by Tavis Smiley
Jonnesse had surgery on Wednesday, the day after the accident. She had a plate placed in her neck and a halo attached to it. On the Thursday following the accident, two of the students were released. Only one of the other students required a halo for her neck. Jonnesse remained in the hospital in Paducah from February 9, 2001, until March 1, and in the hospital in St. Louis from March 1 until April 27, 2001. One year later, on March 21, 2002, she finished her last day of rehabilitation.
When she left the hospital in Paducah, two weeks after the accident, she was on a stretcher. She could not stand or walk and did not know she was being transferred. She was conscious but extremely incoherent. She had to relearn all of the God-given movements we take for granted.
Jonnesse’s other classmates in the accident returned to Fisk in the fall of 2001. Jonnesse lost her scholarships because of the accident, but she is now taking one course at a community college here in St. Louis. She is determined to make it.
We would not have made it without the help of God and the entire community of Paducah. Strangers, family, extended family, and adopted family, both Black and white, came to our rescue in our time of need. God, faith, and the love of those who crossed our path during the experience helped to pull us through!
MY MIRACLE
Marc Little
As I lay unconscious in the hospital, my family and friends gathered in the waiting room, anticipating my death. Shot by a Los Angeles gang member, I had lost all but a pint of the blood in my body. The physicians held out little hope for me. But as a new college grad with big dreams, I wasn’t about to toss in the towel.
The date was July 31, 1987. I had just earned my degree in broadcast journalism from USC, and was living in a campus apartment, prepping for the GMAT exams required to get into graduate school. Around 9 o’clock that night, my college sweetheart, Tegra, met up with me as I was walking home from the 32nd Street Market near the university. Living on a “peanut butter and jelly” budget, I had taken a break from studying to pick up a loaf of bread from the store.
As Tegra and I were walking back to my apartment we saw a young man on the sidewalk leaning over the windshield of his car. He appeared to be repairing something on the passenger side.
As we passed by, the youth asked if I could help him. As a West Haven, Connecticut native, I didn’t have it in me to ignore his request. “Sure, what’s up?” I said as I approached his vehicle.
The young thug arose from the car pointing a twelve-gauge shotgun at my forehead. “Fix this,” he said. I was stunned to silence as I stared down the barrel of the gun.
Everything seemed to play out in slow motion, like a scene in a movie. I raised my hands in the air as the loaf of bread tumbled to the ground, and I watched with detachment as the robber’s mouth moved, demanding money. “You better have at least a hundred dollars,” he said.
I had sixty-eight cents in my pocket. Tegra, I thought, took off running to knock on doors for help; in fact, she had only gotten a few feet before stopping.
The gunman again insisted I cough up a hundred bucks. But I had no hundred dollars to give him.
He slapped me across the head with the blunt end of the gun, and I fell to the ground. As I lay on the pavement, he cocked the shotgun and shot me in my right leg, close to my private parts, hitting, I would discover later, the main artery. I believe he was actually aiming for my head, but the force of a twelve-gauge shotgun can throw off a weak shooter’s aim. I don’t remember feeling any pain, but I sure hollered as I reached to feel my leg.
The gunman jumped into the passenger side of the car, next to the driver, and the two sped down the road. (I later learned the car had been stolen the night before.) Residents and others in the neighborhood responded to the commotion, and gathered around me as I shivered on the ground. My entire body was going cold. A blanket was spread over me; Tegra had knelt by my side.
When the ambulance arrived to transport me to the hospital, I recall the paramedics denying Tegra permission to accompany me. I didn’t have the strength to fight on her behalf, though I wanted her with me.
On the journey to the hospital, I felt a spirit beside me in the ambulance. An otherworldly voice inquired, “Do you want to live?” And I realized that I was being given the option to fight for my life or cower down and quit. It was up to me.
At that moment, I declared within my heart that I was going to make it, no matter what. My mother didn’t raise a failure, and she (as a single parent) didn’t fail at raising me. Nearing the hospital, I drifted off into a state of unconsciousness while humming familiar church hymns.
Upon arrival at the emergency room, I was on the brink of death. I had lost all but a unit of blood from the gunshot wound, and physicians gave me little chance for survival.
The rapid blood loss caused my kidneys to fail as well, and I began to retain water. Ultimately my body went into renal failure. I desperately needed a miracle.
Tegra stayed at the hospital praying fervently for me, her Bible clutched to her chest.
Hospital staff called my mother in the middle of the night and alerted her that I was near death. “If you want to see your son alive, you’ll have to come out right away,” they advised. She took the next flight from Connecticut and came straight to the hospital.
My father, Floyd Little, a former running back for the Denver Broncos, lived in Santa Barbara, California. A friend of his, who is the president of US Air, chartered a private plane and immediately flew him to Los Angeles. The two had been golfing together earlier that day.
The doctors warned that if I lived to see the next day, I would likely be brain-dead and blind. Essentially, there wasn’t much more they could do. They didn’t want to put me on life support because I was asthmatic, and blockages in my body would not respond properly to the sophisticated medical equipment.
