Better, Not Bitter

by Yusef Salaam

“You need to learn tai chi.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the form. At first, I thought it might be like jujitsu and other martial arts I was more familiar with, but this was very different. This was about healing.

  “Everyone and everything has energy,” he’d say. “Learn how to breathe, how to move your energy around.”

  When I figured out that tai chi could be used to not just heal myself in the moment—like my arm—but could help me move through bouts of emotional pain, I fell in love with it. I understood him when he’d say “Hold the ball” and would show me how there was energy moving against and away from it, that there was a way to harness that energy to push the ball where I needed it to go. That I could breathe from my center, from my belly button, to allow any negative energy to be moved out and to draw positivity in… It was mind-blowing!

  But then Buddha took it a step further. He taught me Arnis, a Filipino fighting art that was supposed to be practiced with sticks. We were in prison, so sticks were not an option, but that didn’t stop him from adapting the form to our circumstances. We did it without.

  “I’m going to show you how to fight in an eight-pointed circle.”

  I can’t lie. A part of me wondered why he was teaching me this. He didn’t know me. I could have been the kind of person who would turn on him at any moment. But what I realized was that he’d been watching me. He was one of the people who must have thought, This guy ain’t supposed to be here and I need to help him. I need to give him the tools.

  “If—no, when—you get attacked in a yard and the whole yard is piling on, you must know how to fight more than just one person at a time.”

  He called over four of his buddies and said to us, “Okay, y’all, try to hit me.” And we did.

  His movements were swift and sharp. He’d turn one way and then another as if he sensed where the next blow might be coming from. He blocked hands and fists like the fighters I’d seen in the movies. Not a single one of us could touch him.

  Before prison, I’d been taught by my martial arts instructors that anything could be a weapon. But I’d never actually seen it play out so precisely. Not a stick in sight.

  “Eh, you get the Source magazine? If you roll that bad boy up, you can use the circle of it as a weapon,” Buddha said. “You can use most anything to protect yourself.”

  It was true. And it was such an important lesson to learn when I was barely an adult and had been transferred to an adult correctional facility where I was imprisoned alongside people who had literally chopped up bodies. Martial arts was never about hurting anyone. It was about protecting; it was about healing.

  An even more powerful weapon over the long term was my ability to meditate. This was also something I learned in prison.

  As I continued to immerse myself in the Qur’an and synthesize what I was learning in its pages with what life had been teaching me so far, I began to understand that there were always higher principles at work. A wall is not solid. It’s made up of millions of particles that are moving against each other. It’s the laws we created that identify a wall as a solid structure. But what if we chose to live by other laws? Would that mean I could see things—including my own circumstance, as awful and wrong as it was—differently? Was there a plane of existence I could access that would allow me to disconnect from the trauma? Through regular meditation, I learned that there was.

  It was against the law to carry weapons in prison, but what if I made my fist into a weapon? Better yet, what if I could make my mind a weapon? Both would defend me. But the latter had the greater potential to free me. In my understanding of meditation, I realized that there were spiritual keys available to me. If I tapped in—used those keys to unlock my mind and spirit—then spiritual forces would come to my rescue; they would insulate me from the worst of my experience.

  This sounds spookier than it actually is. You know that gut feeling you have as you walk along a dark street and contemplate taking a shortcut down an even darker alley? That feeling of apprehension is your guide. It’s your body revealing to you what’s happening in the spirit realm. You could still walk down that alley but maybe you pray as you do to activate the energy around you. Or maybe you simply go another direction.

  There’s a story I heard once, though I forget where, that perfectly illustrates this point of the true power we hold. There was a guy who saw a young woman walking down the street. He also saw a suspicious-looking man following her. He thought, Hold on, let me follow them, just in case something happens. I want to be able to protect and help. The man watches the guy follow the girl down a dark alley and just as he’s about to turn down that same street in pursuit, the suspicious man runs back out of the alley, out of breath and looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

  “Hey, what’s up, man? Why are you running? What’s going on?”

  And the guy says, “Oh no! These two creatures just came out of nowhere and scared me. I don’t know what that was!”

  A few days later, the same man saw the woman. He stopped her and said, “Hey, the other day I saw you when you went down the alley. I was a little concerned because it was dark and late. There was a guy following you. Why’d you go that way? What happened? What were you doing when you went down the alley?”

  She said, “I wasn’t doing anything special. I was just listening to the Qur’an.”

  I’ve learned to pay attention to what my life is teaching me, and what I know for sure is that it’s imperative we become our own personal activists. It’s critical that we stand up to injustice, but while we are doing that collectively, we must also be willing to transform any personal experiences of negativity into positive ones to help drive our success.

  An alchemist is formally defined as a person who transforms or creates something through a seemingly magical process. That’s who I’ve attempted to become in the time since I was released. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve made a million mistakes along the way, but I’ve always kept in mind the significance of combating this negative narrative, and I’m always looking for tangible ways to keep my peace.

