“Mom,” Wesley asked in a small voice. “Why did Papa die?”
The question whipped like an ice storm around the room, freezing us solid with our spoons raised in midair.
Mom took a steady breath.
“Papa didn’t die. Papa was killed,” she said, her eyes hardening. “He was killed for his kindness. He was killed for trying to invoke change in our people, to wake them up. He was killed by ignorant men. You see, Black people all around the world endured hundreds of years of chattel slavery—they were hunted, stolen, tortured, separated from families, forbidden to read and write. There were no laws to protect us from these criminal acts, you see. And your father, he served a mighty God. He challenged us to stand up and to restore our own humanity. You must never forget that. You hear me?”
Reginald looked across the table at me, his eyes softening.
Wesley eyed the floor. “Will they … kill everyone like that?”
My veins felt heavy, weighing me down into the seat. I wanted to reach across the table, zip Wesley’s mouth shut.
Mom softly cupped the side of Wesley’s cheek, and her words came out like a soothing song.
“No, baby. They won’t kill everyone. But they will try to kill the ones who they fear will bring unity to the masses. The ones who will challenge the unlawful crimes against humanity.”
“Why does God let this happen to us?” Reginald asked.
But Mom looked directly at me. “To make us strong. To remind us of the fire within. Your papa, he was like a match, ready to set the world on fire with his light, when some just wanted to stay in the dark. He said you’re either part of the problem or part of the solution. No middle ground, one or the other. So are you going to be a light or are you going to dim your light?”
“But,” I said, “why did Papa have to be the one to die?”
Mom smiled at me. “Sometimes change requires the biggest sacrifice, my love. Your father, he lives on forever. He lives in each one of you. You can call on him whenever you need him. He is always with you.”
* * *
By lights-out, they finally come around to empty our dump pails. I gag as the cart squeaks by, wondering how Shorty’s faring, wondering if he’s as lonely as me.
Wherever he is.
CHAPTER 2
You can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.
—MALCOLM X
My half sister, Ella, sits across from me. A spot of light in the darkness.
“Did you hear me?” she asks, her voice hard.
The room spins and I place a shaky hand on the table to steady myself. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then it comes back, hitting me like a train until my chest caves in.
I remember the courtroom, the way Sophia sobbed on the stand, tears streaming down her white cheeks, her fire-red husband angry enough to spit glass. I remember the judge slamming down charges—fourteen counts, each one with eight to ten years, to be served concurrently, luckily. Lawyer said he went “easy” on me because I’m still just a kid. But I know white people who’ve done worse and haven’t spent a minute in a place like this.
“Yeah. Yes,” I whisper, and clear my throat, folding my hands together.
Ella watches my every move, studying me. She was the first to visit me, though I told her to stay home. I didn’t want anyone seeing me in this dump. But Ella has never been good at taking orders.
The visitors’ center is much like the mess hall but a little nicer, if that’s possible. Long wooden tables in rows of three and high barred windows. Visitors sit on one side and prisoners on the other. Hours vary by the day. Sometimes folks travel half a day or more to see their loved ones only for the warden to shut down visits for the week. So families make a long trek for nothing. Guards canvass the perimeter of the room, gripping their holsters, slapping batons in their palms. Exerting a false superiority.
Wonder if she can smell it. The funk hovering around us like a fog. Do I smell of it? Will she tell my brothers and sisters that I have hit rock bottom and reek of desperation?
Ella shakes her head and starts talking. Telling me all the gossip on the Hill, which isn’t much of anything I am interested in. I don’t want to hear about her uppity friends’ progress. I want to know what jive is happening in Roxbury. What’s the latest tune everyone is hopping to? What’s happening in Harlem? What number hit? What’s going on in the real world? But how can I ask her about what she’s never tasted?
There are a few families in the room with us: A mother visiting her son. Two women—one young, one old—visiting their brother. Another mother with five children visiting their father—I recognize him from the license-plate shop. He’s been in Charlestown for at least a decade. Some of those children don’t even look that old. Two tables over, a little boy squeezing a teddy bear sits next to his mother, visiting a cat from my unit named Lightning. The woman is a piece of melted caramel with them pretty red lips and eyes that make you feel that everything will be all right. The little boy could be Lightning’s twin. She reaches across the table and tries to take Lightning’s hand.
“NO TOUCHING!” the guard barks, spit flying out his skinny lips. Veins bulging on the sides of his temples. He slams his baton on the table. Everyone jumps, gasping. The little boy drops his bear, crying.
“Didn’t I say no touching?!”
“Sss-sorry,” Ms. Caramel whimpers at the guard.
He smirks, peering down at her, as if he could see down her dress.
The walls squeeze real tight around us. Cats look at one another. If someone makes a wrong move, they can shut visitation down, throw us all in the hole.
“Hey, man. Uh … she didn’t mean it, she didn’t know,” Lightning begs, holding his hands up, then glances at her. “It’s all right, baby. It’s all right.”
The little boy stares at the guard from within his mother’s embrace, eyes wide and filled with tears. Makes me almost glad I don’t have children. I would never want them to feel helpless and unprotected, or to see their father in here.
