The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  “Uh, yeah. Good to see you, too, brother,” I say, playing along.

  We sit at the table and I rub my hands together, nerves like firecrackers. Reginald remains poised and placid (words I picked up in the dictionary). We talk about family, about his new move to Detroit with Philbert, Hilda and her move to Boston. I’m so anxious after weeks of waiting, I nearly explode out my seat.

  “Aight, homeboy, spill it,” I whisper, speaking fast. “What you got cooking? What’s with the no pork, no cigarettes riddle?”

  Reginald stares off into the distance for a moment. Then, as if a surprise thought occurs to him, he looks at me and smiles.

  “Malcolm, if a man knew everything imaginable that there is to know, who would he be?”

  My stomach drops to the ground with that quick, sinking feeling I’m about to hear some bad news or worse, no news at all.

  “Well, um … he would have to be some kind of God—”

  “There is a man who knows everything, and he says he is the messenger of God.”

  The calm and patience in his voice makes me sweat. “Who is that?”

  “God’s name in Arabic is Allah.”

  Allah. I recognize the name from Philbert’s letters. From Hilda’s talks. From the guys in the shop. I’m confused so I don’t say nothing, because I don’t want to seem stupid in front of my little brother. Reginald takes pity on me.

  “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad is a Black man, just like us! Lives in Detroit, that’s where we met him. A small, kind, gentle man who knows the true knowledge of the Black man. That we are descendants of the first man, the original man, in Africa. He is powerful, Malcolm, and he genuinely cares about the welfare of our people. Much like Papa did.”

  There’s a brightness in his eyes I didn’t notice before. The same peacefulness that shines from Hilda. As if they both ate stardust for dinner.

  Reginald goes on to tell me about this Elijah Muhammad, who proclaims himself the Messenger of Allah. About his practices and his vision.

  “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad says Negroes must be taught the knowledge of self, our real self. He said during slavery we were systemically taught that God did not create us as equals to the white man. That He created us to be their slaves. They are corrupt, brother, not you!” He looks me square in the eye. “They forced their ungodly ways on us and created this desperation in us to survive and thrive, a desperation as men when all we really want is to take care of our women and our families. The Negro was taught to take THEIR names, their fake religion, and their identity … We don’t know where we came from, or who we are, or our true family name.”

  “Little,” I counter, baffled.

  “No. That was a name given to our father, which was given to his father and his father. We had a clear identity before the white man went to Africa and disrupted our sovereignty; kidnapped millions of men, women, and children; and imposed HIS savagery and corruption on us, Malcolm. Mom used to tell us similar stories. Remember? This is the same work of Mr. Garvey and Papa. Strong men, Malcolm, who are powerful, organized intellectuals. Elijah Muhammad is the messenger of God and HE is going to help you get out of this place.”

  My head is swirling. My entire body is on fire, the disappointment and anger raging through me. All this time … I thought he had a plan—a real plan.

  I stand up quick and Reginald leans back to look up at me. My fist balls up, tears pinching behind my eyes.

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” I say through clenched teeth and walk away.

  I should have known; if they couldn’t get Mom out of that hospital, how in the hell are they going to break me out of this shithole?

  * * *

  The nutmeg in my system makes it hard to focus on the monotony in the shop. Bembry frets over the paint I’m spilling, but I’m too numb to hear or care.

  I receive letters almost daily from Philbert and Wilfred, urging me to become a Muslim and join the Nation of Islam. All my brothers accepted this new religion. They were together. I was once again on the outside, alone.

  Reginald was smart; he leaned into my hustle spirit and knew the only way he’d get me to listen to anything he had to say. He snatched the rug out from under me. Of all my siblings, I trusted him most to understand. I may never forgive him.

  Reginald visits again. Explaining more about Allah and Elijah Muhammad, how the acts of white people were systemically designed against us and against the coloreds in the world. That they are the acts of the devil and that their time is up. Black people are waking up from hundreds of years of self-loathing and brainwashing.

