The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  I can feel my father’s teachings like a beating drum through my bloodstream, coming alive, threatening to come out my pores, but I fight it. Who am I to tell anyone who they should or shouldn’t be?

  Up, up, you mighty race!

  Bembry pins me with his eyes. A look I’m not used to. He folds his hands on the table with a sigh.

  “You hear that boy Jackie Robinson there?” Bembry says, nodding over his shoulder.

  I glance at the other cats, gathering around the broke radio, faces tense, leaning in to hear as best they could.

  “Jackie’s showing them white boys what we made of.”

  Bembry stands up, dusting his hands before tucking the domino set under his armpit.

  “Sometimes, you got to play to beat folks at their own game. Not focus on showing them up, but showing them another way of winning. We win more when we are together. That message is worth more than all the words you can ever muster. But you can’t win nothing from outside the field, and you can’t win alone.”

  * * *

  Always prided myself on being a good student, taking detailed notes, and asking the right questions. When I was a kid, I began writing a book, but I kept starting over every time I made a mistake because I needed it to be perfect. I’d sit with my mom when she was working on Mr. Garvey’s Negro World newspaper or I’d go out in our backyard when I really wanted to gather my thoughts.

  But it’s hard to concentrate knowing Reginald is only a few days away. I’ve done everything he’s told me. Stopped smoking, stayed away from reefer and nutmeg, and haven’t even touched an ounce of pork. I sent him a simple letter: I’m ready, I’m clean, come get me.

  I’m ready for whatever Reginald is cooking up.

  Finite. Adjective. Having definite or definable limits; having a limited nature or existence.

  I write at least ten words a day. Already gone through two notebooks and I’m trying to write smaller, fitting more than one word on each line if I can. My penmanship is improving in just a matter of weeks. I feel lighter, knowing that at any moment, I’ll be free from this place.

  Hilda comes to see me twice a week. Every other visit, she tries to tell me more about the Nation of Islam, but I’m really not interested in any type of religious talk.

  “Well, Yvonne and I haven’t joined the NOI, but all of your brothers have because it’s much like the work that Papa was doing and it’s the closest religion out here that offers salvation to Black people. Everybody in Detroit says this man is the messenger of God in the flesh and that he is a savior.

  “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad is helping us discover our history and how to thrive in the world together. That’s important to every human being, Malcolm. He’s helping our people. Maybe he really is a Black savior.”

  I listen, but really all I’m interested in hearing is how Hilda is enjoying Boston. Maybe when Reginald gets me out of here, I can convince her to stay. We can find a spot together or maybe we can all move in with Ella. She has three floors plus an attic. Her house is big enough. We can all live under the same roof, and be a real family again.

  * * *

  “The smartest people in the world have the best vocabulary,” Bembry says as we gather in the common area, waiting for suppertime. “You don’t win fights with your fist, you win fights with your words. Doctors, lawyers, politicians, theologians … they all use words to prove their point.”

  Growing up, I wanted to be a lawyer. Had the grades and the résumé for it. Best in class. They even voted me class president. But then my teacher asked what I wanted to be; his answer haunts me to this day:

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Niggers can’t be lawyers.”

  Felicitous. Adjective.Very well suited or expressed; apt.

  His answer made me question all that Papa and Mom taught me. How could his words contradict theirs? How could I be anything, do anything if to the world, I’m just a nigger? If being “just a nigger” while believing I can be my best self could get me killed—like Papa—then why bother trying?

  From that day on, the thought of being in school made me sick to my stomach. But here I am, learning again.

  Except, I’m still in Charlestown. I’m in a prison.

  Soon enough, though, Reginald is going to bust me out of here.

  I’m itching for freedom and I can’t sit still. I can almost taste home. Hilda’s homemade lemon pound cake. A glass of bourbon with my name on it, calling me.

  Felicity. Adjective. The quality or state of being happy; especially: great happiness.

