By Oronde McClain
Edited by Cherri Gregg
The title of this documentary, “They Don’t Care About Us,” encapsulates a profound sentiment of neglect and anger. My journey to create this film began when I was selected as a community reporter for the Credible Messenger Reporting Project at the Philadelphia Center for Gun Violence Reporting. Receiving that email filled me with a sense of purpose – finally, I would have a platform to voice the rage that had simmered within me since I became a gunshot survivor 22 years prior.
From the moment I was shot, my anger was directed outward. I blamed everyone and everything external to myself: the city of Philadelphia, the state government, the systemic failures, the politicians, and, of course, the person who pulled the trigger. This fury felt justified. In my city, the number of murders last year exceeded 560 – a horrifying figure. But what often goes unmentioned are the nearly 2,000 shootings where victims survived. It is the silence surrounding the survivors, the lack of acknowledgment of our pain and trauma, that fuels my anger. This documentary was born from a need to illuminate the often-ignored journey of gun violence survivors.
Listen to Cherri Gregg of WHYY interview Oronde McClain about his experience.
The Day My Life Changed
The seeds of my anger were sown on Monday, April 3rd, 2000. I was just 10 years old. I remember standing outside a Chinese store in Mount Airy, at the corner of Chew and Sharpnack, waiting for my stepmother. Her bus was due at 8:34 pm, but SEPTA was running late. I stepped outside to check for the bus, seeing nothing. As I turned back towards the store, gunshots shattered the evening. I ran towards the store, but the owner abruptly slammed the door shut, leaving me trapped and vulnerable outside. In that instant, my life irrevocably changed.
Trauma, Recovery, and the Path to Empowerment
Bullets ripped through the back of my head, and I collapsed onto the Northwest Philadelphia sidewalk, bleeding profusely and paralyzed. Incredibly, two Philadelphia police officers found me and rushed me to the hospital, a journey that felt like 90 seconds. As doctors fought to save my life, I was told I flatlined for two minutes and seventeen seconds. The ten-year-old boy who existed on April 2nd ceased to be on April 3rd; a new, altered version of me was thrust into existence.
I regained consciousness seven weeks later, emerging from a coma into a starkly different reality. I couldn’t walk, talk, or perform the simplest tasks independently. This new version of myself spent the next three years confined to a wheelchair, a period of immense frustration and dependence, until I finally took my first unaided steps. That day marked a significant victory in a long and arduous battle.
Surviving the shooting was profoundly traumatic. It inflicted deep wounds on my body and mind, plunging me into a dark abyss. The physical rehabilitation was the most challenging ordeal of my young life. Yet, the emotional and psychological scars were even more devastating. People stared, whispered, and even mocked me during my recovery. The constant embarrassment was crushing, leading to deep depression and suicidal thoughts.
It pains me to admit, but I attempted to end my life over 20 times. I will spare the graphic details, but throughout those dark days and years, I received no support from the state or city. Because I hadn’t died, I felt like I was reduced to a mere statistic, a file gathering dust on some bureaucrat’s desk.
Detectives, in an attempt to be positive, told my mother and family they should be “happy” they weren’t mourning my death. Politicians echoed this sentiment, saying, “Thank God you’re alive.”
But in my mind, I was dead. In fact, death seemed preferable to the unbearable pain I was enduring. Just days before, on April 2nd, 2000, I was a carefree ten-year-old, capable and independent. The next day, everything was stolen from me. This new version of me was utterly dependent on others, the right side of my body paralyzed. Sleep offered no respite, filled with dreams of revenge against those who mocked and pitied me. I even questioned the shooter in my mind: why hadn’t they finished the job?
Amidst this despair, a flicker of determination ignited. I resolved to gain the power to change policies and procedures for victims and survivors like myself. Why were we treated so differently from homicide victims? Why were we seemingly devalued? I decided to channel my self-pity into motivation. I dedicated myself to therapy, determined to transform from a victim into an agent of change, advocating for laws and policies that would better support “us” – survivors. I wanted to ensure that no future gunshot victim would leave the hospital feeling isolated, suicidal, and devoid of hope. This documentary project is a part of that very mission.
Voices of Survival: Semaj, Free, and Leon
Creating this documentary provided the opportunity to collaborate with incredible individuals. I carefully selected survivors based on personal connections and shared experiences.
Semaj, a bright and innocent kid who had never been in trouble, was shot in the head at the same age I was – ten years old. Meeting him brought me to tears, as he mirrored my younger self. He is humble, deeply devoted to his mother and twin sister, and adores his pets. But like me, Semaj carries the enduring scars of gun violence.
