Dear Marcus: A Letter to the Man Who Shot Me

by Jerry McGill

  After leaving the hospital I came up with a few ideas for controlling my anger. The one that worked best for me: trying to focus on the thing that made me upset and then literally visualizing my anger as a bright light in my mind. I would see myself squeezing that amorphous bright light as if it were in a vise and then transforming it into a laser beam of positive energy that traveled through my body and went straight to my heart. I have no idea how I came up with that technique. I probably saw it on a television show somewhere. But it worked for me. To this day I still use that same method.

  In the beginning, there seemed to be so many things to be angry about that I didn’t know where to focus. Life seemed pretty unfair to me back then, and even today I still struggle with the imbalances of everyday existence. One of the greatest things about living in New York is the range of people you come across on a daily basis. There is no other place quite like it. The variety of classes is incredible. In Manhattan, you can be in a slum one minute then turn a corner and you are suddenly in an upper-class condominium enclave. On the subway, the Wall Street broker sits next to the Forty-third Street hooker.

  The disparities we witness can be mind-blowing. I was fortunate in that as a child I had friends in a variety of areas of the city and they were of all races and backgrounds. I had a unique view that I don’t think a lot of kids where I grew up had. I saw so much. It didn’t escape me that the light brown and dark brown folks where I lived all seemed to dwell in a harsh, overcrowded, dirty community where danger and hostility hovered constantly and the police seemed to harass more than help, but that when I visited my friends in the Village or on the upper digits near Central Park, things literally got sunnier and rosier. The tensions that I faced in the ghetto seemed practically to disappear when I hung out with one of my best friends, an Italian kid, who lived in trendy Gramercy Park.

  It is easy to find oneself pondering what exactly the differences between all of these people are. Did some of them really work that much harder than others in order to be successful, or were they just lucky, born into good fortune? And why is it that so many hardworking, law-abiding, good-hearted people get trampled on in this world and so many immoral, unconscionable scofflaws skate by living an apparent life of luxury? It is these types of questions—surrounding the basic unfairness of it all—that cause me the most conflict in terms of believing in any “higher power.”

  Before you shot me, Marcus, I never thought much about religion. I feel fortunate today that my mother was not a churchgoer when we were children and made no effort to force any theological beliefs on us. That gave me the freedom to look at a variety of religious theories and eventually come to my own conclusions without my own family’s faith interfering. I guess the closest term that defines my belief is agnostic. I don’t have any true respect for the popular organized religions that dominate our culture; to me they all seem riddled with hypocrisy. But I wonder about the existence of a higher power. I’m hopeful that one exists, yet I have serious doubts. It’s nothing that I lose sleep over; it just seems to come up every now and then. Especially that question of unfairness. I feel like I have seen too much darkness to believe in any higher power. And I’m not just talking about my own life: All one has to do is read the newspaper on a regular basis to get an idea of what a cruel and ugly place this world can be. But I’ll be honest with you, Marcus: Though I’ve come to appreciate and honor the man I am today, I do believe that a lot of my doubt is attributable to you and what happened between us. There is just so much I still don’t know and there is always that eternal issue of what could have been. I know that I gained so much, but at the same time I feel I lost so much as well. It’s difficult to reconcile what happened to me with the existence of a higher power.

  For example, I think I would have made a great father. I love kids, and I feel that as someone who never knew his own father, I would have overcompensated with my own kids. I know that I would have been an extremely strong presence in their lives. Not overwhelming, mind you, but a powerful force and an unwavering source of strength. Of course, none of this is certain. For all I know I could have been a serial impregnator, one of those guys who have six baby mammas and don’t have money to support any of them. Who knows what could have been? There’s really no way to know for sure, but I can tell you this—the McGill name is going to end with me. Uncle Michael was gay and had no kids. Uncle Butch had three daughters. I am the last male McGill that I know of who is alive from my family and I don’t foresee any kids in my future. Not that I haven’t had my chances.

