The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  “Move out my way, old man. This ain’t none of your business.”

  He hesitates before saying, “All right then, fight me.”

  “Why? You wanna take the beating in his place?”

  He sighs, tilting his chin up. “If that’s what it takes.”

  I raise my fists, knowing nothing I’m doing makes a bit of sense, but I’m in a blur of rage.

  “Aight then, come on!”

  He looks at my hands but doesn’t move his. “I ain’t gonna try to stop you. You do what you have to do.”

  “What do you mean, old man? Come on!”

  From the corner, the guards are watching us, mumbling to each other. Any other time, they would’ve jumped in, taken control of the situation. But they’re waiting. Waiting for us to attack each other, to fight like animals, for any excuse to beat us bloody and throw us in the hole. Or worse, kill us. Even knowing this, it doesn’t stop the waves of anger rolling over me.

  Bembry shakes his head, voice firm and steady. “Do what you have to do, son.”

  Chucky crossed the line. If just one Negro crosses me, they will all think I’m here for the picking. And yet, there’s Bembry. He’s never raised his voice, never thrown a punch or even lost his temper. Yet the respect he receives … with just his words. It’s powerful.

  Just like Papa.

  In an instant, the realization sucker punches me in the throat. It’s what I couldn’t put my finger on all this time. This man IS Papa. And I’m about to fight him. My chest heaves, heart racing.

  “I’m not your son!” I roar, the words searing my tongue. “I’m not your son! I’m not your son!”

  Bembry only nods. “All right.”

  “I’m not your son!”

  I’m not my father’s son. I’m not acting like it. The fact that I’m here, in this place … makes it all the more true. I don’t know who I am anymore. This hammer in my pocket, the nutmeg, the reefer, the weed … What am I doing? What have I done?

  I hold back the sob building in my chest as my feet carry me away fast, out the door, straight back into my cell, before I release it. I’m swinging at the air like Sugar Ray, cursing, screaming until I can barely breathe. A tornado touches down in cell sixty-one. Mattress flipped, sheets ripped, everything tossed about. Papers fly like snow, letters from my family, dozens of them. When the dust settles, I fall to the ground, tears streaming down my face. Breathe.

  You don’t belong here, a voice inside me says. But where do I belong?

  “Little?! What’s going on in here?” the guard barks.

  The real enemy walks in, his voice tight and loud. For a change, I don’t feel the cold. I feel no pain. The guard looms over me, same one that threw my boy Lightning in the hole. When I don’t respond, he lifts his foot, aiming at my eye.

  “Nigger, you hear me talking to you?” he hisses.

  My Harlem instincts come back quick. I reach in my pocket, fishing for a gun I no longer have. Only the hammer, piercing my thigh.

  “Oh, so you deaf now?” He points the tip of his shoe, aiming it square at my forehead.

  The thoughts rip through me: If I kill this man, I’ll be killed. I’ll never see my family again. But I can’t let him treat me like this.

  I shift onto my knees, meeting his glare, and press my cheek against his heel, knowing it’s a shoe that has stepped through every square inch of this filthy place. Don’t care. He needs to know I’m not scared of him or no one, and I look him in his eye.

  The guard frowns, eyes softening to something close to fear. His Adam’s apple dances under his tie, uniform tightening around his neck. He sets his foot down, then kicks my pail, piss spilling out on the floor.

  “Clean this mess up, nigger,” he shouts, shutting the cell door, and I’m a caged animal once again.

  * * *

  I’m not Satan. I’m not Detroit Red.

  I’m not sure who I am anymore. And it scares me. I became many Malcolms to survive. Survive living without Papa, survive living without Mom and my family. Survive the streets of Roxbury and Harlem, survive prison. If I don’t find myself and quick, I could wind up staying lost forever.

  * * *

  Today, Bembry is talking about life out west in California. He’s been all over this country while half of these cats haven’t made it out of Roxbury. He doesn’t mention the other day with the hammer and so neither do I. It’ll remain that way.

