I was shot when I was nine years old. My message to survivors: there’s hope
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The recovery period was grueling and painful but it gave me the unexpected gifts of resilience and empathy. The day after I turned nine, 27 August 1961, I conquered the bicycle. After weeks of wobbly, failed attempts while on vacation at my older cousin Lillian’s house in Michigan, I had finally done it! I got on that bike and away I went. I turned a corner without falling and rode back to the porch, where my friends whooped and hollered in celebration.
The cheers faded suddenly. Everyone stared at me. Lillian, zombie-eyed with her mouth open, held a shotgun pointed downwards. Somehow, I hadn’t heard it. My skinny body contorted. My blue floral shorts set with tiny ties at the shoulders was now crimson.
“Lillian, you shot me!” I yelled. “Call the police!”. The blast of Lillian’s shotgun, intended for her husband, shredded my right kidney, appendix and large intestines. A suction pressed on my back as the blood gushed to the floor; the smell of iron overwhelmed. That shot caused permanent tendon and nerve damage, intestinal devastation and temporary paralysis.
Each shooting tragedy in the US takes me back to that porch. In recent years, I am back in that place far too often. In 2024, 250 children were killed – and 40,850 deaths due to gun violence were counted, according to the Gun Violence Archive. In the ambulance that August day, I asked the paramedic: “Am I going to die?”.