The following morning, my 145-pound body had inflated to almost 212 pounds from retaining so much water. In addition, I suffered from hydrocephalus (swelling of the brain), which caused my ears to sink into my head. My eyes were swollen shut. It was only by God’s grace that I lived through the night at all.
The doctors made another attempt at putting me on life support that next morning. As if by divine intervention the blockages in my body had vanished, and the life support equipment worked. It was the first of many miracles.
Later that day I was scheduled to begin dialysis treatments to restore my kidneys’ function. But, miraculously, my kidneys began to work again on their own.
The shooting had gained considerable media attention, capturing newspaper headlines and making local television news. My attacker had been an eighteen-year-old boy engaged in what was suspected to be a Crips gang initiation. The driver of the stolen vehicle was caught the next day; the shooter turned himself in shortly thereafter. The night before shooting me, he had attempted to shoot someone else, but the gun had misfired.
I was hospitalized for the next four months. My muscles became atrophied and my weight dropped to eighty-eight pounds. I felt like a skeleton, all skin and bones. But I was determined to make it.
Eventually the wounded leg became gangrenous. My toes turned black and shriveled up like raisins. The doctors worked hard at trying to save my leg to no avail. A month later, I reluctantly consented to have my leg amputated.
My leg was amputated at the upper hip area—a hip disarticulation. I went through seven surgical procedures in all before being fitted for a prosthesis.
I had received prayers and support from all over. The walls in my hospital room were covered with cards from floor to ceiling. Local newscaster Jim Hill came and did a story on me, and people I didn’t even know stopped in to see the “miracle kid,” as I’d been dubbed.
My mother camped out many nights at the hospital to help me in my fight for survival. I love my mom so much—she’s always gone way out of her way for me. When I was growing up in West Haven, she put off completing her education to work extra jobs to make sure I had the best she could provide, in
cluding sending me to a private boys’ school, Notre Dame.
My final two months in the hospital were spent in rehabilitation. One might think the most painful part of my experience was the amputation of my leg. In fact, it was the skin graft surgery I had to endure. Once the leg was amputated, skin was shaved from my detached leg and used to close up the stump. When the anesthesia wore off, it burned like a french fry dipped in hot grease.
In rehab, I had to learn how to walk again. With the muscles in my remaining leg atrophied to the thickness of a large stick, I faced one of the most difficult challenges in my life. On one occasion during my rehab process, I fell down, and I had to relearn how to get up again, and how to walk with a cane.
I finally checked out of the hospital on November 16, continuing outpatient occupational therapy after moving into a friend’s apartment with my mom.
My father, who at the time owned a Lincoln-Mercury dealership in the L.A. area, was also a pillar of strength. I had first gotten to know my father, as well as my two sisters Krya and Christy, better when I came to L.A. to attend USC. Though he didn’t raise me, through my healing process, we became best friends.
The love, support, and encouragement of my family and the community—and Tegra—made the ordeal so much easier to bear. I learned how blessed I was to have Tegra as my girlfriend. She remained with me every step of the way, and played an important role in my healing. I don’t know how many relationships could weather the kind of emotional and physical roller coaster we went through. I’m honored to say that she is still with me now, as my wife.
Once I was physically capable, I launched an organization called “Fight the Good Fight.” This was my attempt to motivate and encourage urban youth. I traveled the country addressing school-aged audiences about my experience, to inspire them to make positive choices and avoid gang life. I spent two years on the road in all, which contributed to the process of my own healing, while giving me a chance to do something important for urban youth.
At a certain point, I felt like the time was right to get on with my education. Out of the blue, I received a phone call from Jeff Keith, an amputee who had run across the country on a prosthesis. He told me about a scholarship opportunity for physically challenged athletes known as “Swim with Mike.”
Through Jeff, USC offered me the opportunity to attend graduate school on the same scholarship. Seeking acceptance to their law school, I took the LSAT and GMAT exams but my scores weren’t high enough. I’m a solid B student, and that wasn’t enough. But I felt I had what it takes to get the job done. Still, USC kept telling me over and over again, “Your scores aren’t high enough to be admitted to our law school.”
After four attempts, USC recommended I apply to another law school, do well there, and try to transfer back at a later time. That was heartbreaking in a way, because I could use the Swim with Mike scholarship only at USC.
Nevertheless, I followed their advice and attended Whittier Law School for two semesters. My grades were exceptional, and in August of 1992 I transferred to the USC School of Law. Finally, I was able to access the scholarship I’d been awarded.
I earned my Juris Doctorate degree in 1994 and took the bar exam in July of that year. Tegra and I got married in September, and I learned in November that I passed the bar on the first try. One month later I began my own practice, specializing in entertainment law and civil litigation.
Today I have a thriving law firm in Los Angeles with a roster of clients that include professional athletes, record companies, and producers in the entertainment industry. In addition, I have a promising venture in South Africa that, I hope, will create jobs and other opportunities to empower the people of South Africa.
