Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma

Thanksgiving dawned at Michael Dixon's apartment with the sounds of pots clanging and dishes being stirred as his sisters, Shirley and Marilyn, and mother, Dot, worked together in the small kitchen.

There was a ham to bake, greens to boil, sweet potatoes to mash. The downstairs quickly filled with the delectable odors of a feast in the making.

Throughout the morning, other family members assembled in the living room, awaiting word that the holiday dinner was ready.

Michael sat in his wheelchair, a planet around which this little galaxy of siblings, nephews, nieces and cousins rotated.

To his left was his nephew, Stacey Dixon from Linden. He sat next to the single window of Michael's living room-cum-bedroom, flipping impatiently through the holiday choices of ball games and parades on the television.

To his right was a niece, Johnnie Sue Greer, and her roly-poly baby, Quinton.

Seated next to the TV was the oldest of the Dixon brothers, Jimmy "Buck" Dixon, bleary-eyed from a late night drive to Nashville from Cleveland, Ohio.

Michael was in high spirits, reminiscing with Buck, laughing at the antics of his niece's son, enjoying the room full of company.

This was the fifth Thanksgiving since the July 1993 shooting, when a stranger fired three shots that splint ered Michael's spinal column and left him a quadriplegic.

It's a holiday that lends itself to taking stock of one's life, tallying the pluses and minuses, the hopes fulfilled and dreams dashed. Recent Thanksgivings have yielded only regrets, but as scents of baked ham and steaming vegetables drifted from the kitchen, combining with the chatter of family members, Michael pondered his present station in life and arrived at an optimistic conclusion.

"I'm blessed," he said.

Last spring, the 25-year-old man decided on a set of goals, five objectives to give his life new meaning and purpose. They were: purchase a van equipped with a wheelchair lift; secure new housing; get a job; wean himself from the ventilator; and fall in love.

The summer and fall had been productive.

Parked outside in the gravel drive was his van.

His van, he liked the sound of that. Soon, a wheelchair lift will be installed on the maroon 1993 Mark III and Michael will be mobile at will, with the help of Shirley, who will be doing the driving.

Also, he had made progress to breathe without assistance from a machine. By Thanksgiving week, Michael's daily ventilator-free breathing sessions had broken the hour mark. He felt optimistic about being ventilator independent.

One goal accomplished; another on the way. Two out of five was not bad, he thought. The new living quarters, the job and finding a girlfriend would come later. He was confident of that.

Michael entered the November holiday with only one major regret: that he never had a face-to-face meeting with his assailant.

On Christmas Day of 1994, 35-year-old James Kenneth Pleasant, the man charged with shooting Michael, was himself brought down in a pre-dawn exchange of gunfire. He died in surgery at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, the same hospital that saved Michael when he was shot. Pleasant's death came two months before he was to stand trial.

"I just wanted to see him, to talk to him. I just wanted to ask him why he did what he did. That would have provided some closure for me," the young man said.

"Now he's six feet under and I'll never get my chance."

Several times in recent years, when depression settled over his life like a thick blanket of gray, Michael questioned why Pleasant "got the easy way out," while he languished in a body that no longer responded to simple commands.

But on this Thanksgiving Day, surrounded by family, Michael never felt more alive, more eager to live up to his potential. If questions remained about why fate treated him so unfairly he kept them hidden from view.

Outside his living room window, the seasons were on the cusp of change once again. Fall was yielding to winter, dreaded winter that often held Michael captive inside his small apartment.

But this winter was different, not only because he had transportation, but because he was different. The four and a half years since the shooting had left an indelible mark on him, as well as his family.

This single act of violence nearly took his life, compromised his career plans, robbed him of independence and stripped his faith to the core.

This irrational act by a deranged gunman broke a family's heart and tested their allegiance to one of their own.

Yet, through faith, simple faith, they have persevered.

Michael discovered an inner wellspring of courage deeper than he ever imagined; his family found the strength to sacrifice beyond measure.

They have claimed the promise of hope and cling to it tightly.

Michael's grip is the tightest of all.