Better, Not Bitter

by Yusef Salaam

  But to be clear, even with my privileges, the work is still hard and heavy. Financial compensation can never erase the emotional and physical scars that come with being run over by the system. The wounds, though healing, will, in certain ways, always feel fresh. When I see other people going through something similar, when the news breaks of another Black man being freed after serving thirty years for a crime he did not commit, something is shaken in me. It makes me want to fight for the truth. I raise my voice and ask, “How do we allow someone to have decades of their life stolen from them?” I want to scream for all who will hear that what we call the prison-industrial complex is simply a new and improved cotton field. And every generation that continues to buy into the lies and stereotypes of Black men and women as criminals will continue to provide bodies for those fields. As an educator and a mentor for a new generation, I am trying to fill the shoes of the mentors that I once had, imparting knowledge and raising the youth to consciousness, just as they did for me.

  There were so many people along the way who supplemented what my family and prison taught me with valuable knowledge that serves me to this day. There were numerous others who stood up for us despite the lies that were being told in the media. Bill Perkins, who later went on to be a New York City councilman and a state senator, was very vocal on our behalf.

  You know these folks, you know us. You know my sons.

  This is not them, this is not their character. Can you stand up for them?

  His stance was always, “I’ll help you and do everything I can.” And behind the scenes, he did exactly that. After we came home and were revealed as innocent, especially after the Ken Burns Central Park Five documentary, he was still there standing with us. That was also when we got our first proclamation from the City of New York. Council members, including Charles Barron, signed the document that essentially said, “We are recognizing that these men are innocent. They should have never gone to prison. Regardless of what New York City is saying, we are going to recognize the truth.” They took it upon themselves to revise the story that the city and media had been telling, and that was key in shifting the overall narrative.

  Another significant person in my life at the time was my tutor during the trial, Helena Nomsa Brath, the wife of Elombe Brath, the beloved Pan-African activist and founder of the Patrice Lumumba Coalition. Nomsa was a master teacher who was part of my community, my village. She said, “Okay. You can’t be in school? We got you.” My mother met Nomsa because they lived in our building prior to moving up to Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. It was Nomsa who kept me reading and writing, in the same ways my mother did, with a focus on my African heritage. We explored texts like Ivan Van Sertima’s They Came Before Columbus and others that focused on the role of the African Diaspora in civilization. More than anything else, learning with Nomsa provided a stabilizing presence for me when the rest of my life felt like it was exploding. I couldn’t go to school, but going to her house kept my mind busy and focused.

  I was always so grateful for the people who came to visit me. Left to right: The great Pan-African activist Elombe Brath, Shareef, my mom, and Mieasia.

  I met Asia, my first girlfriend, while being tutored at the Braths’. The day that she walked into their home, I felt like my breath was stolen from my body. I was a typical teenage boy, so it was a physical attraction. But there was also something different about her, majestic. I’ve always been drawn to women who comport themselves in regal ways. It would also be Asia who would provide the link to another important teacher in my life.

  We continued to date even after the trial and sentencing for about two years. While her support meant everything to me, I struggled with it. I learned pretty quickly that the longer I held on to love, the dream of it, the more difficult it would be for me to do my time. That tension was always present and very painful. She’d come to visit me while I was in the youth facility when she was home from college, and we’d write letters to each other. We’d talk about our love and desire in all the sappy ways teenagers and young adults do. She’d share with me everything that was going on in her world. But eventually, our relationship ended. It felt unfair to keep it going if, as I thought then, I would never get out of jail. I always try to maintain a positive outlook, but when the days begin to stretch longer in front of you and the years start to go by, it can become harder to see the end. I didn’t like that helpless feeling of loving someone I couldn’t hold. I was not going to be able to do my time well if I continued to try. I wrote to her and said, “Look, you know this ain’t going to work. You should just move on without me.” I think she was confused by my reaction. Her response was essentially, “What do you mean?”

  Soon after I came home from prison, I ran into Asia and asked, “How did life turn out?”

  She replied, “I couldn’t believe that you were telling me to leave. I was there. I was going to stay but you pushed me away.”

  Wow. A part of me was surprised to hear her say that. I had really just wanted to do the right thing by her and myself. What I couldn’t explain at the time was that prison was teaching me some necessary lessons for survival. Remember “Do the time; don’t let the time do you”? That was one of the most important assignments of my life. But it also meant that the love I had for Asia, any anticipation of what might lie ahead, had to be put aside; any wanting would have to be cut off. In that space, even the smallest of desires could send you spiraling emotionally.

  Nevertheless, Asia and I remained friends, and I credit her with pointing me in the direction of one of my greatest teachers. Asia ended up going to Clark Atlanta University, a Historically Black College in Georgia, and eventually became a doctor with her own successful practice. About two years after I’d been back, she asked me one day, “Hey, listen, you want to go to college?”

  I did. I’d been wanting to finish my bachelor’s degree since before I was released. Her words were just the push I needed to go ahead and register at Hunter College.