  When Bembry speaks even the guards listen to his stories. You’ve got to be smoother than smooth to have these white boys’ attention without breaking a sweat.

  On the way to lunch, I walk behind him, questions buzzing around my head. Not knowing how long I have before Reginald frees me, I jump right to it. Whatever Bembry’s gimmick is, I want to know.

  “Hey, Bembry, how you know all that stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “That stuff you always talking ’bout.”

  Bembry laughs. “Books. Lots of books.”

  “Books?” Seems too simple an answer. I read books. Well, sometimes. “How do you know which ones to read? Where do you get them?”

  Bembry turns to face me, his eyebrow arched. “You know, I know you ain’t a dummy. In fact, you got some good brains up there, if you’d just learn how to use them right.”

  Bembry also knows how to cut you without so much as a curse.

  “So where are these books you’re talking about?”

  “Young brother, you been to the library yet?”

  * * *

  The library has a recognizable scent. Rich with a hint of dust and wet wood. Mom and Papa had a lot of books. We all used to read together at the kitchen table. Mom with a baby in her arm. Papa teaching us about identity, empowerment, and self-reliance. About the right to want more out of life than the scraps and limitations thrown at us. He said the captor will never tell you your worth, especially when they’ve taken your identity for their own. Their voices ring in my ears.

  Wake up, Malcolm …

  Bembry slams a pile of books on the table in front of me. The books are old as dirt, torn and worn down. The library has nothing but a few shelves of them, and they all seem to be in the same condition.

  “You want to gain some knowledge, you need to start here.” He taps on the top book, grinning. “You smart, Red, I can see that. But you got to read more than just a little here and there. You got to read every single day, whenever you can. Absorb all this knowledge like a dried-up sponge in water.”

  “I read a lot,” I say. “I used to be class president, man. Just got a shitty hand, you know.”

  “That’s all right. You still growing, kid. But to grow a tree, you gotta start with the seeds.”

  I think of Mom’s garden and the butterflies and start sweating. The smell of those books … the smell of home.

  “Seeds?”

  “Seeds, meaning the foundation. The root. Words!”

  He slides a few books into my hands—Moby-Dick, Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet. He then slips a large book from the bottom of the pile, flipping it open to the first page. Oxford English Dictionary.

  “This will be your guide for when you get to a word you don’t know in these books. Words have power, Red. The more words you know, the more power you gain.”

  Power. Exactly what I’m looking for. Exactly what he has.

  “Well, where do I start?”

  “Where everyone starts. From the beginning.” He flips to the first page of the dictionary.

  “All right, all right, I got it. You want me to remember all these words?”

  “Yep. Write them down. Each word and its definition. Whenever you write something, it takes to memory.”

  There’s probably hundreds of thousands of words in this book. I scan the first one, struggling through the pronunciation.

  “‘Aardvark … noun. A large burrowing nocturnal mammal of sub-Saharan Africa that has a long snout, extensible tongue, powerful claws, large ears, and heavy tail.’”

  Bemb
ry smirks. “It’s a start.”

  * * *

  I have two more weeks to kill until Reginald arrives. Outside of Ella, he’ll be the only family member I’ve seen since coming to Charlestown. I never wanted anyone to see me dressed this way, living in this dump, in this state of mind. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe it’s family that I need most. To remind me who I am at my core.

  In my last letter to Ella, I asked her to send some new pens. I’m using mine up quickly writing all those words from the dictionary. I’m already at B.

  Buoyant. Adjective. Capable of floating; cheerful.

  Studying the dictionary helps pass the time. It feels familiar, like I’m back home at the kitchen table. My brothers and sisters surrounding me. Mom telling another story about her voyage to Canada, where the Marcus Garvey convention took place in the early 1900s. That’s where she met Papa. I’ve got my books in hand, we all do, and we’re absorbing her every word like a gospel hymn.

  The bell rings for lunch. “Line up!” the guard calls.

