Growing Up X
Page 1
“GROWING UP X IS BOTH
ENLIGHTENING
AND POIGNANT.
IT IS A MUST READ.”
—JOHNNIE L. COCHRAN
“Ilyasah Shabazz's Growing Up X brings to light the significance of being loved and knowing that one is lovable…. Love has been the foundation that has united and fortified the Shabazz family so they could go through astounding obstacles.”
—CAMILLE O. COSBY
“This is a warm and engaging book about how the family of Malcolm X survived and adapted after his assassination in 1965. Ilyasah and his five other daughters were raised by a nurturing and strong mother, Betty Shabazz. The picture painted here is a personal one that helps us to see Malcolm X and his family free from the typical media highlight of his so-called violent rhetoric. Malcolm's main mission, as passed on to his daughter, was to empower black people and to empower his children. Growing Up X is an enlightening contribution to our understanding of the legacy of Malcolm X. This eye-opening book is wonderful reading for all Americans.”
—ALVIN F. POUSSAINT, M.D.
Professor of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School
“What makes this book so worthy is its painfully honest account of the Shabazz family life…. A heartwarming story, Growing Up X is an intriguing look into the world of a daughter whose father would be proud.”
—Heart and Soul magazine
“A POWERFUL BOOK
that is an inspiration to people of all ages and backgrounds…. [It] is a true testament to the power of the human will and, most important, to staying strong in the face of adversity.”
—TERRIE M. WILLIAMS
Author of The Personal Touch
“In Growing Up X, Ilyasah Shabazz has crafted a compelling testimony of coming of age in the wake of the '60s' triumphs and traumas, and the special challenge of overcoming expectations to become her own person. Though it begins and ends in unspeakable loss, her story is yet one of sweetness and sadness and joy, a fitting tribute to the mother's courage of Betty Shabazz.”
—RUBY DEE
“The daughters Shabazz had the trials and triumphs of growing up with the legacy of two extraordinary parents—Malcolm X and Dr. Betty Shabazz—a father of mythic stature and a mother of courage, determination, and accomplishment. In this sensitive and candid memoir, Ilyasah bears witness to her own life and reflects on the times and events that helped shape it. Hers is a story of faith—religious faith, faith in the bonds of family, and, despite cataclysmic tragedies that tested those beliefs, an unshakable faith in the future.”
—Professor DERRICK BELL
Author of Faces at the Bottom of the Well: The Permanence of Racism
“Ilyasah Shabazz offers a portrait of a husband, a father, a friend that breathes life into El Hajj Malik Shabazz, making him more than a poster on a college dormitory wall or a face on a T-shirt. She also allows the reader to stumble with her as she makes her own discovery of her father, through conversations with family and friends. And she does not hide her quiet tears over his absence. Ilyasah Shabazz's powerful but simply told story is a wonderful contribution to our history.”
—JONETTA ROSE BARRAS
Author of Whatever Happened to Daddy's Little Girl?
“Ms. Shabazz has written an important and moving tribute to her family. Perhaps her greatest homage to her illustrious father's legacy is her uncanny ability to relate to her audience honestly. This book paints as clear an impression of Black family values as any ever written, and also reflects the pride of a child who knows she was ‘raised right.' Growing Up X might therefore be as important to America as her father's autobiography.”
—Congresswoman SHEILA JACKSON LEE (D-Texas)
“Riveting … Candid, intimate, and revealing.”
—The New York Amsterdam News
This book is dedicated to my five sisters, Attallah, Qubilah, Gamilah, Malikah, and Malaak— all of whom I love deeply. Sisters, I know that life has dealt many challenges—as we have seen in Mommy and Daddy's lives as well as throughout the history of mankind—only to make us stronger, wiser, and more convicted servants like those before us. Let's rejoice that each of us six girls is a proud recipient of our beloved parents' union, and that today only the six of us together can create one link needed to preserve our parents' will for tomorrow.
I pray that this little book rekindles the joy, laughter, and innocence of yesteryear, the good old days at “234” (before we had to get out there ourselves and see all from which Mommy protected us; all for which Daddy fought for us), and that we plow forward together in our Ancestors' grace— honoring our Creator, our legacy, and our inner selves.
