The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  Winslow shakes his head, grabbing a folder. “And then there are these letters. They are preposterous,” Winslow fumes, shaking a stack of notes in his hand. I recognize my handwriting on the paper that Ella had sent me. He snatches one from the pile, a letter originally sent to President Truman, and rips it open.

  I fold my hands in front of me, remaining unshaken.

  “I respectfully disagree, sir,” I say, sitting across from him.

  When I did not receive replies, I assumed some censorship had occurred. For a brief insane moment, I really thought that I was a free man in here. Thought I had the rights and privileges to free speech, to send mail, like any other man in this country.

  But I have discovered quickly that in no way would a white bigot allow Black people to call out their immorality until they themselves are ready for change. They would rather die than see their own reflection.

  Winslow shakes his head again, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.

  “After all the progress you’ve made here … school, debate team, the victories … this is the hill you choose to die on? Do you have any idea who you’re writing to? All this stuff about white people being the devil, when you’re lucky to be alive! We’ve taken good care of you here. What more could you ask for?”

  Something occurs to me that I’ve always known but haven’t fully processed: I’ll never just be a man, even outside these walls. I will always be a Black man. My desire for equality is a burden and an insult in white eyes. So they lock us up, mute our voices.

  But what they have in body, they cannot take in spirit.

  “It’s my religious right,” I say simply.

  “You understand that I can’t allow you to stay here if you don’t obey.”

  I know what is about to happen and the thought crystallizes in my soul. They’re sending me back to Charlestown. I should be scared. But I’m not.

  What man can tip you over when you’re so deeply rooted?

  CHAPTER 14

  You’re not supposed to be so blind with patriotism that you can’t face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or who says it.

  —MALCOLM X

  “Y’all ready?”

  The group of white kids formed a semicircle around me like a half moon in a large field behind our home.

  “I thought we were gonna play baseball,” Young Jimmy said, with bat in hand. “You always break us up into teams. What are we doing now?”

  Philbert and Reginald hung back by the wooden shed near the edge of our property, watching me direct our neighbors.

  “Nah, I have a better game than baseball,” I said. “I have a game where some of you guys can pretend to be rich lords and ladies or princesses.”

  The girls perked up. “What does that mean?”

  “Yeah, nigger. What you getting at? Ain’t nothing better than baseball!”

  I smirked. “The game is called Robin Hood.”

  “What’s that?”

  The kids inched closer. Some of them had never heard the story before. We may have been the only Black kids in our neighborhood, but we for sure had more education than most of those white kids. More property, too. That’s why they always came to play at our house.

  By the time I finished explaining the game, the white kids were excited. As they broke into groups and scurried off to claim their imaginary land and castles, I tried my hardest to keep a smile off my face.

  “Told you it would work!” I said to Philbert.

  Philbert laughed. “Man, you sure can talk your way out of a paper bag.”

  I chuckled and turned to Reginald. “You’re gonna be in my gang.”

  “Gang for what? What are we doing?”

  “We’re gonna steal all their gold and money!”

  Reginald frowns. “What? We’re gonna steal from them? You’re wild, they’ll kill us!”

  “No, Reginald! I’m Robin Hood and those kids are the ones whose money we’re gonna take. Got it?”

  “It’s pretend,” Philbert added, rubbing Reginald’s little head.

  Reginald bit his nails. “But … stealing is wrong.”

  “Not when you’re taking from the rich to give to the poor!”

  “It’s wrong either way,” he shoots back.

  “Man, you’re just being a baby.” I waved him off. “You don’t get it.”

  “You’re a kid, too, and you don’t get it either.”

  “But they’re white. You know how much they take from us! Don’t you listen to Mom when she reads her papers and Papa’s letters?”

  “Still not right,” Reginald shouted.

  Philbert straightened, eyes toggling between us. “Now hang on, I—”

  “Reginald, it’s just a game!”

