was listed in critical condition. The doctor told us that the next twenty-four hours would be crucial. When I asked the doctor if anyone else had been involved in the accident, she said that there were two fatalities, but she had no other information. Wendell had been the only one brought to this particular trauma center; he had been life-flighted from the scene of the accident by helicopter. She said that the highway patrol would be coming to talk to us and we could find out more information then. Panic gripped me—where were the other boys? Barbara called Jason’s mother to see if they had heard anything about Jason or Terrence. She said Jason was not home from work yet and was late. Barbara told her about Wendell and advised her to call the police and the other hospitals in the city. I did not know Terrence, who was sixteen. Jason was Wendell’s best friend. They had been friends ever since elementary school. Terrence was the younger brother of one of their mutual friends.
Waiting is always hard. The fear of the unknown can be devastating.
The waiting room at the trauma center was beginning to fill with familiar faces. Jim consoled me, putting aside his pain for the moment. All I wanted was to be alone and talk to God about this. I wanted to beg Him for my son’s life. I went out into the hallway by myself. I began to call God’s name, and I was as plain and straightforward as I could be. “God, you know that my son is hurt. You also know that he is a good son. Please, God, save him. Heal his body and mind! Lord, he is worth saving! I don’t know if Jason and Terrence are alive, but I am asking for mercy for them and their families, too, Lord! Please hear my prayer.”
As I finished, I noticed that the highway patrol officer had arrived. He told us Jason and Terrence were dead. The boys had been on their way back from work when the car broke down on the north side of the Buckman Bridge. They had been sitting in the car, probably waiting for a patrol car to come along to help them—a sign on the bridge instructs everyone to stay in their car if it is disabled. A large sweeper truck had come over the top of the bridge traveling at high speed and rear-ended Wendell’s car. Jason had been in the backseat and was killed instantly. Terrence had been in the front seat on the passenger’s side. A passerby and the driver of the sweeper pulled Wendell out immediately but hadn’t been able to get the other boys out because the car exploded into flames. The car had already been on fire when they pulled Wendell out. I prayed that Terrence had been unconscious when the car exploded.
I wept so many times for the boys and their families. Later, I visited them and offered my sympathies. My prayers were a mixture of praise, thanksgiving, and pleas for mercy, comfort, and strength for the boys’ families. The pain on their faces was almost unbearable to see.
As I looked around in the waiting room, I saw that our friends were there by our side, and they stayed with us all night, praying for us, giving us words of comfort and hugs. I did not even remember when most of them came in. Our friend Inez let us keep her car because we still did not have any transportation. Kim went home with me to see about the girls, fix food, and do whatever she could do. That night my faith in God grew in leaps and bounds. It became clear that Wendell would live. I knew that there would be more frustrating and hard times to come during Wendell’s recovery period. I knew that we would spend long, tiring hours at the hospital. I knew that more tears would be shed and that there would be more fearful moments, but I felt a renewed conviction that God would see us through it.
In the days that followed, these same friends visited the hospital often, helped us with our daily tasks, and were always by our side. They were my confirmation of God’s tremendous love for us. Our families too came from near and far during the next few weeks. We received mounds of telephone calls, cards, and visits from our coworkers and church members. Several ministers came by the hospital to pray for Wendell. I met two other mothers in the intensive care unit who had injured sons. I met a wife with a dying husband. We got to know each other and prayed for each other daily. One mother lost her son while in intensive care. Yet, during her grief, she continued to pray for Wendell. The young man who had helped pull Wendell out of the car called to see how he was doing. We do not know how he got our number.
My girls went to Jason’s funeral. After the funeral, Mrs. Duval took time out from her unthinkable grief to send food to our house because she knew that we were at the hospital most of the time. Terrence’s mother was from Alabama, so she took him back home to bury him. She, too, called to find out how Wendell was doing and wish him well. I saw so much unselfishness and people giving of themselves.
Wendell’s recuperation period took about a year. I had to be the one to tell him that Jason and Terrence were killed in the accident, several months later. He cried all night and the next day. I cried with him, and so did his father and the girls. The girls were such a saving grace in our lives during that time. They were our lifeline. I clung to them for comfort, as they clung to me.
Wendell went back to the University of Florida in Gainesville after about a year. He graduated in December of 1998 with a bachelor of arts degree. Praise God! As I stood there watching him march down the aisle, I wept once again, but this time they were tears of joy.
I learned so many things during that time in my life. Some of them I knew already, but they were reinforced by the events that took place. I learned to pray not just for my children but for others’ children as well, for our prayers should not be selfish. I learned how important it is to take time out in the midst of our trials and tribulations and bless someone else who is going through hard times. I learned that intercessory prayer fortified with our own individual prayers changes things. God answered the prayers of my friends, family, and loved ones during Wendell’s healing period. His blessings were immeasurable. I learned to praise His name and give Him honor in all things. I learned that all of our trials and tribulations only make us strong and increase our faith when we put our trust in God.
One night after returning home from the hospital, I was so tired I fell across my bed and cried myself to sleep. I thought that I could not go on. My mother, Margaret Edwards, who had died a year earlier, came to me that night and sang in her lovely voice, “Be not dismayed, whate’er betide, God will take care of you. Beneath His wings of love abide, God will take care of you.” I could hear her voice as clearly as if she were standing right before me. I woke up the next morning refreshed, ready to start the new day and face whatever challenges it held.
Wendell will be twenty-eight years old in July of this year. He has recently moved to Chicago. He had his first seizure just before he graduated from college. The doctors had told us that there was a strong possibility that this would happen because of his brain injury. He still encounters a few problems from time to time and takes medication every day. But thank God he is alive and well. He has a stron
g will and a determination to achieve all the things that he sets his mind to. I know that God is not through with him yet.
THE GIFT OF LIFE
Susie M. Paige
A group of students stopped me as I crossed their campus and asked me to sign up with a national bone marrow registry. They explained that there is always a shortage of African American donors, the best match for a critically ill Black person. They hoped to change that by spreading the word about the program. I didn’t have to think too deeply to understand the need. Some help can come from anyone. Other help we can only give each other. But I knew even then I would be called. And five years later, I was.
From the time the phone rang and a pleasant voice on the other end of the line said I was a preliminary match for a fifty-three-year-old man with acute leukemia, my donation experience had a divine feel to it. The coordinator at the hospital recognized my name. Her mother had been my Girl Scout leader. I hadn’t seen the coordinator in at least twenty years. I walked into the lab for one of my many physical and psychological tests and realized the technician on duty was a member of my church. My veins are thin, but I was genetically compatible with my recipient.
Every day for a week at lunchtime I walked eight blocks from work to the hospital for additional tests and doses of drugs needed to get me ready to donate marrow. I was built up with medicine and iron supplements while all the marrow in my recipient’s body was being destroyed. If we went through this giving and receiving procedure, there was a good chance he’d live. I could change my mind at any point in the process, because everything was voluntary. But if I backed out after all the marrow was destroyed in my recipient’s bones, he’d die.