The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  I don’t know how it happens. I think the thought of their filthy hands touching me sets the fire ablaze and I slap one white hand away, then another, and another, until we’re all on the ground, wrestling. I spot Jimmy’s face, the look of terror in his eyes. I see that helplessness and I start fighting harder.

  “That’s it! Back to the hole.”

  The word hole sends a chill up my spine that extinguishes the fire, but I’m still swinging and slapping the hands trying to grab me, not so much in rage now but in fear.

  “No! No!” I gurgle out. I can’t, I can’t be there again. I try to stay tough but I can’t anymore. “Please, please,” I cry. “Please don’t send me back. Please!”

  Six guards with their six batons, with their knees, elbows, and fists, knock me out cold.

  * * *

  The type of cold in the hole can match the Upper Peninsula of Michigan’s worst winters. Teeth chattering, I awaken—senses skewed, eye swollen, lip busted, my jaw and back sore. My one eye is barely open and I see nothing but darkness. The type of darkness that makes me remember the first time I was in the hole. How the isolation swallowed me, ripping apart any dignity I had left. How I begged, devoured stale bread, and wept for Mom.

  “No,” I murmur and stumble to my feet. I can’t go back to that place.

  The hole is so dark that I can’t see my hands in front of my very own eyes. Fumbling, I pat the walls, fall over the cot low on the ground, and hit the door.

  The hole feels tighter this time. It’s not just a box, but a coffin, shrunk airtight. Breathe. I’m desperate for fresh air. My family. I need my family.

  “Let me out! Let me out!” I scream, but it comes out as a whimper until I’m weeping on the cold, damp ground. The steel door has deep, hectic grooves. Dents. From another poor soul thrown in here. This place is for no man.

  And I demand again, Where is God?

  * * *

  What little light there is in Charlestown hurts like a thousand pieces of glass thrown in my face when they finally open the door. I block the glare with my hand, squinting up from my sunken place on the cold ground.

  “All right, Little. You’re out.”

  My eyes try to adjust to the figure standing at the door. “What … day is it?” My throat is scratchy, maybe from sobbing.

  “You wanna stay in here? Move it, prisoner!”

  I’m led back to my cell, the stench of the halls waking me up. There’s no sense of time in the hole. You are only aware of your breath, your thoughts, and the darkness. My cell hasn’t changed. Still the same way I left it. The wooden bucket hadn’t been dumped, the smell now baked into the slabs of cement and cast-iron bars. I change my uniform, noticing it fits looser than before, and glide a trembling hand down my side, ribs pushing through my skin.

  They can do it again, I thought. They can put me in the hole whenever they want, for however long they want. They could destroy me, kill me … if I let them.

  First things first, I need to stop by the kitchen for a fix. The fight gotta be coming up, and I need to make my rounds and collect bets. I need to be ready before someone steals my coins. It’s not like it’s real money but it’s all we got in here: a few pennies, nickels, and maybe some loosies. Heck, keeping busy is the only way to stay sane in this hellhole.

  Haven’t written any letters in … who knows how long. Long before they dropped me in the hole. My family must be looking for me. Thinking of them keeps me sane, gives me something to live for.

  It’s late so I head straight for the mess hall, last in line to grab a tray. A hush takes over the room. Eyes tracking my every move. Everyone is staring. Hard. Even the cooks look at me funny. Don’t know if everyone’s surprised to see me so soon or if it’s been longer than I thought.

  I take my tray to an empty table, facing the crowd, the tallest cat here, scanning the room for a newspaper. What’s the date?

  “Hey, they let you out. Glad you still alive, man.” Norm stands at the head of the table, looking to join me, and I don’t stop him.

  “Alive?”

  “You talked back to the chaplain and the guards.”

  Norm pauses to bow his head, praying over his lunch slop. With a greedy smile, he dives into his food like it’s a feast, the best thing he’s ever eaten. Norm ain’t that much older than me. Maybe he’s twenty-two. Reminds me of Wilfred with his broad shoulders and height, but still not taller than I am. Not sure where he’s from, but wouldn’t be surprised if we were distant cousins.