  Relationships have always been a struggle for me. Although I have always been attracted to women and always will be, it doesn’t change the fact that with my level of spinal cord injury, the ability to “perform” is always questionable. Right before you shot me, I was beginning to notice things. Little hairs were growing in places. When making out with a girl, or, hell, even when looking at a pretty woman, I noticed a stiffness occurring. I remember my mother once trying, very uncomfortably, to have “that talk” with me about the birds and the bees. It was shortly after she had noticed how enamored I was with Lisa. She was so humorous and cute in her inability to articulate just what she was trying to say. It must be hard for a single mom to have this conversation with her male child. That’s really a father’s job, isn’t it?

  “Now, Jerome,” she’d said, the both of us taking a seat at the kitchen table, cementing the seriousness of the conversation. “I just want you to know that what you’re feeling is natural … Do you sometimes feel … like … a hardness … down there?”

  I don’t remember just how that talk ended, but I do know that most of what I learned, I learned on the street. That’s the way it usually is in the ghetto. You know what I mean, don’t you, Marcus? I’m sure you had a similar schooling.

  In the hospital I never really thought about sex that much, despite the fact that there were so many lovely women around—nurses, doctors, therapists, psychologists, cleaning women. I was only thirteen when I got there, fourteen when I left. I still had to go through that awkward phase of hating girls, didn’t I? (That phase never came, by the way.)

  It wasn’t until about junior high school that I really began to wonder about girls and how I was going to manage the sticky yet curious swamp that was sexual intimacy with a disability. I had to attend a new school, one that was specifically set up for kids with disabilities. This school was on the Upper West Side. The first floor was all students with numerous disabilities and challenges. The second and third floors were for the “normal” kids. My fellow disabled students marveled at my ability to mingle in both crowds—our crew and the “upstairs kids,” as we referred to those “normal” kids. While at this school I became involved with two girls. One had a disability and one didn’t. I knew guys in my neighborhood who were already sexually active at my age but I had no idea how to broach that subject with them. I had no one to talk about sex with. I would have to play it by ear.

  Penny was the girlfriend with the disability. She was a very pretty young woman from the West Indies. She had spina bifida, a birth defect that manifests itself in numerous ways. In her case, she actually had more mobility than I did. She wore leg braces and could walk around pretty easily with them. Alicia was my other girlfriend, an “upstairs” girl. She was pretty in that nerdy librarian kind of way. She and I were both involved in student government and we would spend one afternoon a week holding hands and kissing while we made memos and posters for school events.

  And yes, Marcus, before you ask, I did see both of them at the same time. It was a little tricky at first, but I managed it.

  These relationships were simple in the sense that I only saw these young women at school and thus never had the opportunity to feel any kind of pressure to “act.” At that age and in that space, making out and petting were quite sufficient. Neither of us wanted or expected things to go any further.

  It was in high school that things got a little more complicated. One of my high school girlfriends, Daw
n, wanted to go to a movie with me one Saturday afternoon. We made plans for her to pick me up from my apartment (I wasn’t so comfortable getting around the city on my own just yet) and from there we would walk over to the movie theater together.

  Normally my mother or my sister would be hanging around the apartment doing something, but on this particular Saturday both were out for the afternoon. When Dawn arrived we found ourselves in the excitable position of having the whole place to ourselves. We sat on the couch to watch a little television and before long heavy making out ensued. I’m pretty sure that if it were you, Marcus, or a lot of other guy friends that I knew, the next scene would take place in the bedroom with the lusty couple “knocking boots,” “making the beast with two backs,” and all those other great euphemisms. But that wasn’t going to happen with me. You see, I was terrified. Terrified of failure in this oh so crucial sphere of Maledom. Terrified that I would be so mediocre or even worse, such a disappointment, that no woman would ever want to see me afterward. That in fact, she would tell all of her friends just how horrible I was and I would become a laughingstock: Limpdick Jerry.