  In the mess hall, I spot a brother who looks just like Shorty. Enough for me to almost ask if he is related to a Malcolm Jarvis. Pretty wild that Shorty and I are both from Lansing and both named Malcolm. Two needles in a haystack found each other like a couple of long-lost twins, years apart in age, destined to meet that day Fat Frankie hustled me out of forty dollars. Back then, I was so green, they couldn’t call me Red. Shorty knew I was young, probably because I was tall and lanky and always had a book in my back pocket. But after he showed me the ropes, he never treated me like some kid again. He respected me.

  I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for Shorty teaching me everything he knew and then some.

  “Heard you ain’t eating pork no more.”

  Chucky stands in front of me, blocking my path to the tables, and I reel back from the stench of his hot breath and rotting teeth. Most of us don’t have toothbrushes, but I keep my teeth clean with a piece of washrag. He has some nerve coming up in my face about anything but what he owes. Then I remember, Reginald will be here soon. I’ll be free. And this fool will still be in this filthy cage. Just have to play it cool, like Shorty taught me. Like Bembry showed me.

  “Yeah, who you hear that from?”

  Chucky is startled by my response, probably expecting me to beg him to pay up. He digs deeper.

  “Oh, you know everybody talking about it,” he says, a laugh in his voice. “‘Little don’t eat no pork no more.’ Folks trying to figure out what you getting at.”

  “Nothing. Except wondering why everybody is all in my business. Most of all, you.”

  “Strange, that’s all. You ain’t have a problem with it before.”

  “Just staying away from it. Never ate it as a kid. Not eating it now.”

  “So you and your family too good for what’s being served here? Thinking you better than everyone else?”

  I grip the tray tight, swallowing back the urge to shove it in his face. I have a fire pit deep in my belly. Especially when it comes to my family. Chucky is trying to coax that fire out of me, trying to push any button to set me off.

  And it’s working.

  Right as I’m about to shove my tin plate down his throat … I hear my number called.

  “22843. Little! Visitation, line up.”

  My blood is racing as I head into the visitors’ center. Ella is early. But that’s not what’s on my mind. I’m wondering how I’m going to deal with Chucky. He keeps pushing me to the edge, and now he’s bringing my family into it. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t see her right away. If I was paying attention, I would’ve noticed the way she stood out in her blue dress. And Mom’s blue coat.

  Hilda.

  My feet stop dead in their tracks and the guard pushes me forward. Hilda smiles at me, her lips painted a dark red.

  This is a dream, I tell myself, looking for all the ways I could make myself wake up. I pinch my arm, bite my tongue, hold my breath.

  “Hello, Malcolm,” she says.

  Her voice. It’s exactly how I remembered. Stern, crisp, yet soft around the edges. I blink once. Then again.

  We sit at the table and I watch her examine the room, carefully. Taking in every detail.

  “You’re … here,” I blurt out.

  She smiles slightly.

  “I told you I would come, and I’ve always been a woman of my word.”

  She takes a handkerchief out her purse, holding it to her mouth and nose for a brief moment, and she dabs each corner of her eyes.

  “I … I didn’t know nothing about you coming.”

  “Anything. You didn’t know anything about me coming. Ella didn’t tell you? You didn’t get my last letter? I said I was buying a ticket. Would’ve come sooner but I had to find a proper place to stay. Whatever happened to your Green Book we sent you east with?”

  “It’s at Ella’s,” I say.

  “Well, I can see why you changed. This city is just so … busy. It’s even busier than Detroit.”

  “Wait. A place to stay? You moved to Boston?”

  “Didn’t want Ella taking on all the trouble of seeing you. Must be wearing on her. But, more than anything, I didn’t want you feeling abandoned by your family. Everybody needs their family, Malcolm. We’re always with you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  At that moment, it didn’t matter where I was or what Chucky knew. My eldest sister was with me now. Not just in letters. In the flesh.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, unaware of how badly I needed to hear those words. I want to hug her but I’m too afraid.