  “It’s what Papa would’ve wanted,” he says.

  I feel myself tip into a fit of rage. “How do you know what Papa would’ve wanted? How do any of us know? He was lynched by those crackers!”

  “Yes, Papa was killed by a mob of white people who were enraged by his independence and success,” Reginald corrects. “The mob beat our father like an animal. They tied him up and placed him on the tracks and stood there to watch an oncoming streetcar sever his body. Cut one of his legs off entirely. There’s a pattern here, you must see it. That’s evil and criminal, brother. We’re expected to remain helpless and love the people who were our kidnappers, our torturers, our lawmakers. The same people who disrupted our livelihoods are also our educators, too.” My brother remains composed as he speaks. “Just think about every white person with whom you’ve ever come in contact. What good have they done for you or for these people in here?”

  * * *

  When I think of all the white people in my life—the Klan who killed my dad; the government officials who threw my mother into an asylum; the social workers who systematically tore apart our family and took our family land; the kids that I genuinely liked but who called me nigger; my favorite teacher, Mr. Ostrowski, who called me foolish for thinking I could be a lawyer to help people; the guards; the police who harassed me; the judge who sentenced me; Sophia …

  My mind races down a rabbit hole in my tiny cell with no way out, stomach twisting until I vomit into a half-filled bucket. Yeah, I took that watch, but there was not one white person in my life who treated me with decency, who respected me wholeheartedly … as an equal, as a human. A human being with feelings.

  I had believed everything they’d said as if they’d earned Black people’s trust. But I see now they could never imagine us being anything more than niggers. I conked my hair to make it as flat and smooth as theirs. I even put all my hopes of freedom into Sophia.

  Papa taught me better.

  I look up, noticing Bembry standing outside my cell.

  “Boy, you were going down a good path,” he says, disappointment in his voice. “Making improvement. Whatever’s haunting you, young brother, don’t let it take you under again. Don’t let them win. What sense does it make leaving this place the same way you came in?”

  He softly lays a booklet on my bed. David Walker’s Appeal to the Coloured Citizens of the World.

  * * *

  Fearing new nightmares, I stay awake, pacing in my cell. Despite the pain of my disappointment, Reginald’s words are hard to ignore, ringing in my ear like the loudest bell.

  But I have at least six more years here. His truths don’t bring the same comfort as the taste of freedom.

  The booklet stares up at me, untouched. I have to save myself. I have to start at the root. If I stay this way, feeding into the darkness, I’ll either end up in the hole for life or hanging from the ceiling. Either way, they win.

  They win again.

  I pick up the booklet Bembry left, sit by the bars, straining to see in the low light as I open to page one.

  * * *

  The rainstorm picks up speed. Hail rocks slap the windows and bars with buckets of water. With our shop flooding, they assign us to cleanup duty, to mop up water and patch leaks throughout Charlestown. The funk of wet bodies mixed with mold and humidity is suffocating.

  “Maybe this place will flood and turn into Noah’s ark
,” Big Lee says, staring out the window, mop in hand.

  “God has no business saving us sinners,” Norm says matter-of-factly.

  Walter clicks his tongue. “Oh, so God don’t have to show no compassion for us that He insists we must have for others to enter His heavenly kingdom. That’s some bull!”

  In an instant, a debate erupts. More religious talk. But this time, I don’t want to run away. This time, I pay attention.

  “Maybe a flood would wipe out all the white devils and return the land to its rightful inhabitants,” Walter says smugly. “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad is a messenger of Allah in the flesh. He says the time of the white man is running out. That he committed the greatest sin against humanity.”

  “Elijah Muhammad is no messenger from God.” Big Lee laughs. “Jesus is white and He is the flesh-and-blood Son of God.”

  “The Honorable Elijah Muhammad,” Walter corrects him, “says Jesus was a prophet. Allah is the Arabic name for God.”

  There are only three followers of Elijah Muhammad here at Charlestown.