  The warden walks into the unit with a crew of guards surrounding him. He’s been walking around with more white businessmen in black suits, white shirts, and hard pudgy faces, talking in fast, hushed whispers. I can spot a scheme cooking from a mile away. Something is about to go down, just wish I knew what.

  Today, they seem to be measuring the height and width of the cells, taking notes and muttering plans.

  “Hey,” I whisper to Bembry, nodding over my shoulder. “What’s happening there?”

  Bembry sighs over his domino pieces. “They’re about to add more of us in here. Soon enough, you won’t have your own cell anymore. There’ll be two or three more bodies in there with you.”

  My cell is six by seven feet. I can barely fit in it alone. The walls have inched in over the year, and just the thought of three of us sharing that one bucket makes my chest tighten and my blood boil. They can’t add more of us! We’re filled to the brim. Overflowing. Drowning.

  Reginald can’t come soon enough.

  CHAPTER 10

  Children have a lesson adults should learn, to not be ashamed of failing, but to get up and try again. Most of us [adults] are … so cautious … and therefore so … rigid and afraid that it is why so many humans fail.

  —MALCOLM X

  When I was fired from my slave with the railroad, I became my own boss. Everyone knew me at the best clubs and shows around Harlem.

  My daily routine: wake up sometime in the afternoon, grab some breakfast, check in with friends, head to the movies to kill time, and then check in at the supper club to watch the big bands or catch cats for dinner and a drink before making my final rounds for the evening.

  Movies were my obsession. Ask me about a movie, and I’d probably seen it! Maybe even twice. When you hustled, it was best to keep a low profile. The dark cover of the movie theater was the best way to keep money in your pocket, stay out of sight from the cops, and get in touch with the rest of the world. I never traveled in a large circle. Being loud and greedy would put you on the quickest road to prison.

  And ain’t no way I ever wanted to end up in there. Not ever.

  In the picture shows, there were a lot of white women. Beautiful ones. They all made me think of Sophia. Especially that Lana Turner. She had Sophia’s big eyes, her silky strawberry blond hair, her porcelain white skin, even her raspy voice. Harlem had plenty of fine Negro ladies. But Sophia … was one of a kind. She loved me like no other. I missed her up in Boston. The way she purred my name and made me feel … invincible. Man!

  One afternoon, I walked out of Casablanca, headed home to give her a call.

  “Hey there, stranger,” Sophia said, and I could almost picture her wrapping the phone cord around her little pinkie. “I thought you forgot about me.”

  “Oh, little lady, I could never forget about you. In fact, why don’t you pack a bag and come on down and visit me? Getting kinda lonely in Harlem. Could sure use a pretty thang like you to brighten up the place.”

  She giggled. “Say, that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I can take the train down this weekend. Will you meet me at the station?”

  “I got you!”

  “Then … I guess it’s settled,” she said, but something caught in her throat.

  “What’s the matter? You sound a little … reluctant.”

  “Oh no, darling, never that, I just … well I just wonder are you ever coming back home, back to Boston?”

  I didn’t expect her to
sound so pained without me. It had been a few years and she’d always seemed sharp as a knife when it came to us. That’s what I liked most about her—her cunning confidence—but maybe the distance had changed things.

  “My home is Harlem,” I said, urging myself not to fall for her games.

  “But, I miss you.”

  The way she said it, I almost believed her. But then, how badly could she miss me when she acted as if there wasn’t a chance we could really be together?

  Not that we could. Not that the world would allow it.

  The doorbell rang downstairs. I looked out the window but saw no one on the stoop.

  “Hey, doll, someone’s at the door. I’ll call you right back.”

  “But I—”

  I hung up fast, slipping the pistol out of my jacket pocket.

  I held my breath, inching toward the front door.

  “Who’s there?” I barked.

  “Malcolm?”

  Stunned, I lowered my pistol.

  “Reginald?” I gasped.

  I slipped my gun into my waistband and swung the door open.