  No matter your faith tradition, or if you don’t have a religious affiliation at all, there’s something nearly supernatural that happens when you decide to take control over your mind. No matter how hard and devastating our circumstances might be, there is a higher consciousness working on our behalf. In the same way we don’t see the air we breathe but trust that it’s filling our lungs and keeping us alive, there is something that can keep you going if you are willing to tap into it long enough to allow that good energy to fill you.

  Plugging into a higher spirituality allows you to say, “Oh wow, there’s my reality, but there’s also a greater truth I can strive for.” Through meditation and learning about mindfulness, I realized that I was truly an active participant in my life. And meditation didn’t have to look like me sitting cross-legged in my room, chanting. I could meditate while I walked. I could control my breathing, no matter where I happened to be. Whether I was inside the prison walls or sitting in my backyard thirty years later, I could control both my physical and my spiritual outlooks. I could move the negative energy that tells my body to be depressed or my mind to rage and channel it into something positive.

  That’s the reason why I loved Paulo Coelho’s novel The Alchemist when I first read it a few years ago. The allegorical story of a young boy searching for his personal legend, being met with obstacles along his journey, resonated with me so much. One of the central takeaways repeated throughout the book is: When you want something, the entire universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.

  In a way, I think that’s what I’ve been getting at in writing this book. It’s important to me that you know my story. But ultimately what I want to say is, if you remain a person of great character and integrity and continue to grow and develop yourself, then no one can truly define you. God, the universe, whatever you believe in, will conspire to get you to your purpose. That doesn’t mean you won’t go through the fire to get there. I
sure did. But what you learn along the way will become powerful tools that you will wield faithfully in the end. We must become our own personal alchemists and embrace the transformation that will come as we move through this life.

  So here we are, back at acceptance. Wherever you are—a jail cell, a cubicle, a pew—I would recommend leaning into some deep reflection. Sometimes we resist the memories. We don’t want to go back there or relive a moment. And you know I get that. Reflection can be painful. But without it, you can’t get to the transformation. Like the symbol of Sankofa in West African spirituality, you have to be able to look backward even as you are moving forward. To see how far you’ve come. To know which way to go.

  Yes, you might be walking through hell, but you can also walk right through it and come out on the other side just like the three Hebrew boys Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego—without even the smell of smoke on you. Here’s the catch, though: Coming out of your hell might mean walking a path that hasn’t been charted yet. One that your mother or grandmother, your uncles and brothers, cannot even fathom. Like me, you may have to create your path from the scorched earth of a life this world tried to steal from you. That’s okay. Just grab your proverbial machete and chop down the weeds trying to cover your way. You do it not only for yourself. By virtue of your courage and persistence, you will make a path for all those behind you who are also seeking a way out.

  Whatever you do, as you are reflecting on your past, do not become bitter. Dr. Maya Angelou’s words resonate with me. She said, “You should be angry. But you must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.”

  Angelou was teaching us how to become alchemists. How to use the circumstances of our lives to our benefit. How to allow God to work out our pain for our good. How to speak of our story so that others will know they aren’t alone on this journey. When I tell my story, as I have in this book, I’m taking back my power from those who tried to cage me. If I simply let others tell my story, then I will lose it. But once I speak for myself, I turn pain into prosperity and triumph. Only I have the power to shape my narrative. I take the tragedy of the Central Park jogger case and turn it into an opportunity to make sure no other young person becomes one of the Central Park Five. That is alchemy.

  To transform your experience, you must take the emotions that come up in your reflection and move that energy into something purposeful. In reflecting on the trauma you’ve experienced in order to figure out how to heal going forward, anger may show up. And it’s okay. Anger is a valid and necessary response. The question is, what will you do with that anger? Will you turn it outward toward others or upon your own child? Or will you dance with it a bit? Defuse it with love for yourself. Leaning into these feelings, not running away, is what helps release them. Ignoring and pushing those feelings down only allows them to take root as bitterness. The lemons stay lemons and never become the sweetness of lemonade. But giving your story air, not holding your breath, is what gives you back the power.

  I know that there are those who don’t have the resources or opportunity to even be able to consider diving into their past. Their lives are consumed by getting through the next minute or hour. Maybe they’ve just been released from jail, and their friend from the streets just picked them up.

  Welcome home! I got the ladies lined up for you. I got the drugs you like. I got the drinks you like.

  But this guy is trying to start his life over again. He wants to become an alchemist but doesn’t know where to begin. I know that feeling, too. Here’s where it gets incredibly simple, although admittedly it’s not easy. The first step is always found in the first choice.