  We grew up in a macho culture, you and I did, Marcus. Our mentors were men like Muhammad Ali, Shaft, Wilt Chamberlain, and Marvin Gaye. You could never picture one of those guys having to stop in the middle of getting it on because they couldn’t get it up, now could you? I was pretty aware of my ability range. I had made mental notes on numerous occasions of what it took to arouse me. Late at night while watching cable television I had masturbated to a few of the light porn shows that came on after midnight and I knew the effort it entailed to get me excited. Bottom line, I couldn’t get aroused by images and feelings like your average Joe. With my level of spinal cord injury, that ability was gone. To get an erection I would need physical stimulation, and to get that physical stimulation my partner would have to do some extra work. This would require a decent level of communication between us and, sadly, I just didn’t know how to make that conversation happen. It was that conversation that truly terrified me so. In my mind, no Real Man would ever have to have that conversation with his woman. A Real Man would just put on some Stevie Wonder, take her by the hand, lead her into the bedroom, and get to business. She would come out an hour later thoroughly pleased and hungry for more. This was how my sixteen-year-old brain imagined the world of intimacy worked. And from where I sat I was never going to be a true player in this world because my manhood was questionable at best.

  And so, that Saturday afternoon, with Dawn and me on the couch, getting hot and heavy, her blouse off, my hand up her skirt, her warm mouth sucking on my earlobe, the body heat melting our skin like butter on warm leather, the minute she moved to undo my pants I panicked and stopped, coming up with the first lie I could muster: “My mom should be home any minute. We should stop here.” I would never allow myself to even attempt to take it further because I was so afraid of what could happen if I discovered I was unable to be a man.

  Can you imagine the shame I felt, Marcus? Dawn was ready, willing, and able right there that afternoon, and I just didn’t have what it took to follow through on my end of the deal. As she buttoned her blouse, fixed her skirt, and retouched her makeup, I just looked away, knowing that on some level she must have already thought so much less of me.

  But if you’re lucky, Marcus—and I think luck is something we are all capable of attaining—you grow from these experiences and at some point you are able to overcome your anxieties and live a more healthy and productive life. Oftentimes it takes help from an outside source. I got this help from so many people in my sphere. The courage and strength people recognize in me would not be so evident had it not been for my friends and their loving support. In this particular area, that of sexuality and intimacy, the earliest and most inspiring help came from a foreigner from New Jersey, nearly ten years my senior. Her name was Irene.

  As a child before the accident, I had always attended sleepaway camp every summer. It was a great thing to be able to get out of the city for a while, and it also provided a great relief to my mother. I was concerned that after my accident I would no longer be able to enjoy such opportunities, but my social worker, Matt, found a camp in New Jersey that was specifically designed for children with disabilities. I was ecstatic when he told me he had signed me up for a two-week session.

  I made tons of friends at that camp, some I’m still close to today, but the most meaningful friendship was with Irene, a counselor. Irene was the kind of full-figured woman I was always drawn to and with her crimson pigtails, freckles, and plain face, she kind of resembled Pippi Longstocking; but with sex appeal … and an Australian accent. That summer the camp had hired many counselors from abroad as part of an international exchange work-study program and Irene was intriguing and fascinating to all of us city kids because the closest we had ever come to an Australian was Olivia Newton John’s character, Sandy, in Grease.

  Irene and I had similar senses of humor and we spent a good deal of down time joking around and enjoying each other’s company. At first it was all very innocent and friendly, mild flirting between a precocious fifteen-year-old and a somewhat sophomoric twenty-five-year-old, but that next summer, my final summer there, when I was sixteen, the relationship took a turn for the glorious. Irene was granted a work visa and she stayed in the States for another two years, landing a job as a caregiver at a school for disabled children in New Jersey.