  Hilda doesn’t look as stressed as Ella does when she visits. She’s composed, regal, radiant. A light this place has never seen. Hilda and I were always close. The sister I knew since the day I was born, my sister who took care of me longer than Ella, Papa, Mom, or anyone else.

  “Well,” she huffs. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. We need to fatten you up once you’re home.”

  “Home? You’re working with Reginald, too?”

  Her face falls.

  “Reginald? No, my love, I’m working with Ella. We’ve been writing letters, petitioning for your transfer. You don’t belong here. This is no place for any human being to live. I don’t care what they say you or any of these young men did. Who died and made them God?”

  I swallow, my heart racing. “Oh. Yeah, yeah. Right.”

  She doesn’t know. But if Reginald has a hustle that will get me out of here, I don’t want her caught up in it. I nod my head, smiling. I’m just so happy she’s here. That I have more family nearby than I’ve had in years.

  “Although, I know Reginald wants to talk to you. Some things … well, it’s better that he shares his plan with you himself.”

  * * *

  “By order of the president, the Executive Order abolishes discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion or national origin in the United States Armed Forces.”

  Norm grips the edges of the newspaper, sitting on top of the table in the common area, a big smile on his face as he reads aloud. I’m still stuck on the headline splashed across the front.

  PRESIDENT TRUMAN WIPES OUT SEGREGATION IN ARMED FORCES

  Norm sounds like he’s chewing glass as he reads, wincing through every word. It’s painful to the ear. Maybe he should study the dictionary, too.

  One table over, Big Lee and Bembry are playing dominoes. On the opposite end of the table, Chucky’s head pops up as Norm reads, almost in disbelief at what he’s hearing.

  “So that means we colored folk can join the army and fight with the white boys?” Big Lee asks from behind me.

  “Yup.” Norm folds the paper. “No more all-Negro units. Equal pay, equal rights, equal everything.”

  “Man, I can’t wait. I’m going to enlist first opportunity I get,” Norm says, grinning.

  “You want to join the army?” Walter asks. “Why in the world would you wanna do that?” We all turn and look at Norm, waiting for his answer.

&nb
sp; “Man, why not?” Norm scoffs. “That’s good honest work right there. They dress you up in a fine uniform. You get to travel the world. Fight for our country. Fight for freedom. You get to be a real man alongside them white folk!”

  “Freedom?” I snap. “Whose freedom?”

  The question catches us both off guard. I wasn’t sure where it came from. Someplace I had long hidden from myself.

  Norm trips over his words, fixing his mouth to defend himself.

  “Well, ours. From the … well, you know.” He clicks his tongue, real nervous like, avoiding my eyes. “Hey! Come on y’all, the game’s about to start!”

  It’s 1948. A new season of baseball. Means I’ve been here for two years. Guards stop letting us use the kitchen. They’ve been tightening their grip around our necks the past few weeks. Random cell inspections, lineups, head counts, clean-ups—more heavy-handed than usual. They’ve even started confiscating things they once let slide. Reefer, nutmeg, loosies. We always had an understanding of sorts. But all those unwritten rules vanish. Something has spooked them.

  Everyone gathers around the small radio propped up on the table. It’ll be impossible to hear the game in here today. Not that I’m not taking bets anymore, it just doesn’t have the same meaning.

  “Not interested in the game?” Bembry asks as he cleans up a set of dominoes.

  “I am,” I lie. Don’t want anyone to know about the storm brewing inside me. “You hear Norm talking all that junk about joining the army?”

  Bembry silently puts the pieces away as I join him.

  “Wild, right?” I continue, trying to distract myself. “I just don’t understand why Norm would want to fight for a country that doesn’t even consider him equal. I don’t get that. A slave … I mean a job he’s willing to risk his life for? Not like they’re gonna make him a general, or give him back a piece of the land his ancestors toiled in return, so he can have the freedom to mind his own business and care for his family. He thinks he’s gonna see the world from a free man’s perspective? He’ll probably just end up mopping the barracks or washing some white soldier’s dirty briefs. Why wouldn’t he want better for himself?”