The guard walks off, swinging his baton. I scratch the back of my neck. Ella, her face almost pale from watching it all unfold, swallows hard.
“Why would you give your power to these monsters? Are you eating?” she asks, worry in her eyes. “You’re all skin and bones.”
Ella looks older in the face than I remember. The darkness of this dungeon makes anyone who enters appear meek and helpless. Mind games, prisons are all about mind games. First, they make you believe you’re an animal, then they make you believe you’re easy prey to kill.
“Yup. Serving me the finest chicken fried steak in here,” I chuckle, and pat my empty stomach. It aches just from the sound of her voice, remembering the good meals she used to cook. Her oven-roasted chicken, her okra, her mac and cheese, and her warm apple cobbler with a scoop of my favorite strawberry ice cream. I could sure use a plate of that right now.
“How do you find a way to make a joke at a time like this?” Ella huffs.
My sister, always stuck on what I should be doing rather than what’s real. Here I am in prison and she’s still trying to give me orders.
She rubs her hands as if starting a fire, then blows into her cupped palms.
“It’s freezing, Malcolm. Can I send you a proper sweater? My heavens. Will they let you have that, at least?”
I’m so numb I barely notice the cold anymore.
“No. They make us wear these stupid thin jackets,” I mumble. “Hey, I heard there’s a big fight coming up in a few weeks. Please lay a bet for me, will you?”
Ella’s gaze drops to the table. “Oh, Malcolm.”
Disappointment. That’s why I didn’t want her to come. I don’t want to see myself in her eyes. In our father’s eyes. I don’t want to see the disappointment.
“Well, I just hope you see the good in this lesson,” she says.
“Lesson?”
“Yes. Everything we go through in this life is meant to
teach us something, one way or another.”
I squeeze my fist under the table. “Well, that’s real easy for you to say when you’re not the one in here.”
“You’re right, I’m not. You are. This is your journey. Everyone has their own.”
“So you think I was meant for this?”
She shakes her head. “You never had to sleep anywhere but in your own bed. And you’ve been sleeping for a while. You’ve been spoiled, pampered, living … that life. Now you’re in a place like this, with no power, and you still don’t know how to wake up.”
Wake up, Malcolm.
I shake the noise out of my ear.
“Are you okay?”
“Um … I’m … yeah.”
She frowns. “Hilda sent a letter. Family’s asking about you. They want to come see you.”
“Tell them I’m fine.”
“But you’re not fine, are you? You need your family. Now more than ever.”
“I don’t need nobody, you understand?”
Ella leans away from me.
“What’s … gotten into you, Malcolm? When you first came to Boston…” She puts her head in her hands for what feels like forever. “Hilda blames me. All your brothers and sisters think this is my fault. That I encouraged you to run wild, hanging out with them hoodlums, and that I knew, just knew, you’d end up in a place like this. Because Papa left my mama to be with yours. But we are blood, Malcolm. I didn’t wish this for you.”
I want to tell her how she has so much of our father in her face, but I don’t.
“I pray for you, Malcolm. Every night, I’m on my knees praying hard to the Lord to protect you from these animals and restore your mind. I pray to God.”
The word God made me want to spit. Is God gonna get me out of here? Where was God when Papa was killed? When they took away Mom and locked her up in an institution? Where was He then?
“Don’t waste your breath.” I shove my seat back and stand. “Don’t pray for me. I don’t want nobody praying for me for nothing. God? He ain’t been there for me before, and He sure ain’t here now.”
The guards flinch. “Little! Back in your chair.”
“We done here,” I bark back.
“Little, I said get in your seat.”
Ella reaches for my hand. “Malcolm, I’m just trying to—”
“NO TOUCHING!”
Ella reels back, her arms up as if to block a hit.
“Okay, visitation is over. Everybody up!” Ella doesn’t like anybody telling her what to do, especially no white man, so she stays there.
The guards descend, yanking each prisoner by the arm without a moment to say goodbye, slapping on cuffs, hauling us away, leaving women and children in tears as they see their men, their so-called protectors, powerless this way.
This is the picture they paint of us, this is the nightmare they give our children. Makes me want to punch the guard in his face and shove a knee in his stomach.
* * *
My Dear Brother,
How are you? I pray this letter finds you well. Ella said she is working on getting you moved from that dreadful place. Said last time she visited, you were as thin as a twig. You can’t be tall like Papa and thin as a rail. Are you eating? Why haven’t you written back to my last letter? I know I wrote to the right address. Your family is very concerned about you.
Things are fine here in Lansing. Been looking through some of Papa’s old books I had stored. Do you remember how well Mom used to take care of them? The way she made us read them over and over again, and then we had to wipe them clean before putting them back in the cupboard? I finally understand why reading was so important to Mother. It was also important to Papa and to Mr. Garvey. Reading helps you find new ways of looking at the world in which we live. We discover new skills and ideas toward becoming better people and how to improve our situations. That must be what drove Papa to strive for perfection in all he did. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new. Remember how you would write your own books and then read them to us? You are a perfectionist, too. You loved to read. I hope you’re keeping it up. “Reading maketh the full man.”