  “Well, homeboy, you like a stray cat. I can’t seem to get rid of you!”

  Reginald brightened at the sight of me, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Whew, man, I’m glad you’re home. Wasn’t sure how long I was gonna have to camp out here.”

  He’d gained a few more pounds of muscle and had the faint shadow of a rusty beard growing in.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought you said you missed me,” he chuckled.

  That’s Reginald. Always ducking and dodging any direct questions you threw at him.

  “I haven’t missed you that bad,” I said, slugging him in the arm. “I go from not seeing you in years to seeing you, what, every few months?”

  “Well, uh, there’s been a little mix-up,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I, uh, missed my ship.”

  “You lying.”

  “If I’m lying, I’m buying.” He laughed.

  “Well, guess I’m treating you to dinner!”

  We dropped off his duffel and headed to the Braddock Hotel. I was so excited to see my little brother again, I could barely stop grinning. We talked about everything, from news back at home, his travels around, to my wild stories about Harlem.

  The next ship wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. That meant Reginald and I had plenty of time to hit nightclubs and speakeasies all over the city. Creole Bill’s, the Roxy, the Apollo, and the Paramount. Reginald loved music and, with my connections, I was able to bring him backstage to some of the best shows in town. The guys from Lionel Hampton’s band told him stories of their exploits. Billie Holiday hugged him with the biggest smile, singing “baby brother.” Everyone took to him. We were the tallest with the broadest shoulders wherever we went. Just like Papa. No one would’ve guessed he was just sixteen and I was seventeen. My brother was just that cool.

  “Heh. Well, I’ll be,” Reginald laughed, scooping up copies of my two books, The Green Book and My Bondage and My Freedom by Frederick Douglass. Both had fallen from my pocket right outside Dickie Wells’s spot. “Still carrying around books, I see? What is your obsession with these things?”

  I snatched them out his hands and tucked them back in my jacket pocket.

  “Old habits,” I mumbled.

  He raised an eyebrow. “The Green Book?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I need to hit the road and go down south at a drop of a dime. Need to see it on the map before I agree to follow the bands. You gotta know your living options. I don’t want any problems.”

  Reginald shook his head. “That book is mighty thin. Not many places Negroes are safe.”

  I pressed my jacket, hugging the book to my side as a man stumbled out the door, laying eyes on me with a grin.

  “Red! I’ve been looking for you,” he slurred, turning to Reginald. “This man right here trying to take Bumpy Johnson’s place in Harlem.” He cackled loud enough for the whole block to hear. “Say, man, you got a little something for me?”

  Reginald nodded and stepped aside, always turning a blind eye as I sold reefer to customers. He never asked questions, just went with the flow. Something the rest of my family wouldn’t do.

  When I finished up business, I rejoined Reginald at the corner, leaning on a streetlamp, watching the taxicabs pick up customers. White men stumbling out the bar, Negro women on their arms, hailing taxis to the nearest hotel. They loved coming up to Harlem, loved the warmth and excitement of being with Negroes. But only late at night, under the cover of darkness.

  “You and Wilfred should’ve gone to college,” he said after a few minutes. “All those books you two read. Would’ve gone real far. Maybe even become a professor or a lawyer.”

  I shrugged. “Wilfred was always the smart one.”

  “I was talking about you, too,” he said, a smirk on his lips.

  The hairs on my arms stood up. Quickly, I changed the subject.

  “So, uh, what’s the plan, daddy-o?” I said with a laugh. “You trying to get back on that slave ship or you trying to stay. ’Cause it’s been a week and you’re fitting in pretty good around here. Taking to Harlem like a natural.”

  He shrugged with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind staying for a spell.”

  It had been a long time since I felt the type of happiness that bloomed in my chest. The type of happiness that made me fear losing it.

  “Well, all right. That’s good. But first, we need to find you a hustle.”

  Reginald winced. “You know, I’m not into all that stuff.”

