Leon Mosley. He is one year older than me and gone. I think of all the colored people’s lives that were here one minute, gone the next. The ones I saw hanging from trees when I was just a little girl.
My eyes are watering. I look at Mother, see tears welling in her eyes, too. And the burning has nothing to do with the bleach.
Thirty-One
It’s hard to count blessings this week.
Should I be thankful for the people marching, thankful that they are using their voices to speak up, speak out? Should I be thankful for the lawyers who are working for half their pay to make sure there is justice for the boy whose heart is no longer beating? Should I be thankful that it wasn’t someone I knew?
It is hard to count blessings this week.
So instead, I just pray. I pray for peace, for Leon Mosley’s family. I pray that one day I won’t ever have to pray these kinds of prayers.
Thirty-Two
It’s been a week since Leon Mosley died. Protesters have been marching every day. But today, the streets are clear and quiet. Today is the first day that things feel normal again. I am sitting in my room listening to the radio. A Billy Eckstine song comes on—an old one that I haven’t heard in a long while. After the song ends, the DJ announces that Billy Eckstine is coming to Detroit next month for a special concert at one of the jazz supper clubs. The DJ plays another of his songs. I lie on my bed and daydream about the day I’ll actually be able to go to one of his concerts. I think up ways I could maybe even get a glimpse of him while he’s in town. If I stand outside the backstage door after the concert, I might see him as he leaves. But I know Mother would never let me out that late, so I just turn the radio up and enjoy his singing from the airwaves.
Listening to this song makes me think of Phyllis.
I pick up the phone and call her. I don’t really plan to do this, it just happens. On the first ring, I think maybe I should hang up. I don’t know what to say but then, the phone rings a second time and she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Phyllis. It’s Betty.”
She hesitates. “Oh, hi, Betty.”
Both of us sit on the phone waiting for the other to speak. I’m the one who called, so I know it needs to be me. What do you say to someone you haven’t spoken to in so long? “I, uh, I was just calling to say hello,” I tell her.
“Oh.”
I clear my throat. Try to think of something to say. “Have you heard about Leon Mosley?” I ask.
“So sad,” she says. “It’s just awful.”
“I heard on the radio that there’s a way to donate and send money to the family to help pay for his funeral,” I tell her.
“Really?” she says.
There is silence again and then I say, “I was thinking about donating. Maybe … Do you think … we could put our money together and donate something?”
Phyllis doesn’t respond right away.
“And I can ask Suesetta, too,” I tell her.
Then Phyllis says, “Maybe we can ask Bethel to take up a special offering. His family doesn’t go to our church, but we could still help out.”
And just like that we are talking again and making plans to ask Pastor Dames before church next Sunday if Bethel can help the Mosley family.
I don’t know if this means we’ll ever dance together again or look through magazines and plan trips to Harlem, but it feels good knowing that we can come together when it matters most.
As soon as I hang up the phone, I call Suesetta. It is not time to go to bed yet, but already I know the blessing I will be counting tonight.
Thirty-Three
The NAACP is having a special ceremony to honor local Negro leaders in Detroit. Suesetta and I are volunteering to be greeters. Mother tells me there will be many special guests and that the League chose us to be greeters because they can trust that we will be good hosts.
The banquet hall is a paradise of a place. On the first floor, all of the chairs are covered in white cloth and tied across the back with flowing pine-green ribbon that has silver piped along the edges. The white flowers in the centerpieces rise high and perfume the room. They are surrounded by small white candles that sit on the tables, making shadows and shapes on the tablecloths. Tall, heavy white drapes cover the backdrop of the entire stage, which is ready with microphones, three music stands, and a black baby-grand piano. It feels strange to be in the center of all this beauty when so much ugliness has been happening.
“You two will stand at the door and greet everyone. Give each person a program,” Mrs. Peck says.
Mother adds, “And when the program begins, you can go up to the balcony and watch the entertainment and speeches from there.”
Suesetta and I take our posts. As guests arrive, we say hello and hand out the programs that are printed on ivory linen paper. I take in all the dresses glittering with sequins, the bow ties and matching handkerchiefs. Even though everyone is all dressed up and smiling, there is a heaviness in the room.
Pastor Dames walks onto the stage, and Suesetta and I go upstairs to the balcony. Up there, we have the perfect view of the whole banquet. The silverware sparkles under the glow of the candles and the servers begin bringing out the first course.
Pastor Dames opens the evening with a welcome that sounds more like a sermon. “Good evening, friends,” he says. “Difficult days are upon us.”
Even though this isn’t church, there are a few people who say amen, and heads are nodding in agreement.
Pastor Dames says, “I know that some of us are growing weary. But let me remind you that even in our darkest days there is much for which to be thankful. Let me remind you that with every great advancement this country has made, there has always been opposition for the Negro. Slavery, the Emancipation Proclamation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, and yet we are still here.” Pastor Dames pauses and then says, “Now, they asked me to do the welcome and the introduction. So let me first welcome you to the struggle. Let me invite you to continue the work. We must not back down, we must not give up. Let us keep pressing to witness that joy in the morning.” Then he says, “Now, for all you young people in the room, let me tell you that when your time comes to pick up where us old folks leave off, you will have a road map to follow.”