Oronde McClain interviews Uhura “Free” Russ: Photograph by Cherri Gregg
I met Uhura Russ, known as “Free,” over a decade ago. She was a nurse with a promising career and a naturally giving and compassionate spirit. While working with her at a daycare for children with special needs, I learned her heartbreaking story. Free, too, is a survivor of horrific gun violence, and her scars, both visible and invisible, remain.
Leon Harris, a hardworking man raised by a single mother, was deeply involved in his church, worked two jobs, and pursued his education to support his family. When I met Leon, his openness and genuine concern for my story overshadowed his own remarkable journey. Despite being confined to a wheelchair—a constant reminder of the single bullet that altered his life—Leon has built a loving family with his wife and daughter. His wife is deeply involved in his care, and his strength and resilience are evident. Leon, like Samaj and Free, embodies the spirit of pushing forward despite unimaginable adversity.
On the Front Lines of Change
This documentary also introduced me to inspiring politicians, medical professionals, and community leaders who are actively working to support victims and prevent further violence.
G. Lamar Stewart, Senior Pastor at Taylor Memorial Baptist Church, founder and executive director of Taylor Made Opportunities, and Chief of the Community Engagement Unit of Love Ministry Training, is a force for change. His roles are interconnected, allowing him to respond directly to the numerous shootings plaguing Philadelphia.
Pastor Stewart is driven by a deep compassion to provide comfort and support not only to victims and their families but also to the wider communities affected by violence. His commitment is deeply personal, rooted in his own experiences of loss due to gun violence.
I also had the privilege of speaking with Philadelphia’s first Victims Advocate, Adara Combs. Her profound understanding of the impact of crime on victims offered the honest perspective that survivors like me desperately seek. Adara champions the rights of gun violence victims, homicide victims, and victims of other crimes, advocating for policy changes, legislation, and systemic reforms to better serve those impacted by violence. She actively seeks to connect with survivors, partnering with them to drive meaningful change in Philadelphia. Her dedication is also fueled by personal experience with gun violence.
Pennsylvania State Representative Darisha Parker emphasized the importance of unity and resilience for survivors seeking to enact change. She stressed her open-door policy, offering to discuss any issue and work towards legislative solutions. However, Rep. Parker also underscored that legislative change requires collective action. Survivors must actively participate through demonstrations, lobbying, and making their voices heard to create tangible impact.
Finally, my conversation with Dr. Michelle Joy, Director of Behavioral Health Emergency Services at the Veterans Affairs hospital and Clinical Assistant Professor of Psychiatry at Perelman School of Medicine, provided critical insights. Dr. Joy detailed the far-reaching effects of trauma, extending beyond victims to their families and communities. She highlighted a critical gap in medical understanding – the profound and often underestimated impact of gun violence on communities.
Rethinking “They vs. Us”
Through these conversations with fellow survivors and those dedicated to supporting victims, a powerful realization emerged: everyone I spoke with genuinely cares about gun violence victims. Their commitment is often deeply personal, driven by their own experiences with violence and a desire to protect their families and communities.
This journey forced me to reconsider the very meaning of the documentary’s title, “They Don’t Care About Us.” Initially, “they” represented politicians, police, lawmakers – anyone not directly affected by gun violence. In my anger, I perceived this “they” as being against me and other victims. Even homicide victims, in a skewed way, seemed to have escaped the ongoing suffering endured by survivors. I was consumed by resentment towards this perceived uncaring “they.”
However, the process of creating this documentary revealed a different truth. Many people do care. And crucially, these individuals were not the ones who shot me. My own self-absorption had blinded me, preventing me from seeing the compassion and support that existed. I hadn’t allowed anyone in to show they cared. Many of the politicians I interviewed entered public service because they themselves or family members had been victims, driving their desire to reform a system that had failed their loved ones.
Initially, “us” referred solely to those directly shot. But as I delved deeper, I recognized that victimhood extends far beyond the individual directly injured. We are all victims in some capacity. Co-victims, survivors, and communities traumatized by violence collectively suffer immense loss. By uniting and working as one team, we can collectively support each other.
So, while “They Don’t Care About Us” remains a potent title, its meaning has evolved. The “they” I initially perceived as uncaring can become “us”—a collective “us” that must prioritize self-care before we can expect care from others. Ultimately, we all must care about each other.
Behind the Scenes with Oronde McClain
Listen to Community Engagement Manager Maxayn Gooden’s interview with Oronde McClain to learn more about his experience.
#BGVR2019 · Behind the Scenes: Oronde McClain
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, crisis, or needs mental health support, help is available. Contact your physician, local hospital emergency room, or the resources below. Most are free, confidential, and available 24/7.
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-TALK (8255)
• Crisis Text Line: 741741
• Lifeline Chat web chat service
• Samaritans’ Helpline: (877) 870-4673 (available in 240+ languages)
Journalists: Take this online course on Responsible Reporting on Suicide. (Audit for free or pay for certification.)