  Asia later said, “Look, there’s a professor you need to meet at Hunter. Her name is Dona Richards.”

  The next time I was on campus, I went looking for the professor and I couldn’t find her. This really bothered me. One of the biggest challenges I’d had after having seven years of my formative late teens and early adulthood stolen from me was the embarrassment of being an adult but having to ask for help with the simplest things. I was a grown man with a sixteen-year-old’s mind-set, so some of the things that many people my age found easy I found to be complicated. The changes in the world from 1990 to 1997 felt overwhelming. It wasn’t just that I saw new buildings and people walking with (by today’s standard) huge mobile phones. My family and friends made sure to keep me up-to-date on those kinds of things. It was about having to navigate all that newness. It’s one thing to hear about change or see photos of progress, but it’s another to actually have to figure out how to move around among it all. The act of asking for a directory or stopping in an office to ask for assistance was so incredibly frustrating. Each day, after searching for Professor Richards, I’d resign myself and say, “Oh well. I’ll look again tomorrow.” Finally, after learning from Asia that she was in the Black and Puerto Rican Studies department, I got up the nerve to search the signage and office doors for her name.

  I didn’t see her name on any of them, either.

  I thought I was losing it. Why can’t I find this person? What am I missing here?

  The next time I spoke to Asia, I told her about my search for Professor Dona Richards coming up empty. She said, “Oh, I think she changed her name. Her name is Marimba Ani.”

  Wait, what? I thought.

  Dr. Marimba Ani was an anthropologist and African Studies scholar who coined the term Maafa to name the African holocaust / transatlantic slave trade. She was the protégée of the great thinker and scholar Dr. John Henrik Clarke.

  When I returned to campus, I found Dr. Ani immediately, and it turned into one of the most profound experiences of my life. I didn’
t have any real intention when I crept into her class that day. I showed up because I was told that she was someone I should talk to, and I’m not sure I even realized that she’d be teaching at that moment. I didn’t get a chance to take a seat when Dr. Ani, in the middle of teaching her class, looked at me as I was trying to silently enter the room. She moved closer to me, holding my gaze, and then gently placed both of her hands on my face.

  “I knew you didn’t do it.”

  My heart somersaulted. My body was filled with the warmth of her recognition.

  Oh my goodness. Somebody knows.

  Her touch was sincere and motherly. It felt like an invitation to life. How incredibly life-giving to be in a space where someone knew my journey, understood what was at stake, and publicly declared me innocent. It was a complete affirmation. Dr. Ani’s compassion was a blessing. Her embrace anointed me for everything I’d do going forward. Those six words filled me with a sense of relief that I had not experienced before then. Those six words were a form of healing. Throughout this interaction, all of the students, peers, were watching and taking it all in. It never occurred to me to be embarrassed. The moment was too powerful for that. I suspect it was a powerful moment for them as well. One of those students was Ibi Zoboi, who went on to be an award-winning writer, and whom I’d ultimately partner with to write our young adult novel, Punching the Air.

  I ended up auditing Dr. Ani’s class, which wasn’t something that happened often. Her classes always filled up quickly and had a long waiting list. Auditing was generally not an option, but she made an exception for me. She was also very selective about the students who did end up on her roster. On day one of class, Dr. Ani would say, “Look around. Half of you are not going to be here come next week.” This wasn’t because she was dropping students. They would drop out either when they saw the amount of work required or, to be frank, the type of information she shared would shake up everything a person had ever been taught about the power and legacy of people from the African Diaspora. Even though they all—white students, Black students—wanted this information, her position was: Not everybody gets it.

  What I learned from Dr. Ani was monumental in shaping my understanding of who I am, who Black people are, and why Eurocentric systems and ways of living are problematic, at best. It also challenged me to be better at articulating what I was learning. It wasn’t enough to just have these epiphanies while reading a book or having a discussion. She encouraged us to expound on these revelations. To be able to write about it. She knew whether you were getting what she was teaching by the way you expressed what you understood about it. Her textbooks weren’t the classic books found in any bookstore. She’d bring Black booksellers into the classroom because the texts she wanted us to read were gems like Facing Mount Kenya, The Isis Papers, and The Iceman Inheritance. Her own book, Yurugu, deconstructed white supremacy and white male dominance in a way that was both challenging and beautiful. She defined white supremacy for us, even if we didn’t call it by that name back then. She gave us the tools to really describe this oppression we were experiencing, that Black people had always experienced since the beginning.

  Even my own faith tradition was challenged in her class. Students would say, “Oh, you know, Yusef. Islam is not an African way of life. It’s Arabic.” But in this environment, I was being taught to think critically. I learned to never take these challenges personally. What I know and believe about Islam does not have to align with what others believe. I believe Islam is the oldest faith. The prophets of the Jewish religion, like Abraham; and of Christianity, like John the Baptist, can be found in our texts. To others that belief may not resonate; it may not be accurate. That’s perfectly fine. Because when I think about Islam, I think about the ways in which it saved me. The way the grace of Allah sheltered me when things could have gotten worse for me in prison.