  Reginald looked me in the eyes. Even as a tiny child, he had an old soul. His fists tightened before he turned away with a huff. “I’m not playing with you anymore. It’s not funny. We shouldn’t be stealing from them. I’m telling Mom!”

  “We’re not really stealing! We’re taking, but then we’re giving it to the folks who really need it. Don’t you want to help people?”

  “Wrong is wrong,” he spat before storming off into the woods.

  * * *

  The smell greets me first. The buckets filled with shit, piss, and vomit. In the fifteen months I was away, I learn, not much has changed in Charlestown. The guards are tighter, stricter, abusing their power like sullen children.

  Norfolk evicted anyone who refused the shot, including Shorty and Ozzy. The look on their faces as we go through intake immediately reminds me of my first day in Charlestown. Panic and fear wrapped in shock. There is no way to prepare them. They have to experience it for themselves.

  But with my newfound wisdom, I feel invincible, shielded. Nothing can break me.

  Now that I’ve returned with my purpose, these walls cannot contain me. Their water hoses feel like dripping faucets. Their shouts fall on deaf ears. I’ve soared over them higher than they realize.

  * * *

  5HK-112. 5HK-113. 5HK-114. 5HK-115.

  * * *

  My old post in the shop is waiting for me. Next to Bembry. I can hardly contain my excitement upon seeing him; he hasn’t changed a day. I give him a debriefing on the Norfolk library, all the books I read, debates I conquered, articles I wrote for The Colony paper, and my letters with the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. He nods, but seems indifferent. Unimpressed. I thought he, above everyone, would be proud of my turnaround.

  On break, Bembry waits until the men step out to stretch their legs before leaning across the conveyor belt.

  “How much do you know about this Nation of Islam?”

  The familiar feeling of distrust slips under my skin. I clear my throat. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugs. “Something don’t sit right with me about them.”

  “Helping Black men free themselves of self-hate … doesn’t sit right with you?”

  His eyes narrow, face flushing red. “I’ve been around for a long while, Malcolm,” he starts, his raspy voice low. “Studied what I could from who I could. I’m not one to tell another man what to do with his life or which God to serve. But the idea that a man, a human just like you and me, can take a religion that outdates us all and twist it to his own predilection, seems wrong. And dangerous. To call himself a messenger, that he has the ear of God … That sounds a bit suspicious to me.”

  “How is it any different from any other sect of Christianity? The Bible, a story handed down for eons, has been translated so many times, no one knows its true origins. And we Black people were forced to practice Christianity, forced to worship the God of our captors.”

  Bembry sighs like a disappointed father.

  “When a man sees himself as a prophet, he can do no wrong. But no man is perfect. Everyone has flaws and it seems like he’s preying on the wounded. You’ll see soon enough.”

  I continue to school Bembry on the different sects of Christianity, even as the other brothers rejoin us. They whisper
among themselves, watching our interaction. He’s challenging Mr. Muhammad. The man who saved my life and showed me the light. The man who is much like my father. My heart cracks. Could Bembry be brainwashed like the other lost Negroes in this prison?

  “There is only one God. Allah is the Arabic word for God. We pray to the same God as Christians and Jews. It’s not too late for you, Bembry. You should write to Mr. Muhammad and see for yourself.”

  Bembry stares at me. I have a full beard now and broad shoulders. I’m no longer the scared little boy, lashing out, that I was when I first came to Charlestown.

  I’m more a man now than ever.

  He tips his chin up, then returns to his work in silence. I do the same, standing taller than before.

  * * *

  With no ventilation, the walls of the visitors’ center are saturated with mold sliding down from the ceiling. Children cough, old women wave church fans, some women keep tissues over their noses in order not to inhale the toxic smell. Charlestown tries to punish our loved ones as much as they punish us.

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum,” I say as I approach the table where my brother sits. I’ve been practicing the Arabic greeting, hoping my pronunciation would impress my family when they finally came to see me here again. The few Muslim inmates here have taken to me like a long-lost brother. And in many ways, I was lost.