  During the school year Irene and I would write to each other about once a month. We would share many things about our lives, including romantic endeavors. Periodically I would ask her advice on a situation and she was always supportive and complimentary. She made it clear to me that I was attractive—a catch, as they say—and that I need never be bashful or fearful of approaching a young woman. I had struggled with my confidence early on, you see. I bet you never struggled with confidence, did you, Marcus? Or if you did, you could easily shrug it off like so many brothers in the hood seemed to do.

  When I returned to camp that summer, I had begun to enjoy writing again and I was trying my hand at poetry. After lunch at the camp we had rest hour and I took that time to write Irene a poem nearly every day. Marcus, let me give you a bit of advice—a poem can be a lovely calling card. There are not many women out there who can resist being even mildly attracted to the man who takes the time to put his emotions and his feelings for her down on paper. And it’s all the better if he has some talent working a metaphor, a simile, and splashing a dash of imagery here and there. Poetry, when original and sincere, can be a wonderful assistant in massaging a woman’s heart.

  Irene had never had a guy write her poetry before, and after a few days of consistently receiving my heartfelt missives she started to look forward to her daily poem. When one day I didn’t write her one, she came looking for it. Her face actually registered disappointment when I told her I had been too busy to write her. It was at that moment that I knew I was on to something. I could see our chemistry changing, intensifying. I was simultaneously scared and excited. Irene and I were actually falling in love right before my eyes.

  Have you ever been in love, Marcus? I mean really been in love? The kind where when that person touches you, your heart beats so fast that you think it just might leap out of your chest and take off into the night sky like a liberated butterfly? My God, it’s a wondrous, exhilarating thing. I hope for your sake that you have felt it, bro. No one should ever go without having felt it just once. I began to have these moments of felicity with Irene. We had to be extremely discreet because what was happening between us was very much against the camp policies and could have gotten her fired, but we took our chances nonetheless.

  While attending a late-night bonfire and in the safety of darkness, Irene would gently stroke my neck or I would softly rub her knee or thigh. Any chance for us to connect was seized upon. We found a secluded spot out in the woods where I took to reading my poem to her aloud as she held me close, holding my hand. I had never truly been with a woman before
, and she knew it. We had talked about it a couple of times and the idea of being my first lover excited her. We made a plan for once camp ended. She would come to the city and pick me up and we would spend time together the way we wanted to, without fear, uninhibited.

  When that day arrived I was a ball of nervous energy, but Irene was wonderful. She came to the apartment, charmed my mother, and swept me out of there. We caught an afternoon showing of Purple Rain and then had an early dinner in Times Square. We were able to kiss, cuddle, and hold each other tight in the big city and I was on top of the world for it. All at once I felt like we were just the same as all of those other lovers one sees in Central Park, walking down Fifth Avenue, making out on some corner in Greenwich Village. Yes, I was black and she was white. Yes, I was in a wheelchair and she was fully able-bodied. Yes, there was a good ten years separating us. But that’s part of the beauty of New York—nobody really gives a damn. Diversity is New York’s middle name. We looked happy and we weren’t hurting anyone. We were bathed in that same bright light of contentedness and it made me feel like a whole person, a feeling I rarely ever had.

  I could have gone home that night and lived off the euphoric high of those feelings for days to come, but Irene had even greater plans. As we drove toward the Lincoln Tunnel I suddenly realized where we were going and I was scared she could hear my heart beating through my chest, it was so deafening to me. That moment every young person fantasizes about, worries over, had seen in countless teen movies and read about in a number of young adult novels—that moment had arrived for me.

  Oh, Marcus, growing up as we did I had all these ideas about sex and about lovemaking; preconceived notions about a man’s role and what makes for a satisfying sexual experience. I had this idea that it was a man’s job to get it all right. That it was so important for me to be able to get in there and drive my manliness home. That without me and my savage thrusts and grunts the job was never going to get done properly; the mission never completed. At first these notions worked against me and made my anxiety such that I was not going to be able to function, period, much less be a dynamic sex machine.