  “You know,” he starts, using a fork to mix his hard rice. “Folks around here been calling you Satan.”

  I stare at him for a moment, waiting for the punch line. He just eats his food.

  “Satan? What for?” I snap. “And say, what day is it?”

  “Man, it’s Tuesday. Anyway, it’s because you questioning God and you talking to the white folk like they Negroes. Like you not scared of nobody.”

  So that’s why everyone’s staring. They think I’m Satan in the flesh. Ha, if I’m Satan, then who are they? Who are the guards that throw us in the hole and gang up on us? Six of them beating one defenseless man. We ain’t got no guns. They don’t know a damn thing!

  I snarl, taking a giant sip of water. “Don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Doesn’t make me anymore free than the rest of you. We all locked up. We all in this nightmare together.”

  Big Lee stops at our table with his empty tray, his face expressionless.

  “Three,” he says, slow.

  Norm and I glance at each other, waiting for more.

  “Three what?” I say to him.

  “Three weeks. That’s how long you were in the hole. No one ever knows when they first come out.”

  My chest caves in. Three weeks. That’s it? It felt like three years.

  “Yeah, um … thanks,” I say.

  Big Lee lifts his chin. “Mmm-hmmm. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

  He walks off as slow as he came. Christian thing? Doesn’t he mean the right thing? The decent thing? The human thing?

  Norm shakes his head, working on his plate as he glances around the room.

  “You know, you ever stop to think they just so many!”

  “So many what?”

  “Of us! Negroes,” he says, nodding at the full mess hall. “Ain’t never seen so many in one place in all my life, and this ain’t even all of us. Probably could fit my whole town up in here.”

  For the first time, I notice what Norm is really seeing. There is an endless field of us in here. So many strong Black men who could lead our kind right out of this place. There’s strength in unity.

  Up, up, you mighty race!

  The thought of Papa’s teachings comes back to me in a hot flash. But I push those thoughts away. Hell, if he was alive today and saw me in here … oh man. I don’t even want to imagine it.

  “This ain’t nothing like it is in Roxbury,” I say, clearing the sadness from my throat. “I’ve seen thousands of Negroes, drinking and Lindy Hopping … those pretty dames having a sweet time.”

  I think of my nights at the ballroom, the girls I used to spin around the dance hall, hitting a bottle with Shorty till sunrise … and I grow hungry for home again.

  Norm waves me off with a grin. “Oh, that city life ain’t for me. Too many violent criminals, them bad-ass Negroes, living on top of one another.”

  “Have you ever been to a city before?”

  “No. But my boss man told me what it’s like.”

  “And you just believed him?”

  He frowns. “He ain’t got no reason to lie. Look, he’s been good to me. Not all white folk are bad. Anyway, you missed it while you were … uh … gone, I guess. We got like fifty more coons up in here, coming from all over. Bunch of thieving, murdering, raping, and drug-dealing coons. All of them.”

  What’s he talking about? Doesn’t he know half of us up in here didn’t do nothing but be Black?

  “How you end up in here?” I ask.

  He win
ces a nervous smile. “Oh, that was nothing but a big ole misunderstanding.”

  I laugh. “You ever think that the rest of us are a bunch of ‘misunderstandings’?”

  He looks at me straight. “No. Not me. I’ve been writing to my old boss man. He’s gonna help me get out of here. That’s what he says. Mmm-hmm, of course he would. He can’t run no store without me there! Said I was the best nigger he got. Just was lost in a … uh … mix-up.”

  “Yeah? Tell it.”

  He sighs. “Some Negro grabbed a loaf of bread from a store down the street. My boss saw me on the stairs and mixed me up with him. Next thing I know, police at my front door. I told them I was working, that my boss man can vouch for me, but they didn’t have the chance to ask him yet, that’s all.”

  Norm was the type Shorty told me to watch out for. The type that is so brainwashed he’d bend over backward for a white man who would sell his whole family to the lowest bidder. Shorty gave me a lot of lessons, but that one stuck like glue. Yet Papa would say that he’s our brother. We should keep one eye open but never leave him behind.

  “You ever wonder what them white prisons are like?” I ask Norm.