Daddy always said you were just like him. Remember who you are, Malcolm. That’s the only way you’ll find solace in your time of need.
Your Big Sister,
Hilda
* * *
There is a small fire burning in my fingertips. Every morning, I wake up and feel it there first. Under my nails, crawling up to my knuckles, covering my hands. Gloves of flames spread. Then arms, chest, and legs blaze until my whole body is covered.
Big Lee has a deep bass voice, like a blues singer who lost his guitar. Used to hear men like him singing on the road all the time, in juke joints and speakeasies, where cats just kicked it with one another and danced freely. Drinking homemade moonshine without a worry in the world.
I sit in the back row of the chapel now, listening to him sing. Reminds me of Paul Robeson’s bass-baritone.
“Mary had a golden chaaaaaiiiiiin, ev’ry link waaaaas my Jeeeesus’ naaaaaaame…”
Big Lee stands at the front of the chapel, eyes closed, mouth grinning. He sings all the time in the shop or in the mess hall, trying to ease spirits. Those old-timey Negro songs don’t do nothing but make me angrier, that God would give a man such a gift and let him rot.
The chaplain runs Bible study on Mondays and Wednesdays. The chapel is nothing but a room with a wooden cross hanging on the wall behind the pulpit and a picture of a white Jesus. Papa said Jesus was Black, with woolly hair and feet of bronze.
You can still smell the stench in this so-called sanctuary, feel the draft through our paper jackets. There are more of us here today. Yesterday, another prisoner hanged himself with his bedsheets. That’s the seventh suicide this month. Your mind plays tricks on you. The escape route seems easier than living, I guess.
Maybe some of us are here trying to find meaning in our existence. Maybe not. I only go to chapel to keep from having to stay in my iron cage longer than I have to. Helps pass the time. But after Ella’s visit, the fire burning inside me feels more urgent. I thought the two extra matchbooks of nutmeg I had at breakfast would curb an explosion, but I feel nothing. The fire swallows anything I put inside my body, trying to keep the flames at bay. No way out.
Jimmy sits next to me, humming along with Big Lee as he ends his hymn. Everyone in the room applauds like they were watching a performance of Duke Ellington and his big band. Jimmy claps the loudest.
The chaplain looks like most white men do, pale and lanky, spitting words of authority from a book not made to inspire or rehabilitate. A book not made for us. Jimmy hangs on to every word like a helpless child, grunting along with the flat sermon.
“Homeboy, you really into all that?” I whisper to him. “You don’t believe this shit, do you?”
He cuts me a surprised glare. “The question is, why ain’t YOU a believer, homeboy?”
He can’t be serious. I could think of a dozen reasons.
“As it says in John 3:16,” the chaplain shouts. “‘For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that who shall ever believe in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.’”
Ha! I chuckle. Loud.
“Excuse me?” the chaplain squeaks.
The entire room turns to stare. Big Lee raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir?” I say with a hint of amusement.
“Is there something … funny?”
“Nothing really, it’s just brainwash. I think it’s wrong for you, as a man of God, to be lying to us like this. Like you really care about us.”
The room stirs. Panicked, Jimmy jumps to his feet, cap in his hands.
“Uhhhh, s-sorry sir,” he stutters. “Young brother’s not feeling too well.”
“I can speak for myself,” I say, still seated, crossing my arms.
Jimmy plops back into his seat, muttering under his breath, “Cool it, homeboy. You trying to get yourself buried? What’s going
on?”
The chaplain collects himself. “And what part do you not believe?”
“He loved His Son so much that He sacrificed Him to bloodthirsty men? That sounds like love to you? Sacrificing His only child! Would you do that? Would any of you?”
The chaplain’s face turns red. “God’s love is greater than our understanding.”
I laugh. “Where are you getting this stuff from?”
“It’s good to have questions, Malcolm. But about your faith, lean not on your own understanding…”
Something about him saying my name, as if he knows me, makes my skin crawl. He doesn’t have the right to speak my name.
“Oh, you’re very mistaken. I don’t have questions. I have answers. And the answer is God’s words ain’t in that book and it damn sure ain’t in here.”
In my whole life, I ain’t ever heard grown men gasp like that before. Stunned, Big Lee can only shake his head and turn away.
The chaplain swallows, now sweating. “Malcolm … are you saying—”
“Yes, I’m saying it! God ain’t here! He ain’t with you! If He was, then wouldn’t you and Him try to help us? I mean, really help us. You think God allows families to be ripped apart? You think God would allow Negroes to suffer like this? In this pigpen? I don’t need some kinda God that exists one way for you and another way for me! What kind of God is that? Huh?”
The chaplain stands frozen for a few moments until he finally gives the two guards in the back a small nod. Jimmy whips in my direction and taps my leg. “You gotta cool it or you’ll—”
“All right you, up! Let’s go.”
The guard’s voice makes Jimmy jerk upright, eyes forward.
“Why? This is Bible study and I’m studying,” I snap.
“Not anymore,” the guard says. “Let’s go!”
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 3