Eternal Love.
If I could have convinced more slaves that they were slaves, I would have freed thousands more.
—HARRIET TUBMAN
Contents
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
Prologue
1. Aftermath
2. Alone
3. Lessons
4. Camp Betsey Cox
5. Mommy's Home
6. Played
7. Hustle Queen
8. Roots
9. Boys
10. College
11. Daddy's Home
12. Growing Up X
13. Recovery
14. Reunited
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I'd like to give praise and thanks to our Creator, God, Allah, for inner peace, continued love, and patience toward understanding the essence of life itself and its bountiful blessings. To the Ancestors that predated the Holocaust of Brown people, when Black really was Beautiful (let's say 10,000 b.c.), thank you for leaving us history (the pyramids, the Sphinx, the Nile Valley, and all the uses of natural resources, the Stars, the Sciences, Math, Architecture, Music, Fashion, Perfumes, and so much more); the fundamental principles of our African culture—Universal Spirit and Intellect. To the enslaved Ancestors, for making a majestic way out of no way, cultivating the soil of the earth for all of us today.
Mommy and Daddy, for your unconditional love and servitude … for living an exemplary life with faith in the Most High, of human decency, and determination; for shedding Light on our ancestors' true contributions to world history. My Big Sis, Attallah, for keeping me whole when I questioned my existence. Thank you, Sis! Qubilah, for being in the right place at the right time. My baby sisters: Gamilah, for keeping me laughing; the twins, Malikah, for being so smart, kind, and sweet, and Malaak, for your intellect and continued talking over and over and over again.
To my mother and father's families before and after them, God bless you, including my nephews, Malcolm and Malik, and my niece, Bettih-Bahiyah. May you clearly understand your lineage, make a commitment to Justice, live life in honor of a great Legacy, carrying on the struggle of human decency in the name of Allah while enjoying without limitations a happy and productive life of your own.
My most dear and special Aunt Hilda and Uncle Wesley Little.
Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. Matthew 5:8
The Wallace Family (Thomas, Antoinette, Tommy, and Gail Wallace-Miller), words are simply not enough for when my parents in turn needed “true” love; they found peace in each of you…. Mr. Percy Sutton, thank you for being with us from the beginning and after the end. Sister Aisha al-Adawiya, Dr. Maya Angelou, Laura Ross Brown, Haki Madabuhti, Auntie Mary Redd, Dr. Niara Sudarkasa, thank you for your warm comfort.
My dearest sisterfriends … Lisa Anthony, Crystal Christmas, Ayala Donchin, Dawn Ellerby, Claudine Grier, Kathy Hill, Liz Loblack, Danielle Philogene, Kathy Rimmer, Lisa Simone Stroud, Tammy Taylor, Sybil and Adrienne Testamark—through the mountains, rivers, and valleys, we sisters are a constant. My most dear cousin Ilyas
ah LeAsah Little-Brown. Cousin? You are my Light! Nadia Gourzong, I could not have been blessed with a finer goddaughter. Robert, God has certainly brought us together. Thank you for sharing you. Thank you for your love, your peace, and your faith.
To my editor, Anita Diggs. When the struggle seemed to be in vain, thank you for your assurance. Thank you for your commitment. Thank you for sharing this higher vision. Thank you for understanding the need to preserve this brief portion of history. Without you, this could not have been possible. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. My cowriter, Miss Kim McLarin—the novelist! Truly, you are a blessing from above. Thank you for your organizational skills. Thank you for your talents. Thank you for sorting through all of this and always staying ahead of the race.
Auntie Coretta Scott King for staying in all six of our courts, offering encouragement and comfort just as our mother did, when there seemed to be no one else physically around. Jean Anderson Owensby, you know you are the true angel in this literary journey. Thank you, Precious! And to my dear friend Julie Wells Bearden and my soul sister Terrie Williams—you two of all know my heart because it is a reflection of yours! Thank you for all of you.
We come into each other's life for a specific purpose. When that purpose is fulfilled, all we can do is reminisce, learn, readjust, and then simply move on. And sometimes we're blessed to have certain angels in our lives for a lifetime. I am grateful to all of you who have touched my life so fervently. Understanding life in this manner makes it easier to enjoy those special moments yet gracefully let go in deeper peace….
