Spoiler alert: the hero of this story does not die.

Ever.

This hero is long-suffering but unkillable. Bloody and unbowed. In this story- and in all the subsequent sequels, now and forever- this hero almost never wins. But we still get to be the heroes of all true American stories simply because we are indestructible. Try as they might, we will never be extinguished.

Ever.

Harriot continues his essay describing the fight for life, and political freedom during this tumultuous time in America. He tell us of the many murders that took place, and about the three major attempts to put an end to the Klansmen.

Somewhere inside of my psyche, Harriot’s historical account and my experience on Sunday made a connection.

Before I tell you about Sunday, I must tell you about Bis (changed his name for confidentality). We met as children. He is the 15th child of his family and I consider him a little brother.

Outside of being handsome, he’s an extremely kind person and very brotherly. He’ll open the door for sisters, carry heavy boxes, and greet everyone with a charming smile. What I enjoy most about his character, is that he is one of those brothers who can sing and isn’t afraid to do so. And chile, he can saaang. It is not a surprising fact because; mostly everyone in his family can sing. (Not even kidding- one of my close friends who came to church was mesmerized by his mother’s voice).

On Sunday, however, when Bis begin singing; his voice was that of an old man who smoked for many years. I turned around to see who was singing and was shocked that it was him. He must be in pain, I thought. I looked into his eyes. His young, carefree spirit seemed to be holding on to something greater than himself.

I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about it all.

He started singing Your Grace and Mercy by Frank Williams. I heard Bis’ mother singing along. She was lining out each word with a motherly wail; which made me cry even more. His beautiful sisters surrounded him, singing and crying too.

The song ended and he shared his testimony with the congregation. He arrived at his doorstep and while entering his building, was shot in the neck. God kept him alert and aware of everything in the moment.

He knew he was shot.

He knew he should seek help.

He ran for his life in the direction of the hospital. On the way, he spotted an ambulance truck. He banged frantically on the door and on the side of the truck. The two sleeping EMS workers took one look at him, and didn’t inquire or offer to help.

He tried talking with his hands. Making symbols.

Heart!?!!

Shot!!!!

Gun!!!!

But, nothing would do. They wouldn’t open their doors.

He gave up on them and ran the rest of the way to the hospital- Ten NYC blocks.

They rushed him into the emergency room. They told him the bullet traveled to to his shoulder, and eventually to his back. But- he had very little bleeding. Already his body was growing around the bullet and fighting off the new intruder.

“You’re a lucky man”, the doctor said to him.

“The bullet”, he was told, was “a stray cop bullet.”

A cop bullet? I looked around at others. Most people had their heads bowed. There wasn’t much noise. No amens or hallelujahs. Nothing. The Holy Ghost Fiery church was listening… with sorrow.

I thought, how many innocent people a year are killed by cops? Is he really a lucky man? Will the cops be moved into a new community to practice getting their target? Did the target look like him? Will they find the gun, trace the fingerprints, and hold the person who pulled the trigger responsible? Or is he lucky to have the innocent bystander story of I was just walking into my building when I got shot?

Also, is any money being made on account of his luckiness in getting shot? Is he getting a huge sum that will pay for any damage? I know the doctor is getting paid, the the ambulance drivers are getting paid and the cops are also getting paid; but what about his mother and her now new job of having to care for this young man and his days of missing work?

Is this all luck? Is luck to be Black and not die from a stray bullet? Blacks die from stray bullets and have been dying from their stray bullets since the beginning of the war they started in 1869.

After struggling for his life, Bis was released home. He is still recovering and rejoicing for another chance at this thing called life.

Everyone was impacted by his testimony and the mood of the sanctuary was now changed. The ex-cop who sat behind me held her head down. Not just down, but her entire torso was bent over and grunts could be heard as Bis spoke.

Young sisters thought of the safety of their brothers and brothers thought of the safety of their sisters because who’s exempt from a stray? No one was ever exempted from the noose. No one is exempt from a stray.

Mothers. Mothers. Black Women. Their pain was uncovered as Bis spoke and spoke.

What a powerful testimony, one mother said as she resumed her seat by her husband. She stood frozen by the entrance. Listening.

Bis spoke of his worry of being able to use his limb, his nervous system, his respiratory system…systems. Will his body ever be back to normal?

I thought of another brother who was also shot. I was sympathetic to his personal tragedy. He said he had two bullets in him which sounds frightening. The word lucky never came to my head. However, feelings of anger came to me.

While Bis was sharing his worries with the church, I remembered the agility of the other brother and was comforted to know that perhaps Bis will be okay in the long run.

The service continued and the Minister called on Sister Williams. She started singing the 1871 hymn by businessman Horatio Spafford. Spafford needed comfort in his situation of mourning the death of not only his son who had passed due to the Great Chicago Fire but also the death of his four daughters who had died the following day while trying to escape the fire engulfing their community. Once again, young people trying to escape fire. It was as if God himself was using the same Spirit to calm the fears of the congregation.

When peace like a river attendeth my way/ When sorrows like sea-billows roll

Whatever my lot,/ Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

Her soprano reached up and called, and the church responded

It is well, It is well, with my soul.

In no account do I see luck or chance but a lot of fiery trails. A lot of running and a lot of people determine to live in-spite and despite of.

The essay by Harriot ends by telling us that even through it all, the most magnificent part is Black people in America still exist. Every imaginable monstrosity that evil can conjure has been inflicted on this population, yet they have not be extinguished. The hero remains.

Still.

And that is the most wondrous part of all.

Sunday I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about Sunday Morning service while reading Reconstruction by Michael Harriot.