I look around the room at all these men and women and think about each of us being someone’s seed, someone’s prayer, someone’s hope.
Pastor Dames continues, “Now, for the welcome you’re waiting for—ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I introduce to you our musical guests for the evening, Billy Eckstine and Miss Sarah Vaughan!”
The banquet room erupts in cheers.
Suesetta and I are the loudest. Mother and Mrs. Peck look up at us, smiling. The music starts playing and when Sarah Vaughan and Billy Eckstine walk onto the stage, we scream even louder. I can’t believe I’m actually looking at Sarah Vaughan and Billy Eckstine in the flesh. Right here, in front of me. Hearing him is better than any record I’ve ever heard, better than ice cream all day on your birthday.
They sing a duet and then each of them sings two songs. After Billy Eckstine finishes his last song, the applause continues like a mighty wind rustling through a forest of trees. And these trees have deep roots, so grounded that even though they bend, they don’t break. So many of us bearing fruit, so many of us just planted.
Thirty-Four
I get up the next morning and the first thing I realize is that last night, I fell right to sleep. No tossing and turning, no memories haunting me, no waking up in the middle of the night.
Before I get out of bed, I think maybe I should start my day the way I usually end it. In this moment while the sun is just waking and the house is still, I thank God for this brand-new day and begin to count my blessings:
The blessing of people coming together for a common cause.
The blessing of me being a part of them, and them a part of me.
The blessing of having a mother, a father.
The blessing of having
my best friend forever, Suesetta, and each of my sisters and brothers and Arthur and even Ollie Mae.
The blessing of belonging to this struggle, this fight.
The blessing of giving love, of being loved.
Author's Note
“My most vivid memory of Betty is that she was first and foremost a woman who cherished her family. A wife and mother, she was extremely protective of her children. Mothers instinctively protect those they love, even more so in the face of danger. And, when you are the wife of a civil rights activist whose philosophy is perceived equally by blacks and whites as caustic, you become the shield that wards off the evil spears of hatred. You place yourself in harm’s way.”
—MYRLIE EVERS-WILLIAMS, ACTIVIST AND WIFE OF CIVIL RIGHTS LEADER MEDGAR EVERS
My mother, Dr. Betty Shabazz, was a phenomenal woman. She was a nation builder. She is known to many as the wife of El Hajj Malik El Shabazz (Malcolm X), but so much of her legacy was rooted in her childhood experiences and bore fruit after my father’s life ended. Her character is often commended by people who wonder how she was able to live under such fearful and challenging times as those of Jim Crow and the civil rights movement. I believe it was my mother’s childhood that prepared her to become Malcolm X’s wife, a mother of six daughters, an educator, and an advocate for girls and women. Her willingness to forgive, her passion for family, her love of sisterhood, and her dedication to standing up against injustice were cultivated in her early years. Once she married my father, she also married the struggle for freedom.
My mother witnessed the martyrdom of her husband on February 21, 1965. I was at the Audubon Ballroom with her and my elder sisters, Attallah and Qubilah, when my father was to deliver an address on his new federation, the Organization of Afro-American Unity. At the time, Mom was pregnant with my twin sisters, Malikah and Malaak. Gamilah, who was just a few months old, was at home with the Wallaces, who are family to Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee. Ossie Davis and his wife, Ruby Dee, were famous African American television, film, and Broadway actors; playwrights; poets; authors; and civil rights activists. They were trusted and loyal friends to my parents. We were staying with the Wallaces because our own house had just been firebombed a week prior. Someone had thrown an explosive into the nursery where my sisters and I slept.
I have no clear recollection of that day at the Audubon Ballroom because I was not quite three years old. I am told that our mother literally shielded my sisters and me from the gunfire with her body before attempting to save her husband’s life with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
In a matter of days, my mother’s life changed forever. She was left alone—widowed, a single parent of four babies and pregnant with my youngest sisters, the twins. She was the wife of a man who challenged a system that was historically unjust to its own citizens, and so she was harassed by the Nation of Islam, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the Central Intelligence Agency.
I am grateful to Ruby Dee, Juanita Poitier, Nina Simone, and several other women in the arts who emotionally supported my mother during that time. I am further grateful to Gloria Steinem and Congresswoman Bella Abzug, who sold her home to Betty for a considerably lowered rate. Each of these women understood that it was her duty as a woman and a human being to help Betty however they could, considering all that Malcolm X contributed to the human race.
My mother persevered through this adversity because she possessed faith in God, respect for self, an awareness of history, and a perspective that never permitted her to say, “No, I can’t accomplish this.” As a child and as an adult, my mother refused to live her life as a victim or in despair. And as a result, she soared, all the while giving of herself to others. She often said to me, “Ilyasah, just as one must drink water, one must give back.”