  In that moment, because of his first choice, the universe shifts on this man’s behalf. God begins to orchestrate all that is to come for his good. Like Coelho’s character Santiago, a singular choice sets in motion other opportunities that might not have existed had he not made it. It’s always about making the next right choice.

  I could have decided that because the system had railroaded me, stolen years of my life, I would simply give up on trying to live up to the title of Master that my grandmother gave me. But choice often indicates what happens next. To choose life in the midst of opposition gives you a chance at living. Choosing death in the midst of that same opposition only ensures death. Both are painful. Both require the kinds of shifts in mind-set that are often hard in today’s society. But I believe that there comes a time when the pain of remaining the same is far greater than the pain of trying to do something different, and that’s when transformation actually happens.

  The one thing we have power over is how much learning we decide to take on. Malcolm X told us that being educated gives us more options than one. If we need help making a choice, then that help can often be found in a book. And even when the books are taken away, there is always a way to get the answer. Black folks, in particular, come from this kind of resilience.

  The system is running exactly the way it was designed to. It profits from Black and Brown bodies and keeps many of us locked into a perpetual state of fear and exhaustion in trying to prove our humanity. And yet, you have control only over yourself. You have control over how you process your memories. Over whether or not you believe in yourself enough to pour grace on your flaws and allow love to quell bitterness. I was put away as a fifteen-year-old child and came home a twenty-three-year-old child. For a time, I had to deal with myself as I figured out what being an adult looked like for me. As the alchemist of your life, you have control over the choices you make on this journey. One choice at a time. And it might take time.

  But no matter what, you can be free.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to think of Better, Not Bitter as more than just a story—it’s a love offering.

  It is an offering of love and empathy to the millions who have gone through the criminal system of injustice, those who were pushed to the margins of society and/or who had their voices turned down. An offering that reaffirms my dedication to restoring their humanity.

  This offering wouldn’t be possible without the support of countless individuals who have helped me in my journey, guided me in my darkest hours, and inspired me to water the seeds of greatness that exist in every member of the kaleidoscope of the human family.

  To my umi, Sharonne Salaam, who raised me to recognize my true value in a society where the worth of Black life has always been “less than,” a proportion of potential.

  You have always been my guide and the embodiment of the conscience of Black humanity. You’ve told me when to love, when to have faith, but most important, when to refuse to participate in the system—just as you told me in that interrogation room so many years ago.

  I have no words to describe my love for you, and I am thankful to you and to Allah for placing you in my life.

  A special offering of love to my wife, Sanovia, and our blended family (in order): Nahtique, Dimani, Rain, Winter, Aaliyah, Poetry, Onaya, Ameerah, Assata, and baby Yusef Amir Idris. Thank you for your patience, your grace, and your support during this process.

  Thank you to my sister, Aisha, and to my brother, Shareef, for showing me how dedication, planning, and desire can turn a dream into reality.

  To the eternal sacred brotherhood now known as the Exonerated Five—Korey, Raymond, Antron, and Kevin—together we suffered through a collective silence and a collective despair that only we truly understand, yet the bond we forged can never be broken.

  I wish nothing but blessings upon each of my brothers as we embark on our own unique journeys. I know silence was forced upon us, but our voices will inspire change.

  Thank you to Ken Burns, Sarah Burns, and Dave McMahon for shining a spotlight on us through the Central Park Five documentary and bringing us out of the darkness.

  To Ava DuVernay—the
vision and honesty of When They See Us showcased our story to the world, and the world listened. The power of your art has elevated us to new heights, and I cannot be more grateful.

  To my team, Frank Harris and Travis Linton at 23 Management; to my team at CAA; and to my PR team at Sunshine Sachs—thank you for being honest, willing, and capable partners. I am proud to have you in my corner every step of the way.

  To Seema Mahanian, Linda Duggins, Brian McLendon, Carolyn Kurek, and Albert Tang at Grand Central Publishing, for giving me the opportunity to tell my story and believing in my potential to inspire.

  To the late Maya Angelou, whose work inspired the title of my memoir and continues to guide me throughout my life.

  And finally, none of this would have been possible without the incredible support of a brilliant collaborative mind, Tracey Lewis-Giggetts. As I embarked on this journey of telling my story, Tracey was my pilot, my conductor, my shepherd. I am so proud of the bond of trust we have built throughout the creation of Better, Not Bitter, and I am so proud that I can now call you my friend in life.

  I often say that for us to truly move forward, we—the collective we—must have a Sankofa moment, where we reach back and gather the best of what our past has to teach us so that we can achieve our full potential.

  I thank the ancestors for instilling that generational potential within all of us—from the first stolen Black body that landed on American shores, to the men and women who were brutally beaten for protecting their right to vote, to five boys convicted of a crime they did not commit.

  I offer Better, Not Bitter to spark our moment of truth: that we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams, and we can achieve anything we want to do.

  All we have to do is get started.

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