The Campaign for Coy

My neighbor asked for my help with a GoFundMe campaign. This is his story and why I am more than ready to help. We can all help to change the narrative. 
-- Michele Hart-Henry

Changing the Narrative 
by Dan Selekman

I’d like to tell you a story. This is a true story and one that needs to be told. I met a man just a short while ago who wanted the Police to kill him. His intent was clear as he readied the handgun next to his side. I knew, at that moment, that we were going to bear witness to death. I was unsure if this story would end with a dead cop or a dead civilian. Either way, the stage was set for an ending that seemed morbidly and sadly predictable. In the next few seconds, one of us gets shot. This is where, and only where, the story seems familiar. 

However, to honor and respect the special man that I met that day, I’ll withhold the ending, just briefly. To fully understand what happened, it’s important to know some history. 

Coy was born and raised in lower Delaware, near Lincoln, explaining his southern draw and warm personality. His father was terribly abusive and ruled through force and fear, often beating him. His mother was very ill with tuberculosis during his childhood and did not, or was unable to, protect him from this. Coy was made to do all the manual labor around his property at age 7. He had some family members around, but many had turned to crime or weren’t around long enough to provide him any support. Still, he always seemed to understand right and wrong. His simple yet beautiful view of the world was separated by these two opposing forces, good and bad. He just didn’t understand why people did the wrong thing.  

 At the age of 15, Coy dropped out of his sophomore year of high school and never returned. He was also kicked out of his home that same year, leading to days and months of homelessness. Coy would find odd jobs around town, however, his biggest battle was his constant refusal to commit crimes with other kids his age. This was the late 60s, early 70s and for a young and homeless African American male, he was provided all the wrong opportunities. At 6’4” and 250 lbs., Coy reminds one of an old offensive lineman whose former strength and stamina still resonate despite his ailing and aging body. He also worked, and he worked hard. He didn’t complain, make excuses, or give up. Coy eventually associated working hard with avoiding his father’s rage.

In his 20’s, Coy landed a job at a factory in Delaware, where he worked for over thirty years. His job was laborious, and labor he did. Throwing 50 pound bags of rock, hauling material and turning rock into powder is what his life consisted of for nearly 34 years. He wasn’t even sure, when I asked, what the company used the material for, only saying that he used to carry around a piece of paper that explained it. Coy didn’t call out sick, take time off and never, ever, complained. He would pick up any extra hours, just to fill in his free time off. About a month ago, his legs began to fail and he finally told his boss that he may need to see a doctor. One doctor became two doctors, which became an army of professionals all telling him of different physical ailments he had. Not one, however, asked him if he understood what it all meant or if it would affect his ability to work. This is a man who, even at this point in his life, continued to separate life into two categories, good and bad. If you work, you’re good and if you don’t you're bad.

Coy came from nothing, was supported by no one and never asked for handouts. He never drank, smoked, or did drugs. He worried so much about being good that he shied away from any relationships, never marrying or having children. At 62 years old, he purchased his first home and was leasing a truck. His house is organized and clean, furnished with only things he needs, nothing more. One couch, one small TV, one bed upstairs and the same worn clothes he’s been wearing for years, neatly ironed in his closet. He's never traveled, spent money that wasn’t for some basic need or did anything that gave him joy. He ate the same food, from the same Acme, made just the way he liked it, week after week and year after year.

For the month leading up to our encounter, Coy had been home, detached from his routine of work. He had tried to submit paperwork through his company to receive some benefits, however, they were denied because they claimed he turned it in too late. With no paycheck, a failing body, and no identity, Coy now believed he was bad. This giant, beautiful and fragile man was now unable to exist in his world. He made the decision that his death was the only option. Much like the 62 years proceeding this moment, Coy’s decision was made easily. He figured that he didn’t want to bother anyone else and it would be best just to get out of the way. His only challenge was how to do it.

 On the day we met, Coy called into the Police Department and asked if Police could come to his home and kill him. Knowing what I do now, I’m convinced that he knew that Police help people and he needed help. I called him back and we began talking over the phone. His voice was low and soft, not angry or agitated. His southern disposition was evident, as he thanked me for helping him and wanted to make sure he wasn’t “bothering” us. He made sure that I knew that he did not want to hurt anyone, and I believed him. I eventually told him that we should meet in person. We arrived at his home, prepared for the worst. The stage was now set, once again, for the story line to continue. Shooting, deaths, marches, repeat.

 I ended up on the street in front of his home. Coy came out of the front door, tightly holding his right arm behind him. In his hand was a loaded .22 caliber handgun, that he clutched tightly and away from me. We talked some more until he finally told me that he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He stepped backwards into his house, our eyes remaining locked. Several seconds of silence went by, then a gunshot. Officers rushed in to find Coy had shot himself in the stomach. He was rushed to the hospital and into surgery.

I went home, trying to balance my feelings of failure with those of relief that no one else got hurt. I couldn’t, however, get past my own words when we spoke. Coy asked for help and I told him I would try. Neither his request nor my offer had a timeframe or limitations.

I visited with Coy throughout his hospital stay, feeding my wife's chicken soup to him and laughing about the heartburn it gave him. His warmth and kindness were evident even through the tangle of tubes and wires that surrounded him. He laughed about not fitting on the bed or when I make a bad joke.

I did discover that Coy did have one friend. She is a kind and loving women who was at his side every day at the hospital.

 Despite a lifetime of seemingly endless sadness and lack of identity in this world, Coy isn’t mad. This man of 62 has never been told he’s loved, yet he’s not bitter. No one has told Coy how special he is or that he doesn’t just occupy space in this world. At every moment in his life, Coy could have gotten angry, acted out, or, at the least, complained. Yet, incredibly, he hasn’t. Coy is just inherently good. He’s never been taught how to be good, never been provided the tools to be good, yet he’s good. I’m not sure how he does it, I’m not sure how to describe it. I just know that this man is special.

I met a man who wanted me to kill him and now that man is my friend. Inherent good exists in our world and I challenge to you to find it. It may be inside of you or those around you. If you do find them, cherish them and tell them how incredibly special they are. If you are reading this and, like Coy, feel lost and simply want to be good, may this next message find you: 

You are loved, you are uniquely special and whether I’m in a Police uniform or not, my love for you is unconditional. 

Now, it's our turn to help Coy understand how special he is. It will be awhile before his disability payments, retirement or social security will be in place. In the meantime, he has no way to support himself, no income to pay his bills and no network of family and friends upon which to rely. This is where we all come in. If you can, please donate to our Campaign for Coy as we continue to change the narrative.

 Lieutenant Dan Selekman