  He laughs. “Probably empty. They ain’t criminals like us.”

  “And you don’t find it … strange … that we are the only ones doing all these crimes? And if we are the criminals, then why are we afraid of white folks? You ever think about that?”

  “We don’t know no better, that’s all. Look, we’ve had some hard breaks. But if you keep your head down and do what you told, you’ll survive better than you think.”

  The word survive hits me heavy. That’s all any of us have been doing, inside and out of this shithole—just trying to survive. But just exactly what are we trying to survive? And at what cost?

  * * *

  There are only a few things in prison that bring all of us together—food and sports. Tonight, we crowd into the mess hall, hundreds of voices drowning out one single radio the size of a lunch tin.

  “I can’t hear nothing,” Jimmy groans. “Thought y’all fixed it last time.”

  “This is why we need Big Lee,” Walter says, fussing with the dial on the old radio. “He’s good at this kind of thing. Where he at?”

  Walter is real serious when it comes to fights and baseball games. Never met a more competitive person. Nor someone with such an itch to place a bet. Double or nothing, he’s down to risk it all and always squares up, no matter the cost.

  He curses over the box. “Fight probably already started and we gonna miss the whole damn thang!”

  A man named Mack hobbles out of the kitchen, his left eye sewn shut and caved in. He goes over to the radio and hits the top hard. It makes a loud screech before the announcer from the Joe Louis vs. Tami Mauriello fight pops on.

  “Shhhh,” Mack tells us, and hobbles back into the kitchen.

  There’s a small cheer as cats tune in to the fight. Listening to the Brown Bomber’s fight makes me think of all the times I listened to the fights back home with Philbert. It brings me a small slice of relief. Wonder if he’s listening, too. Yeah, I bet he is.

  “Don’t mess with it again,” Mack says. Mack has a loud, raspy voice with an aggressive tongue to match. Bet if he ever pays you a compliment it would sound like an insult. Not that he’s ever said more than a word to me.

  “What you doing, Mack?” Jimmy asks. “Come hear the fight!” Jimmy always wants everyone to listen to the fight together. Like we’re one big family, gathering around the fireplace.

  Mack shakes his head. “Can’t see how anyone could enjoy themselves when men are down in them holes.”

  “Louis hit Mauriello with the left!”

  Mack is the type that says little but a whole lot at the same time. Keeps to himself for the most part. Lives in our unit but works kitchen duty. Practically glued to the sink, he’s always scrubbing pots and pans.

  “Louis puts Mauriello down for the count!”

  Walter is on his feet.

  “What?? NO! That’s it! One round?!”

  “What? I missed it already?” I ask. “Who won?”

  “Louis.” Walter pouts. “Damn. That’s gotta be the shortest fight in history.”

  CHAPTER 3

  There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance next time.

  —MALCOLM X

  Only way to keep afloat is to stay away from what weighs you down. That’s how I’ve been surviving. Pretend I’m not here. Keep my head above water and keep busy. Back in Harlem I learned that you can run a hustle anywhere you’re planted, and that’s what I have to do here. Just work through it all.

  “Red, when I get outa here, man, first thing I’ma do is get on my knees and pray,” Lightning says from his cell two doors down. “I’ma pray to the Lord that I made it through this hell. Lord knows I didn’t kill nobody. I ain’t never hurt a fly. Then, I’ma go get me a bath and put on my church suit, sit at the table with my mama, and eat me a good meal, a nice home-cooked meal, Red. Yes, sir. I’ma just sit an’ look at my mama and eat till the sun rises again. Then, we gonna go to church.”

  Lightning’s always talking about what he’s gonna do when he gets out. About food, the Lord, and his mama.

  “Yeah, I hear you, boss,” I say, folding my blankets. “What your mama making today?”

  “We got some corn bread, pot roast, and gravy, and we got … wait. Guard coming!”

  The unit goes quiet as boots stomp in our direction.

  “I need the showers,” I say as the guard opens my cell. I’ve sweat through my clothes, soaking the mattress from another night terror. Need to freshen up, pretend this is just another day in Roxbury.

  “Not today,” the guard grumbles.

