Derrick Phillips is one of two passengers on a small blue-and-white bus lurching down South Chicago Avenue this snowy Tuesday morning in February. He’s on his way to a grammar school to give a speech. Under his black topcoat he has on a three-piece charcoal suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. The bus driver, Ernest, is urging Phillips, who’s blind, to pray for a cure.
“Because they’ve heard over and over that they should go to church and believe in the Lord and wait for a miracle.”
“All you can do is continue to proclaim the message. You have to be willing to accept and believe.”
As Ernest swings the bus onto 79th Street, Phillips tells him about a friend who called him one day about a talk she had just had with God. “She said God told her I just had to read the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John–then I’d be able to see again. I asked her, ‘When did God speak to you?’ She said, ‘Last night.’ I said, ‘Did he tell you if I had to read the books by a certain time?’ She said, ‘No. Just as soon as you’re finished reading them, you’ll be cured.’ I said, ‘What would you say if I told you I’ve already read Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John three times?’ She said, ‘You must have missed something.’”
“It will leave you.”
Ernest turns the bus onto Honore and pulls in front of the Scott Joplin grammar school. He lets Phillips take hold of his elbow and leads him off the bus to the door of the school.
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“I’m probably doing much more now than I did when I was sighted. I enjoy it when people tell me I can’t do something. I’m like, ‘Well, let me show you.’ When I go by myself to Springfield [to lobby legislators] or Highland Park [to speak], people seem to be stunned. I took the train to Wilmette to speak, and when I got off there was a woman waiting for me in the station. First thing she said was ‘Who’s with you?’ I said, ‘My cane.’”