  Reginald nods, but he doesn’t respond back in the standard greeting of Wa-Alaikum As-Salaam. I’m not offended, but I’m alarmed nonetheless. He doesn’t seem like himself. Clothes disheveled, hair frazzled, knee tapping as if he’s sending a telegram. Only time I’ve seen someone like this, is if they were coming off a high.

  “Brother, what’s wrong?” I ask directly.

  He looks over his shoulder, eyes bouncing between faces until he looks directly at me.

  “Did you get my letter?” he asks, his voice shaky, eyes glazed over.

  “Uh, yes. But I could barely read it. Doctor said I’ve developed some kind of astigmatism, from all the reading I did at Norfolk. Getting glasses this week.”

  “Really,” he says, voice trailing off. He rubs his hands together. “Did Papa wear glasses, too? I can’t remember.”

  The mention of Papa makes my stomach clench. Reginald’s doing that thing again, bringing up anything and everything before reaching the point because he knows I’ll give it to him straight. He moves about in his chair as if fire ants were crawling up his legs. He’s hurt.

  “Yes, Papa wore glasses. Reginald, what’s going on?”

  Reginald pales, looking left then right. There are quite a few other inmates in the visitors’ center with us. “I have to tell you something. But I want you to use your own discernment. Don’t do anything rash on account of me.”

  My hands start to sweat. “Okay, man, I’m listening.”

  “I hate to tell you this, brother. Not after I was the one who … brought you in. But … we’ve been led astray.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tears well in his eyes. He’s shaking. “Elijah Muhammad. He is not what he professes.”

  I lean forward, my back a steel rod.

  “Reginald, what’s going on? You high?”

  “No, Malcolm! I know what I’m saying. I’ve been … released, suspended. From the Nation.”

  “Suspended! Why?”

  “They said I was having relations, with a secretary, from the New York Temple.”

  “But that’s not true, right?”

  “You know I practice moral restraint. Always have.” Reginald shakes his head. “Listen, Allah knows our heart and He knows our deeds. What matters is what was told to Mr. Muhammad. But he’s made an example of me. He has used many of us as pawns. We’re disposable. He has his own agenda, his own desires. This isn’t true Islam.”

  “How can you say that?” Islam means more to me than anything in my entire life. It’s all I have. It’s Papa and Mom. It’s our family. Our ancestors. It’s hope for a future to all Negroes. It’s reclaiming our past, our roots, an ability to serve, I mean really serve God, Allah. Like Papa. And here is my brother, my blood brother, my best friend in the whole wide world, speaking ill of the Messenger and this sacred religion?

  “It’s true brother. It’s true.”

  “I will write to him,” I offer. “Stand as a witness and provide testimony of your integrity and honor. Philbert and Wilfred, they will do the same.”

  “Philbert and Wilfred are forbidden from speaking to me. Their own brother. Tell me, what kind of religious man would punish someone this way?”

  “There must have been some misunderstanding,” I plead.

  “There are many things you don’t know, Malcolm. Many things no one knows. But once you’re free, you will see with your own eyes. You cannot trust everyone you meet in the Nation. Truth, brother. Truth always comes to the light.”

  Reginald led me to Islam, and now he’s abandoning me in it.

  * * *

  My heart twists, like the wringing of a wet cloth. I stay up all night tossing and turning over Reginald’s words.

  “We’ve been led astray.”

  The word astray means to be led away from the correct path or direction, into error or morally questionable behavior. I can’t imagine anything Mr. Muhammad has done that would warrant such a term.

  I’m worried about my brother. But my concern is fogged with what I know about Islam. I need to help my brother understand better, that’s all. Mr. Muhammad awakened something dormant inside of me. Without his teaching, I wouldn’t be mentally free. I can never repay him for helping me find the light. Islam is my identity. It has eliminated my pain and self-destruction. Islam fuels my purpose, my reason for living.