  “But it’s my day.”

  The guard turns to glare up at me, his face in a tight knot. When I first entered Charlestown, I tried to remember each of the guards’ faces and names. Memorize them like I memorize numbers. But, as the months went by, all the guards began to look the same. Their eyes soaked in pure hatred, faces molded into permanent scowls.

  He points his baton in my face and snarls.

  “Listen, nigger,” he shouts. “I’ll tell you when it’s your day and when it’s not, you understand. Now fall in line! All of you stink whether you shower or not.”

  My family and I, we come from a clean household. Wash our hands and bodies daily. We make our beds every morning, then scrub, dust, and wash down every nook and cranny of our home. Our clothes are clean and neat, mended with love.

  Maybe that’s why the memories of home wander in my mind, why I can’t sit still. The filth surrounding me, on me, on everyone, makes me long for the smell of my mother’s hair, the taste of her food, the warmth and stimulating conversations of my siblings sitting beside me with the Michigan sun shining through the windows of home.

  Safety. Laughter. Love.

  I slide my uniform over my sticky skin, feel the grime on my teeth, and walk out of my cell into the funk.

  * * *

  I’m like a shark when I enter the mess hall, looking for my next meal. Time to collect. During the week, I’ve been chatting up the cooks in the kitchen and the porters at night, taking bets. We’re all grimy. They make sure of it. Grimy or not, I’m easy to talk to, easy for people to trust.

  “So what’ll it be?” I ask Jimmy.

  He winces, checking over his shoulder.

  “Um, man, I’m dry,” he says in a hush. “Hoping my old lady will put something on the books for me. Got three mouths to feed and with me being away, she ain’t got it to spare.”

  I’ve learned to be sharp with folks here.

  “I’m sure you got a little something,” I push. “You in or not?”

  He rolls his eyes with a chuckle. “All right, kid, put me down for two and no more.”

  This ain’t nothing but a cakewalk, I think, as we slap skins before he dumps a lu
mp of gray oatmeal, cold like a scoop of flavorless ice cream, into my bowl with a half slice of dried-up bread.

  “22801, it’s time!” a guard shouts from the other side of the mess hall.

  I glance over my shoulder at the commotion, seeing it’s my man Lightning, and that same guard who barked at us during Ella’s last visit.

  “N-noo, sir,” Lightning stammers, his eyes wide. “They said they were waiting for my papers. They said I could appeal again.”

  Without warning, the guard shoves him in the face with his baton. Blood shoots out his nose.

  “What did I say!” the guard barks.

  “Please, sir, I ain’t ready. I just need more time. Please!”

  “Hey, man, what’s going on?” I whisper to Jimmy.

  He shakes his head. “Lost his appeal. They taking him down to death row.”

  “What?”

  A herd of guards descend on him, their batons whacking against his head, his body with loud thuds that echo through the mess hall. Lightning is surrounded. He tucks himself into a ball, covering his head. The mess hall falls silent, food left untouched.

  “Wait, please,” he gargles out, drowning in blood. “Ain’t … do … ah … please, no!”

  A dozen or more drag him by the ankles through the doors.

  Heart pounding, I realize I’m following them, like a reflex, ready to help him. We should all do something to help him. Everyone in this prison should rise up!

  But no one moves. After all, we can barely help ourselves. I stop at the door and watch them drag his body down the hall, still fighting for his life.

  * * *

  Dear Malcolm,

  Your letter arrived today. It caught me by surprise. It’s good to hear from you. You know the way Hilda worries over you, she’s always the mother hen. You may have been knocked out a few times like Joe Louis, but you still have some good sense.

  Things are fine here at home. Yes, I check in on Reginald almost every day. We’ve all converted to the Muslim faith and are following the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. He is a minister like Papa, but also a messenger of God in the flesh. He is smart. He ministers on the history of the Black, which reminds me of the old days when Mr. Garvey used to visit our house. Remember they said that the Black man was the chosen one? It’s true. He is doing work similar to Papa’s. It’s like the old days, Malcolm. We are planning to come and see you soon. Just wait, we will uplift your spirit. Please keep strong and safe.