Additional Acknowledgments
Tony Abney, Malaika Adero, Muhammad Ali, Dr. Norma Jean Anderson, Peter Bailey, Safiya Bandele, Amiri Baraka, Amy Billingsley, Kim Brown, Cousin Shahara Little-Brown, Camp Betsey Cox (Muffin, Nanette, Lemon, Candy, Liz, Lori, Mandy, Patty, Shirley, Chrissy, Beth) founders Jean “Mrs. D” Davies and Mike and Lorrie Byrom, Denise Carter, Nicholas Cherot, The Cortlandt Manor Girls Dawna, Kim, Mayma, Robin, Sean “P. Diddy” Combs, Mayor Ernest Davis, Ossie and Ruby Dee Davis, Larry and Olga Dais, DMX, Michael Eric Dyson, Noel and Wilma Fearon, Tom Feelings, Derek Ferguson, Joseph Fleming, Herman Fulton, Jackie and Jeffrey Grant, Dr. Bruce Greenstein, Dick Gregory, Robert Haggins, Alex Haley, David A. Harris, Dorothy Heights, Gil Scott Herron, Rita Howard, Karen Hunter, Jack and Jill, Inc., Westchester County Chapter, Dr. Ed O. Jackson, Janet Jackson, Norman Jewison, Magic Johnson, Cousin Debbie Little-Jones, John and Fran Keefe, Mayor Ed Koch, Yuri Kochiyama, Spike Lee, The Links, Inc., and The Greater Hudson Valley Chapter, Kevin MacRae, Nelson and Winnie Mandela, Dr. Manning Marble, Kedar Massenburg, Judge Grey Mathis, Curtis Mayfield, Dr. Henry L. McCurtis, Doug Messiah, Minyon Moore, Alanis Morrisette, MeShell Ndegocello, Gil Noble, Gordon Parks, Julio Peterson, Sidney and Juanita Poitier, Kenneth Ramseur, Charles Rangel, Merrill Roberts, Candace, Sandy, and Souls of my sisters, Yoshi Scarboro, Carl Scott, Jill Scott, Rev. Al Sharpton, Tracy Sherrod, Pamela Shine, Russell Simmons, Nina Simone, Cherron Tomlinson, Iyanla VanZant, James Walker, Mike Wallace, Dionne Warwick, Denzel Washington, Jitu Weusi, Brother Preston Wilcox, Marvin Worth, and Oprah Winfrey.
Author's Note
It is not my intention to rehash my father's life. He has told his life story in the Autobiography of Malcom X, which you can read for details of his incredible journey. Growing Up X is simply an interpretation of my life—one of six daughters of Malcolm X and Dr. Betty Shabazz.
Prologue
One of the last times I saw Mommy whole and smiling and beautiful was Mother's Day of 1997.
I took her out to dinner at the Audubon Cafe, along with my friend Kathy and her mother, whom I called Auntie Wilma. At the last minute, Mommy invited her friend Mary Redd to join us. We loved Auntie Redd as much as Mommy, but we had not expected her and so we were caught unprepared; we had no gift for her. As Mommy and Auntie Wilma began opening their presents, Mommy leaned over and whispered to me, “Go find some flowers for Mary Redd. I don't want her to feel left out.” Kathy and I flew out the door.
When we came back with the flowers, Mommy, true to form, tried to sneak me money. She insisted, but I'm not her daughter for nothing; I told her to put her money back in her purse.
Afterward, Mommy took us to the site of the old Audubon Ballroom, which Columbia University was developing into a biotechnology research center. Mommy expressed her concerns about the promises that were not kept in making the center a real and living memorial to her husband, Malcolm X. She showed us the life-size bronze sculpture of Daddy downstairs and told us how she had wanted the artist to change the suit he was wearing because “My husband didn't wear Armani. He wore single-breasted suits. He was conservative.” (The artist, Ms. Gabriel Koren, changed the suit.) Then she took us upstairs to the ballroom and showed us the beautiful mural depicting Daddy's life. She told us how she had instructed the artist, Mr. Daniel Galvez, to paint a bassinet in one area because her fourth baby, Gamilah, would feel left out if he did not. She also made sure the artist positioned the crescent and star on Daddy's ring correctly. “If you're gonna do something, do it right,” she said, just the way she'd said it a million times before. “And for God's sake, follow through.”