  Thunder cracks, lightning flashes through the sky. Now knowing that my brothers are all Muslim, I listen with both ears to the conversation, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. Still have to question, though. Mom used to say I was a born leader, always searching for the answers before I make a final decision.

  * * *

  After I finish David Walker’s Appeal, I begin reading W. E. B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk.

  The equality in political, industrial and social life which modern men must have in order to live, is not to be confounded with sameness. On the contrary, in our case, it is rather insistence upon the right of diversity;—upon the right of a human being to be a man even if he does not wear the same cut of vest, the same curl of hair or the same color of skin.

  Reading in my cell brings a familiar comfort I thought I had forgotten. I remembered hearing Papa mention this man, W. E. B. Du Bois, before. Unlike Garvey, who wanted us to be a self-sustaining people, Du Bois believed that Black people should have the same rights and were entitled to the same benefits as any other American citizen. He sounded just as frustrated with the economic conditions that Black folks have been forced to tolerate. While Garvey ultimately wanted us to return to Africa and control the wealth of our own resources, Du Bois wanted to stay here, to integrate, and be acknowledged for having an American identity.

  But like Reginald said … How can we be expected to work, trust, and break bread with the very people that criminally and psychologically enslaved us?

  * * *

  The bell rings. Dinnertime. I shuffle through the mess hall, get in line waiting for the unidentifiable mush they call food. Haven’t slept nor eaten much of anything in days. But I keep moving and keep reading. Can’t let them win. I won’t let them win.

  Guards stand close, batons in hands. New fresh-faced guards to replace the elders. The type that waits for anyone to take one step out of line. Hit blindly, ask questions later. I steer clear of them.

  From my table, I watch Chucky enter the mess hall with an innocent skip in his step. A guard’s bright blue eyes follow him. He steps in Chucky’s direction.

  “Hey. I said, hey, you! Come here. What are you doing?”

  Chucky doesn’t seem too concerned. Not like the rest of us. He has a fool’s confidence.

  “Who me?” Chucky says with a smile. “I’m just walking. Sir.”

  “Shut your mouth,” the guard screams, spit flying out his mouth.

  Chucky’s grin straightens to a thin line. A hush comes over the mess hall. A few of the other guards surround him.

  “Hands on the wall. Now!”

  Chucky looks around the room. “I was … I was just going to get something to eat.”

  “I said quiet!” The guard slams him against the concrete wall.

  Mack steps out from behind the counter. The rest of us keep our heads down over our cold broth. Hearts pounding fast. Instinctively wanting to protect Chucky from this bully. Though Chucky’s not what you’d call a friend, a bully’s a bully in uniform or not.

  But all we can do is just sit, seething.

  “What seems to be the problem, Jefferson?” a guard says.

  “Inmate here is having trouble following orders.”

  They throw him against the wall again, shoving his face hard as they search him.

  I glance up in time to see one of them pull a pile of loosies out of his uniform pocket. My heart stops as thunder roars over our heads.

  “Well, what do we have here?” Jefferson says with a smirk.

  Chucky looks over his shoulder, his eyes flaring, face oozing blood.

  “What?!”

  “Is that why you skipped work duty? Peddling around this stuff.”

  Chucky’s eyes go wilder as he tries to shake free.

  “I didn’t! I didn’t skip work duty. Those are just mine. To smoke, you know? I’m not selling nothing.”

  “Don’t lie, nigger!”

  They let him up off the wall and he whimpers. The five guards surrounding Chucky don’t look much older than me.

  Jefferson smiles. “Time-out. Let’s go.”

  He turns to one of the young guards with him, smiling. “What you think? A couple of nights in the hole would help him remember who’s in charge here?”

  In an instant, Chucky’s bloody face turns gray.

  “Nnnn-ooo, I can’t do that,” he mutters, “I c-c-c-can’t do that.”

  “Are you challenging me, boy?”