  That’s not to say I didn’t experience real danger. One time I awoke in the middle of the night to the whispering of officers’ voices outside of my cell. “Oh, he’s over there. Right there, on the top bunk.” I moved a little, maybe even coughed, just so they’d know I was awake and would think twice about trying to do something to me.

  There were other times when I would wake up around midnight and my cell would be open, just a little bit. It was dark and everyone was sleeping, so why exactly was the cell door open? On those nights, I’d get up, look out for a second, and close it. It made me feel like someone was trying to set me up. They were leaving the door open so someone could come and harm me and it would look like nobody knew what happened. Ultimately, nothing ever came of these events, and it felt like I was protected in ways beyond what I could see with my eyes.

  My experience of grace reminds me of that story of Abraham () the prophet found in both the Qur’an and the Bible. Abraham () was thrown into a fire by his enemies, but it was his enemies who got the shock of their lives.

  They said, “Who has done this to our gods? Indeed, he is of the wrongdoers.”

  They said, “We heard a young man mention them who is called Abraham.”

  They said, “Then bring him before the eyes of the people that they may testify.”

  They said, “Have you done this to our gods, O Abraham?”

  He said, “Rather, this—the largest of them—did it, so ask them, if they should [be able to] speak.”

  So they returned to [blaming] themselves and said [to each other], “Indeed, you are the wrongdoers.”

  Then they reversed themselves, [saying], “You have already known that these do not speak!”

  He said, “Then do you worship instead of Allah that which does not benefit you at all or harm you?

  “Uff [Woe] to you and to what you worship instead of Allah. Then will you not use reason?”

  They said, “Burn him and support your gods—if you are to act.”

  Allah said, “O fire, be coolness and safety upon Abraham.”

  And they intended for him harm, but We made them the greatest losers.

  And We delivered him and Lot to the land which We had blessed for the worlds.

  And We gave him Isaac and Jacob in addition, and all [of them] We made righteous.

  Qur’an 21:59–72

  God said to the fire, “Be cool and safe.”

  That resonated so much with me. This idea that I could be in the fire, that the system and those who carry out the system’s edicts could try every way possible to take me out, and in the midst of the fire, God called me to be cool and safe. Through Islam, I learned that in this life there are always spiritual things at work. And spiritual activity can be enacted by our very words. I learned that I could say things that could bring me into safety, in the same way I could say things that could bring harm upon me. That’s part of the spiritual truth I believe in. It’s not that you’re just putting these words out there in the atmosphere, but you know that these words have weight. These words have value. These words have the ability to bring protection around you. There is power in our words.

  In the youth facility, I was an Imam, the leader, the one to whom everyone said, “We receive our spiritual guidance from you.” From that experience, I learned what it meant to advise and guide people. I learned how to research and study—teachings that are incredibly useful to me even to this day. Just like every other African American, I’ve been able to synthesize the knowledge of who I am as an African with my reality and experience as an American. I have needed to be able to do that in order to live.

  So no matter how many times I was confronted with what people believed Islam was not, when folks challenged me to consider the glorious traditional African religions we were studying, I recognized that I’d been synthesizing. Making sense of what I was learning in concert with my current context and beliefs. I maintained my peace because I recognized that there were no purity tests in any faith tradition, only truth. From a spiritual perspective, anything dealing with true spirituality is Islam. Not the religion. For Islam simply means submitting yourself to God. I don�
�t get to tell people which form or practice their submission should take. Moses () submitted his will to God but didn’t call the acts and tenets he employed Judaism. That came much later. Jesus () submitted His will to God but didn’t name His ministry Christianity. That came much later. But if we look at the essence of what spoke to these prophets and divine leaders, then you’ll realize that at the core of it all, there is no difference. There is a Creator. And once you plug into that creative force and say, “Not my will, but Your will,” that’s when things take off. Whatever you might ultimately name it.

  TEN

  A Mother’s Love

  We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

  MAYA ANGELOU

  MY MOTHER RECEIVED SO MUCH hate mail during the trial, and for a long time afterward. Mail I never knew about until much later. She showed up for every court date and, later, every visit, always with a smile on her face—all the way up until the day I was released. In a way, we did time together. She, my brother and sister, and the rest of my family became the other prisoners in my story. Dealing with the media spectacle, holding me up, all while managing to have their own lives, was a challenge, and yet they continued to move forward. I had a strong village before prison—they were those powerful role models who loved me—and I had an even stronger, though deeply changed, village afterward.

  I don’t identify with language like “single-parent households,” especially when I had such powerful guides like my uncle Frank, who was always right there beside me, loving me as I am. Or my aunt Denise, who was fly and smart and rarely said no to me. I had Frosted Flakes (with extra helpings of sugar) and no bedtime at her house. She was my mother’s younger sister, and she encouraged my mother to stop calling me by her favorite love handle for me. “You got to stop calling that boy Baby.”