  “I see what you getting at, homeboy. We’ll keep it cool and find you something even better! Just will take a little creativity. All you gotta know is how folks move and think out here. Then find whatever they need more than you do. You can sell water to a well if you meet the right well.”

  He smiled, sipping some whiskey. He had started drinking during this visit. Nice to see him cut loose with me. “How else you think I’m able to keep up with you and all that running your mouth do?”

  Reginald was smart, he’d learn his own way. But I didn’t want him following in my footsteps. I wanted to find him a nice safe hustle, ’cause the white man made it difficult for Negroes to have dignified jobs where you could make a good living. You had to create your own hustle, if you were smart. Then maybe eventually, I’d start looking for a steady, legit slave. Find us a better place, someplace stable for my family.

  “Malcolm, do you ever feel alone out here, all by yourself?”

  Sometimes, I wanted to say but didn’t.

  “Last visit, you, uh, said you wanted to know about Papa,” I said as we head to the next bar.

  “Still do. Sometimes, when I’m out at sea, I feel like I’m out there all alone, sinking.”

  “Anyone tell you that Marcus Garvey would stay at our house … when Papa was president of the Milwaukee chapter?”

  Reginald brightened. “What! Really?”

  “Yes, really. Come on, time to celebrate this new life we about to live in Harlem!”

  * * *

  Around 4:00 a.m. on Friday, coming home from celebrating Reginald’s decision to stay, was when it hit me: Sophia.

  “Uh, hey, homeboy, we gotta find you a room to rent for next weekend,” I said as we entered my place. “Company’s coming.”

  Reginald laughed. “Company that long I have to stay away? Must be a fine piece of company.”

  “Well, Boston ain’t exactly around the corner, you know. It’s Sophia.”

  The spark left his eyes. “Oh.”

  Reginald knew about Sophia. Overheard me talking about her to some fellas from the big band backstage at the Apollo. He sobered up cold at the mention of any white woman since.

  “But, hey, we’ll still break bread this weekend. I want you to meet her! Looks just like that movie star Lana Turner. You’ll like her.”

  “Um, nah. I think I’ll just catch a picture show or so
mething.”

  The apartment steamed up as he turned his back to me. I moved to the kitchen, throwing a couple of ice cubes in a glass with some whiskey, trying to find the right words without sounding bruised.

  “You … don’t want to meet her?”

  Reginald didn’t mince words. “No. And you shouldn’t want to meet her either.”

  My back tensed, the base in his voice jolting. He shoved shirts into his duffel bag, ready to leave.

  “So what is it, because she’s white? You know how many Negroes would kill to be in my shoes? To have a fine white woman like her, wanting ME!”

  Reginald shrugged. “It’s about a lot of things. But I’ll tell you this, though; you stay with that woman for too long and she’ll ruin you. You can kiss this life goodbye.”

  I swallowed.

  “And maybe that’s a good thing,” he continued. “Maybe you’ll come back to your senses. Maybe you’ll finally … wake up and find that woman isn’t good for you.”

  * * *

  The visitors’ center is glowing blue with the sun beaming streams of light inside as I sit waiting anxiously for Reginald to arrive.

  The thoughts turn over and over again in my head. Thinking of all that time Reginald stayed with me in Harlem, the hustles he picked up, the moves he made. Just as I suspected, he learned quick. He could talk himself out of a jam, easy. Everything he learned led us to this moment. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe God hasn’t forgotten about me after all.

  The moment Reginald walks in, I have to pick my mouth up off the floor. I have never seen him look so good! He always dressed sharp but, boy, my brother looks CLEAN, slicker than okra juice in his fresh tailored charcoal-gray suit.

  “Ooooh-weeee … looking good, daddy-o!”

  I reach back to slap him some skin but quickly straighten, glancing at a guard in the corner, forgetting for a split second where we are.

  “It’s good to see you, Malcolm,” Reginald says, real proper like, a steel rod in his back.