  How can what Reginald is saying be true?

  I write to Mr. Muhammad, begging for mercy for my kid brother. Asking simple questions, not to accuse him of any wrongdoing, but for clarity. Is there something I don’t know?

  His reply halts all my disbeliefs.

  As-Salaam-Alaikum

  In the Holy Name of Almighty Allah, the Beneficent, the Most Merciful Saviour, Our Deliverer, Master of the Day of Judgment. To Allah alone do I submit and seek refuge.

  Dear Brother Malcolm,

  I trust your letter about Brother Reginald and understand your concern. However, you make me question your faith and your belief in Allah. If you once believed in the truth and now you are begging to doubt the truth, you didn’t believe the truth in the first place. Before a man is exalted to greatness, he is put to the test with hardships and trials. Sometimes those trials come in the form of choosing between family and what is right.

  Your Brother,

  Elijah Muhammad

  Messenger of Allah

  * * *

  “You ain’t hear of Tulsa? Man, I thought everybody knew about what happened.”

  In the common room, brothers ask about Norfolk and all the inmates there. They are in awe of the library, the assembly hall, the canteen, the orchestra, choir, and debate teams. Stuff we couldn’t dream of having at Charlestown.

  “Yeah, I heard of Greenwood. Burnt down some nice homes and businesses all owned by Negroes,” Big Lee says.

  “So you met someone from there,” Bembry says, slamming down a domino. “Live through all that only to end up in prison? Man. If I was him, I would be deep in the woods, never to be seen again.”

  Norm shakes his head. “I heard about it, but it was a Negro who started all that. Going down to the courthouse with a gun, scaring white folks. They had to teach ’em a lesson, and they say he done touch a white woman, too.”

  I take a deep breath. I think about what Mr. Muhammad once said. About being gentle with our brothers who are misinformed. Who are not aware of facts. Norm isn’t a bad man. He’s a confused man, a brainwashed man. All he needs is reeducating from someone on his level.

  “Well, brother, if you believe that, that means you believe the white man’s lies. We can’t rely on someone who despises us to control our destiny. And that’s wha
t their lies do. We need to control our own futures. The only way we can do that is by learning truths and dispelling myths.”

  “What truths?”

  “Brother, we have been miseducated in an attempt to erase all traces of our true selves. We have a history that predates the Roman Empire. That predates Columbus. Predates slavery. Do you know why they don’t teach this in schools? Because they are trying rewrite the past. Imagine if you had a nickel in your hand and I told you it was a penny. Boy, you’d fight me tooth and nail until I acknowledged the truth. So why are Black people not fighting back when the white man insists we’re worthless? When we know that kid in Tulsa didn’t touch that white woman.”

  I look to Big Lee, sitting next to Ozzy. “Big Lee, you ever heard of the Second Amendment?”

  Big Lee glances at Norm, then Bembry, then back to me. He slowly shakes his head. “No…”

  “It states all citizens have the right to defend themselves. We are citizens. Lee, we have just as much right as any other human being in this country to defend ourselves. So how is it that white people were allowed to attack the citizens of Greenwood, but those Negroes were punished for defending themselves? I’ll tell you why. The rules that govern this country were not written for our benefit, but for our persecution. To keep us under someone’s boot as long as humanly possible.

  “This double standard exists in our economy, too. We have been conditioned to believe that whoever can make the most money is the most valuable. But from the start of the white man’s arrival in this country, they have stripped us of our land, our traditions, our culture, and freedoms. How are we to prosper? They might have abolished slavery, but they find new ways to maintain this system of capitalism and oppression, invent new ways to keep us divided and distracted so we only see ourselves as inferior.”

  Slowly, a crowd grows around me. Instead of debating a point, I’m simply stating and articulating one, in a way that my people can digest. Most have never heard any of what I’m sharing with them. Most had no idea we had more history than slavery. I don’t just speak their language, I awaken something already deep inside their souls.