He was the first paralyzed gunshot survivor I met in Philadelphia. His legacy could help others.

I never got a chance to thank Steven Bryon Smith.

Smith — known as “B” to his friends — died unexpectedly in September.

I wasn’t quite a friend, but Smith, 37, was more than someone I wrote about, and maybe that’s why I found myself watching (and rewatching) a 2020 video of him talking about the bullet that clipped his spine and left him on a ventilator, unable to use his arms or legs. Each time I watched, I was taken by his honesty.

The seven-minute film was part of a five-part series about survivors of gun violence. I’d connected the filmmaker, Glenn Holsten, with some of the members of a support group for paralyzed gunshot survivors. Holsten produced the series for a nonprofit mental health website that grew out of another of Holsten’s films.

The support group was created in 2019, but I met Smith several years earlier when he shared his story. In the process, Smith introduced me to a reality that is often missing when gun violence is reduced to the names of those who lived and those who died. The reality of the survivors whose lives are forever altered after they’ve been shot.

I wish I could say a lot has changed since. The number of people paralyzed by gun violence is not tracked on any consistent basis. But a 2020 study from public health researchers at the University of Pennsylvania and Columbia University offers a sobering picture: More than 300 people are injured by firearms in the U.S. every day. For every death, two people survive, and those survivors are increasingly facing lifelong injuries.

I remember spending hours with Smith in the immaculate back bedroom of the West Philadelphia home he shared with his mother, Vera Bland.

Smith was thoughtful, funny, and proud of his impressive sneaker collection. He took great care not to let his condition or circumstances affect his appearance or his sense of humor. His childhood friend Vinte Clemons still chuckles when he recalls an adventure they shared in Atlantic City in 2017. Smith and Clemons were headed to a concert to see Smith’s favorite rapper, Jadakiss. Before they could get to the arena, the wheel of Smith’s wheelchair got stuck in a hole in the floor of the parking garage.

As Clemons struggled to keep his friend upright and his ventilator attached, he ripped Smith’s pants. Clemons was in a sweaty panic as he yelled for help. But Smith, a mischievous grin on his face, lightened the stressful moment by leaning into Clemons and whispering, “Those pants were $200.”

“He just had a lot of gratitude,” Clemons said, “and he didn’t let circumstances stop him from doing what most people probably wouldn’t do, even if they weren’t in his condition.”

That includes forgiving the friend who accidentally shot him in 2003 with Smith’s own gun, a tool of the drug trade Smith had wandered into despite relatives and other friends, including Clemons, warning him away.

“I grew up poor,” Smith said in the film. “My mom tried her best to give me the best life she could, but at the time I didn’t think it was good enough. I wanted more.”

While I didn’t write extensively about what led to Smith’s quadriplegia, I did write about the many hurdles he and other survivors had to overcome, including unreliable transportation services that routinely left him — literally — out in the cold. On more than one occasion, Smith was left waiting after medical appointments for SEPTA’s Customized Community Transportation (CCT Connect), which provides transportation to elderly and disabled residents, long after his doctors’ and nurses’ shifts ended.

About eight years ago, his cousin Andre Morris said, he waited with Smith for hours after a basketball game for a ride back home. That was the final straw for Smith, who scrimped and saved and fundraised for his own wheelchair-accessible van. His sister, Catherine Bland, who is hoping to start a nonprofit in her brother’s name, now wants to use the van as the first in a fleet to offer more reliable transportation for people with disabilities.

“I want to be able to continue the kind of work he wanted to do, to make life better for others,” she said.

Over the years, Smith and I kept in touch, mostly through social media, where he often shared his love of family and his enthusiasm over his latest projects. He started a podcast and a book. He mentored peers and students, and he was always on the lookout to do more. He had plans, lots of plans.

But then one day last fall, I was shocked to read a message posted on his social media pages.

“We, the family, ask everyone to please come out and show B the same love that he handed out,” a family member wrote, inviting those who knew and loved Smith to join them for a candlelight balloon release.

Relatives told me Smith died at home. He had undergone kidney surgery shortly before his death, but despite an autopsy, they were uncertain of the cause of death.

What they are certain of is the lasting impact the youngest of four siblings always wanted to make. Smith’s older brother, Majovie Bland, who is mayor of East Lansdowne, recalled how a young man in search of himself grew into a man committed to rising above his circumstances.

“You know, with the injury, the trauma, all of it, he still made the best out of everything,” Bland recalled.

In the months following Smith’s death, I dug up old columns I wrote about him and messages we had exchanged. I also watched that video more times than I’d like to admit and wished more than anything that I had thanked Smith for inspiring many of my efforts to get public officials to pay attention to a forgotten group of survivors.

On more than a couple of occasions, I passed Smith’s phone number on with his permission to others who had been shot and paralyzed. I knew he wouldn’t sugarcoat the path ahead. But I also knew he would offer them hope through his words and by his example.

“Don’t let the wheelchair and the ventilator fool you,” he’d often say. “I’m fine.”

Despite the extent of his injuries, Smith knew he was in a better position than most. He had dedicated friends and family, including more than 20 nieces and nephews with whom he was close. He lived with his mother in a wheelchair-accessible home, something countless other survivors struggle to access. Even when caretakers couldn’t always be counted on, his mother’s commitment to her youngest child was unwavering. Smith learned to become his own best advocate and generously shared whatever knowledge he had usually learned the hard way.

Instead of wallowing in why-me and what-if, Smith went about living his life to the fullest until his death on Sept. 30.

In the video, filmed three years ago, Smith spoke of how he’d one day like to be remembered.

Smith’s answer was as steadfast as his gaze into the camera: “I want my legacy to be that I was a fighter.”

Thank you, B.