A Tragic, Familiar Scene

I wrote this one three years ago. The post-script is Josh is now incarcerated. A follow-up essay will come soon.

                                                       A Tragic, Familiar Scene

                                                       By Breea C. Willingham


I’ve always secretly dreaded the day when I got a call from my mother telling me my little brother was dead or in jail.

I thought I had received that call on January 9, 2007.

My mother was crying hysterically. I froze when I heard her voice.

My heart raced. I could hear it pounding. I braced myself for what was about to come next.

I could barely understand what my mother was saying, but I was able to make out the words “stabbed all up” and “in the hospital.”

I feared my brother wouldn’t make it to his 22nd birthday.

As I tried to figure out what to do – jump in the car and make the five-hour drive to Philly; wait to hear back from my mother; go shopping for a black dress – I couldn’t help but remember an eerily similar scene about 20 years ago when my older brother Rodney was shot.

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Rodney was serving a four-year sentence in Camp Hill but was home on a weekend furlough. He had gone to visit a female friend a couple of blocks from our house. Some words were exchanged between my brother and his friend’s jealous boyfriends, and Rodney wound up shot in the chest.

By the grace of God, the 110-camera in the left breast pocket of Rodney’s burgundy Members Only jacket slowed down the bullet, which traveled down to his side; it’s still there today.

Rodney was able to flee on foot, with his shooter close behind him, and make it to our front door. I believe God was truly with my brother that night because my mother usually at least keeps the screen door locked, but that night it wasn’t.

He casually walked into the house where my mother was talking with her friends at the dining room table and simply said, “OK. Take me to hospital. I’ve been shot.”

I was in my room upstairs when I heard the chaos erupt.

I thought I was going to lose my brother. My mother thought she was going to lose her son.

We didn’t lose him that night, at least not to a gunshot to the chest.

Rodney underwent emergency surgery, but the doctors said it would be too dangerous to remove the bullet, so they left it in. He recuperated in the hospital for about a week, guarded by a cop the whole time. Once he was given a clean bill of health, he was hauled back to prison to finish serving his time.

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Just like Rodney, Josh ended up recuperating from emergency surgery handcuffed to a hospital bed. There were some conflicting stories over what happened between my brother and his alleged attacker, so the police arrested them both. My heart ached for my mother as she watched another son fall victim to street violence.

Josh has since recovered from his stab wounds and is in barbering school, but he still hasn’t found his way. He simply can’t seem to catch a break. He has an 11-month old son, Josh Jr., and as my mother told him in the hospital, he has something to live for.

I still worry that the streets – or prisons – are going to take another brother from me.

I often pray that Josh will find his way soon because I want my nephew to one day be able to look up to a successful father, not one behind bars.

By the time Rodney answered his wake-up call he found himself serving a life sentence for a murder he didn’t commit.

There’s still time for Josh, I hope.