* * *
My mother was born Betty Dean Sanders in Pinehurst, Georgia. She eventually moved to Detroit, Michigan, where she attended middle school and high school. There she joined the marching band and played the drums. She also joined the Delta Sigma Theta Sprites. She was an excellent student and very hardworking. She was a member of the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church (AME), and worked at her father’s shoe repair store. After high school, she attended the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute in Alabama (the alma mater of her parents, Lorenzo and Helen Malloy). Returning to the South was challenging for my mother because of the oppressive Jim Crow laws. She refused to accept the mistreatment directed at African Americans and women. Her college counselor helped Betty to enroll in a Tuskegee program affiliate in the North. Young Betty courageously uprooted herself at the age of eighteen and relocated again, to Brooklyn, New York, where a relative from her father’s side of the family lived. She attended Brooklyn State Hospital School of Nursing.
While pursuing her nursing-school studies, my mother was invited by a friend to attend a Nation of Islam meeting. There she heard a young, dynamic speaker named Malcolm X. After the speech, they discussed the racism she encountered in Alabama, and she began to understand its causes, pervasiveness, and effects. Soon, she would be attending all of my father’s lectures.
Shortly after, Mom graduated from nursing school. Dad called her from a telephone booth and proposed to her. They were married within one week. Their relationship was a true example of partnership, undying love, devotion, and mutual respect.
Most of what I learned about my father and his teachings was communicated through my mother and her actions. She was determined to serve as an educator and role model, and to raise us six girls on her own. We attended private schools, summer camp in Vermont with Quaker and Native American values, music lessons, dance lessons, and tutorials in Islam and the history of the African Diaspora. My mother made sure that my sisters and I had a culturally rich and diverse education, and she made sure to continue her advocacy work. When we moved to Westchester County, my mother founded the Young Mothers Educational Development program. This initiative provided support for pregnant teens and made sure their educational aspirations would not be interrupted. Furthermore, she helped to open a day-care center so that once those teenage mothers delivered their babies, they had a safe place to leave their children while they continued pursuing their degrees.
Despite already having a nursing degree and a bachelor of arts in public health and education from Jersey City State College, my mother went on to earn a master of arts in public health education from Jersey City State College and a Ph.D. in education administration from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. All alongside the challenge of raising six girls.
In 1976, Mom joined New York’s Medgar Evers College as a professor. She taught health sciences, and then became head of public relations as well as serving as the school’s cultural attaché. My mother took part in various United States delegations with Presidents Ford, Carter, and Clinton. She also participated in the Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing, China, and continued to travel internationally for the cause of social justice. She was an outspoken advocate for human rights, women’s rights, racial tolerance, and the goal of self-determination and self-reliance.
My mother passed away in 1997. Her Janazah was attended by such luminaries as Myrlie Evers-Williams, Coretta Scott King, Maya Angelou, U.S. Representative Maxine Waters, and so many other distinguished leaders. Fittingly, her devotion to health issues was recognized when, in 1997, the Brooklyn Community Healthcare Network dedicated the Dr. Betty Shabazz Health Center in her honor. Medgar Evers College and the New York State legislature also honored Mom with the endowment of the Dr. Betty Shabazz Distinguished Chair in Social Justice.
My mother established the Malcolm X Medical Scholarship program for outstanding students attending Columbia University—where the recipient must commit to providing medical service to the underserved for at least one year. Subsequently, Columbia University established the Betty Shabazz Nursing Scholarship program. My mother was also relentless in convincing the United States government to honor her husband with a postage stamp featuring his i
mage. She also formed a coalition of community, political, and educational leaders to establish the Malcolm X Memorial Center at the Audubon to honor her husband’s legacy. After Mom passed away, we re-conceived it as the Malcolm X and Dr. Betty Shabazz Memorial and Educational Center.
It is my hope that by reading my mother’s story, young people who may be feeling abandoned or neglected, fearful or hopeless, anxious or unsure, will find inspiration. Betty certainly experienced all of those feelings at one time or another. However, she rose to become a devoted wife, a selfless mother, a compassionate friend, a bold activist, and—most importantly—a caring human being who lived her life with integrity and grace. It is not falling that defines you, it’s the process of what you determine to do each time you stand.
Thank you for reading her story. May God continue to bless you so we can have a society of peace, liberation, and pure freedom intended for every human being.
Detroit in the 1940s
The 1940s were years of tremendous growth for Detroit, but the decade also had great upheaval. An influx of African Americans moving to the city to work in the factories caused a housing crisis. Even though Jim Crow laws did not govern the North, racial tensions were still very real and there was resistance from many white people who refused to integrate or work with black people. Most black families lived on the city’s east side in the neighborhoods of Paradise Valley and Black Bottom.
In Black Bottom, residents were often forced to squeeze into single-room houses, and there were many homes without cooking facilities or indoor plumbing. Paradise Valley was a hub for black-owned businesses, like grocery stores, bakeries, doctor’s offices, and dry cleaners. Paradise Valley was most famous for its music and entertainment district. Local clubs hosted many nationally renowned performers, including Billy Ekstine, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Calloway, Billie Holiday, and Duke Ellington.
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