  Chucky starts breathing funny, hyperventilating. The rest of the brothers at the table sit stunned. He looks over to us, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Help me!”

  But there’s nothing we can do.

  “Please, you … you don’t understand. I can’t do that. I can’t … I can’t be in the dark. I don’t like the dark. I can’t be in the dark.”

  The guards look at one another, laughing as they reach for him.

  Chucky’s fists ball up, swatting them away with a grunt, air whistling between his teeth. “You son of a bitch, I said NO!”

  The entire mess hall turns, all the air leaving the room at once.

  Jefferson frowns.

  “What did you say?”

  I don’t like Chucky much, but I can’t take knowing he’s about to die right in front of my eyes.

  Batons are drawn, and Chucky backs into the wall, a trapped animal. Walter attempts to stand but Bembry holds him back, shaking his head. Mack steps forward, his bottom lip quivering.

  “No! Please, NO! I’m not going. I’m not!” Chucky wails like a baby as they inch closer to him.

  I close my eyes and try to hum, but all I can hear are batons hitting skin and bones, blood splattering, until he stops screaming.

  Until he’s silent.

  * * *

  “You think he’s dead?” Norm asks, picking at his bread.

  No one at the table answers or has to ask who he’s talking about. Last we heard, Chucky was sent down to the hole directly from the nurse’s station. That was almost two weeks ago. But with a beating like that, it’s hard to say how he’ll come out. If he’ll come out.

  That could’ve been me, I think, still shivering at the thought. I sent a letter to Hilda, telling her about the new guards. How they’ve become even more vicious and savage. How we all walk around on eggshells. She sent a short letter back:

  If you take one step toward God, He will take two steps toward you.

  I don’t know what type of step I have to take, but I’d give anything to be saved.

  Bembry sighs. “Isolation down in that hole is torture. They put brothers as young as fifteen down there.”

  My mouth goes dry as I picture myself in Chucky’s shoes. Lying on that freezing concrete, in pitch blackness, the filth, the rodents, the tears, the agony. Time no longer existing.

  “I just don’t understand why he was fighting back,” Norm flusters. “If he just did what they said, they wouldn’t have taken to
beating him like they did.”

  Mack hobbles out the kitchen and leans on the table. “He’s still alive.”

  There’s a collective sigh of relief from the table.

  “Is he all right?” Big Lee mumbles.

  “Hard to tell; they didn’t do much to patch him up. Even when they dragged him out of here, they were still pouncing on him and I think he was already knocked out. Could have lost his mind before he went to the hole, with that kind of warfare.”

  Norm scratches his head. “Mack, what you know about him?”

  Mack sits at the table, folding his hands.

  “He served in the war. Fought for that freedom you think we have.”

  I nearly drop my cup. The entire table leans back as if Mack placed a bomb in the middle of it. Even cool-as-a-cucumber Bembry is stunned.

  “Yup. Wasn’t even drafted. Went willingly.”

  “Then … what happened?” Norm encourages him, hand covering his mouth.

  Mack shrugs. “He came home.”

  “He came home” had a sting to it. A sting of knowing that overseas, where you’re killing people, you’re treated better than in your own country. That you can fight for your country, risk your life for your country, but you have no rights in your country.

  “He should’ve never come home,” I say softly. “That could’ve been any one of us in that hole right now. He don’t deserve that. None of us do.”

  “Inmate 22843!”

  The entire table jumps at the guard’s bark. Mack rushes back to the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, standing, trying to remain calm.

  “Warden wants to see you. Now.”

  * * *

  Two of the new guards lead me to the warden’s office. My hands are clammy, pinched in front of me, the cuffs tight. Mouth full of cotton, I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I’ve been called to the warden’s office for. In all my time here, I’ve only heard of a few people being called, then never seen again. From what I heard, the hole is nearly full. And they’re not just throwing cats in there for a few days but weeks and months at a time. We may never see Chucky again. What if that’s it? What if they read my letter to Hilda, talking about Chucky? What if they do the same to me?