It was a wonderful evening for me, spent in the physical presence of one of the most important people in my life and the spiritual presence of the other. When it was time to part, I kissed Mommy on the cheek and gave her a big hug.
“Good night, Mommy. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.”
Two weeks later, on the first day of June, I attended a play in Mount Vernon, New York, with my friend Crystal and her six-year-old daughter Nia. The play was Endangered Species by Judy Shepherd King and it was about how young people and their families can battle the scourge of the violence, drugs, and AIDS that is afflicting our communities.
It was a special event for me; in my capacity as director of public relations for the city of Mount Vernon, I had spent weeks courting press coverage for the event, and the turnout was great. Doug Watson of Black Entertainment Television was on hand, as were many other journalists. Overall, the event was a rousing success and I was pleased. At one point in the evening Doug pulled me aside and whispered he had just run into my mother and my nephew Malcolm at a nearby restaurant, The Bayou. “They looked like they were having a good time,” Doug said. I was sure they were; Mommy liked to enjoy herself when she could. Part of me wanted to sneak out and join them, but of course I couldn't leave.
After the performance, Crystal, Nia, and I drove to Manhattan for dinner. By the time I made it back to my apartment in Mount Vernon it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. I was so weary I had barely enough energy to brush my teeth and wash my face before falling into bed. I am a hard sleeper; my mother could tell you from years of experience that trying to wake me up when I'm tired is like trying to raise a stone. When I was in high school, my poor mom would come to my room at 5:00 a.m. and beg me to get up before I missed my bus.
But early that morning something shook me from my sleep. It was a presence, a soundless voice that warned Wake up! Your mother needs you! I bolted straight up in bed, frightened and confused. A voice was speaking words into my answering machine, and somewhere in the kitchen my pager was beeping wildly.
Frightened, I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. Along the way I noticed the light on my answering machine blinking furiously, but before I could listen to the message the telephone rang again. I picked it up. It was a stranger's voice, and she identified herself as a nurse, calling from Jacobi Hospital.
“Your mother has been in a fire,” she said.
I felt as though someone had punched me, hard, right in the chest, but I couldn't fall to the floor like I wanted to. Terror was propping me up. “Is it bad?” I managed to ask.
The nurse spoke softly but did not hesitate. “Yes.”
She gave me directions to the hospital. I didn't think to call anyone to go with me, either my sisters or a girlfriend. I didn't think of taking a cab, even though my hands were shaking so hard and my
heart was pounding so fast I was in no real shape to drive. I didn't think of anything except getting to Mommy, and the next thing I knew I was in my car, racing toward the hospital.
How the hospital officials got my phone number I'm not sure. They didn't even know who my mother was before I arrived; when I got there, she was listed as Jane Doe. I rushed into the emergency room, disheveled and dismayed, and told the attendant I was there for my mother who had been in a fire. She took my arm and escorted me to the back.
“Try to prepare yourself,” she said. “It's bad.”
I was so terrified I could barely stand. By now only an emergency room curtain separated us. The nurse looked at me, but I was too frightened to even raise my hand. How could I see her this way? How could I have this be the impression of my mother I would carry with me for the rest of my life?
A doctor appeared out of nowhere, that look of practiced sympathy pasted on his face. He introduced himself, ran through some gibberish my mind refused to take in, and then reiterated those words I had been hearing all too often that night.
“I should tell you it's bad,” he said. “You need to prepare for the worst.”
I wanted to scream at these people who kept telling me how bad it was. Didn't they know who they were dealing with? Didn't they know who she was? My mother had been through the worst possible pain in her life and emerged unbroken, carrying her six daughters and so much of the world on her back.
What could possibly be so bad that Mommy couldn't handle it? All my life, my mother had been the tree against which I and my sisters and so many other people had leaned. She was the one whose personal motto, despite all the pain she had suffered in life, was “Find the good and praise it.”
How in the world could a woman like that possibly fall?