Not only has God granted me success with my entrepreneurial endeavors, but He’s given me a great season of ministry at my church, Faithful Central Bible Church, where I serve as chairman of the Board of Elders.
It would have been just as easy for me to give up during that ambulance ride to the emergency room. But God had a plan that the enemy could not derail. Even with only a pint of blood in my body, and doctors and friends assuming I would soon die, the voice of His spirit proclaimed life.
I am convinced the attempt on my life happened for a reason. It was the Lord’s design that I serve as an example of His miraculous power and prove that His word is alive today. My life is evidence of that. More important, no one is exempt from that same awesome power.
HOPE AND OVERCOMING
HOPE
Tavis Smiley
During my senior year at Indiana University, I came to Los Angeles to do an internship with Tom Bradley. It actually took me nine months, from January until September 1985, of writing, calling, and faxing his office, as well as using my student aid money to fly twice to Los Angeles to try (unsuccessfully) to meet with him, before he finally granted me an internship.
The unpaid internship lasted for one semester, from September through December of 1985. Through the course of my internship, I got to know the mayor fairly well, and when my internship was over, he told me he would hire me as a member of his staff once my studies were completed if I was interested. I returned to Bloomington, Indiana, to complete my degree, and one year later I packed up everything I owned into my Datsun 280Z and drove out west to Los Angeles to work for Mayor Bradley. When I arrived in Los Angeles, I discovered that the city’s economy had taken a downturn, making it necessary to impose a mandatory hiring freeze on all employment opportunities. As a result, he didn’t have a job to give me. The best advice he could give me at that point was to stick around until the hiring freeze lifted and he would bring me on staff right away.
The hiring freeze ended up lasting over a year. I found myself stuck in Los Angeles, without money, without family, and without a job. I was ashamed to admit to my college buddies back home that my situation had taken a turn for the worse. Especially since I had bragged to them about my success in landing a job right out of college.
I had received an eviction notice to move out of my apartment. I looked for work wherever I could. The truth of the matter was that I couldn’t find any job, not even a menial one. I was denied employment at McDonald’s because I was “overqualified.” No one would hire me even for a manual-labor, minimum-wage job.
When I thought I could not go any further, I reluctantly called my mother. I broke down in tears, crying and sobbing like a baby. I explained to her that I was coming home because I could not make it in Los Angeles. I could hear Gladys Knight and the Pips warming up: “LA proved too much for the man. He couldn’t take it. So he’s leaving the life he’s come to know.” I had given it everything I had, but things weren’t working out and I was at my wits’ end.
My mother said to me, “Honey, you can always come home. You’ll always have a bedroom here at the house, and all I want is for you to be happy. Come home, stay as long as you like, regroup, and do whatever you need to do. We are your family—we’re here for you, and we’ll always be here for you.” I thanked my mother for her words of comfort, although I was very disappointed in myself. I did not want to go back to Indiana with my tail between my legs.
When I finished talking to my mother, I made it into the shower. In the midst of my tears, I reconciled myself to the fact that it was time for me to go home. “Things cannot get any worse for me,” I thought. At that very moment, a massive earthquake hit the city of Los Angeles. I started slipping and sliding in the shower with soap and water flying everywhere. All of a sudden, the voice of the Lord spoke to me and said, “Things can always get worse; they can get much worse.”
Hearing the voice of God made me realize that as long as I was alive and had breath in my body, there would always be hope. There are times when hope is the only thing we have to cling to. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have any food, and I didn’t have any money, but I always had hope.
I managed to make it out of the shower in one piece, and right away my phone rang. It was my friend Harold Patrick, calling to see if I was all
right. When I answered the phone, I was still upset and trying to process all that had taken place. Harold became concerned about me and rushed over to my apartment. We ended up having a long conversation about my circumstances and my feelings about leaving Los Angeles and returning to Indiana.
Harold listened to what I had to say. Then he replied, “I will support you in whatever decision you make. But I want you to know that I am not going to give up on you until forty-eight hours after you have given up on yourself. I want to give you enough time to change your mind. I have great expectations for your future. I believe in you; you are the hope of my dreams. I’m going to be here for you.” I was extremely moved by his words.
As I thought about God’s message in the shower and Harold’s unshakable belief in me, I saw in that moment my own sense of hopelessness through the lens of the blood, sweat, and tears of my ancestors and the sacrifices they had endured to pave the way for those coming behind them. We became the hope of their dreams, and the purpose for which many of them gave their lives. I thought, “I have a whole lot of nerve giving up on anything.” Here I was talking about giving up hope and going back home to Indiana because I didn’t have a job, because I was being evicted from my apartment. How could I compare my situation with the experiences of my ancestors who had survived the journey to America on slave ships, survived the institution of slavery, and lived through segregation?
Those two back-to-back moments that morning in 1987 set me straight about what it meant to be hopeful. Since that day, I have never taken hope for granted. There is always hope, and hope springs eternal. Whether we have money or not, whether we have good health or not, and whether our mates walk out on us or not, we need to latch on to hope and never let it go.