Growing Up X
Page 10
In September 1960, Fidel Castro visited the United States. New York City officials set up a hotel room for him in downtown Manhattan, but Castro said he wanted to stay in Harlem and to meet with Malcolm X. For this the FBI labeled my father a communist, even though Daddy made it clear that communism was not a viable choice for members of the Nation of Islam because communism recognized no God. Still, the FBI homed in ever more on the Nation and, specifically, on my father. He was harassed, followed, and spied upon. Black agents were paid to infiltrate the Nation and report on my father's every move. His letters were intercepted, his telephones tapped, his speeches recorded, his movements watched. At least one agent tailed him to Africa, and when he was confronted by my father, railed about Malcolm X being “Anti-American, un-American, subversive, seditious and probably Communist.” The FBI file on my father runs thousands of pages long.
With the government on one side, racist whites on the other, and the Nation of Islam on the third, my father knew he would not live to an old age. He said, “My father and most of his brothers died by violence—my father because of what he believed in. To come right down to it, if I take the kind of things in which I believe, then add to that the kind of temperament that I have, plus the one hundred percent dedication I have to whatever I believe in—these are ingredients which make it just about impossible for me to die of old age.”
In those early years after my father's death, Mommy rarely left the house without some kind of male protective accompaniment. These were not paid bodyguards; these were friends and followers of my father who felt it was their duty to protect Malcolm's widow and children. I think my mother could not have kept some of them from watching out for us if she'd wanted to.
There's a photograph of my mother in a 1969 Ebony. She's attending a memorial service for my father held at Junior High 271 in Brooklyn, and she stands beneath a bright light, surrounded by young brothers in black leather jackets and black berets who look like Black Panthers, though they are not identified as such. What the caption says is this: “Widow is not affiliated with para-military group, did not request guard.” In the picture, the young brothers all lean forward, listening attentively while my mother, looking down, says something with a faraway smile on her face.
My mother's good friends John and Fran Keefe told me that when Mommy arrived to speak at their Scarsdale church one day in the late 1960s, her car was accompanied by two cars—one in front, one in back—each carrying three solemn-faced African American men. They surrounded her as she climbed from her car, then escorted her inside the elegant structure. I imagine the sight of my mother walking down the aisle with all those serious brothers gave the good people of Scarsdale something to discuss over dinner that night.
As a child I never knew about the bodyguards. My only memory, a fragment, is of being at some large event and seeing a line of tall, handsome men all dressed in black and staring straight ahead, their faces set. They seemed so serious to me, too serious. I smiled and waved, even twirled around, trying to get them to smile. Nothing, not even a blink. I had the feeling I could have turned cartwheels across the floor and they would have paid not the slightest bit of attention. That's how focused they were. But when and where this moment took place, I have no idea.
My mother must have gone to great lengths to keep us from finding out and possibly being frightened by the presence of the bodyguards. Did she meet them outside the house? Did they wait for her at the end of our driveway? I do not know, but I believe my mother deliberately kept these men out of our sight so we would not grow up surrounded by fear. “You have to remember that the three oldest girls can recall three different times when someone tried to kill their father,” she told a magazine interviewer in 1969. “I can't completely erase this from their minds, but I can stress the happy times and put their minds at ease.” Amazingly enough, though, either my mother or the simple passage of time managed to do just that—erase from my mind those terrible memories of my father's life being threatened. I do not remember ever once being afraid for myself or my family as a child. Although I knew some bad men had “hurt” Daddy, it never occurred to me that those bad men would want to hurt us, too.
But there were hints, suggestions, little indications that we were not like other families. My mother was keenly private and reserved, more so than most adults I knew. She had friends, but she kept us sheltered from most people. She rarely took us along when she spoke in public. If one of our housekeepers was off that day and Aunt Ruth couldn't make it, my mother would take us to our grandmother's house in Philadelphia and leave us there.
She was very conscious of what she talked about on the telephone, even with her closest girlfriends. You might ask her a question, or take the conversation in one direction, and she would, without warning, switch midstream to a completely unrelated subject. And we also knew what was all right to say on the phone and what was not. If my mother was going away for some length of time, we did not discuss the trip. If one of us was in some kind of trouble at home or at school, we would not discuss it on the telephone. I never felt shadowed or threatened, just cautious. My friend Lisa Anthony and I even developed a code for discussing boys; if I said I'd had some Doublemint gum recently it meant I had kissed my latest beau. For some reason we had four different telephone lines, with one of those red buttons to put people on hold.
“We're living under surveillance,” Mommy would say sometimes, warning us to behave. She was never more explicit than that, at least not with me, but I came to understand her words as meaning we should act conscientiously, honestly, and decently on all occasions. My sisters and I knew we should, by no means, engage in any bad behavior. Later, as an adolescent, I came to understand my mother's warning as meaning that any trouble I might get into as a teenager would surely be thrown up in my face later in life. In other words, in this country, especially for African Americans, anything you do can and will be used against you. Watch yourself.
The summer I was fifteen I decided to visit a friend in the neighborhood. Normally my sisters and I dressed fashionably but modestly—no hot pants or halter tops for us. But for some reason this day I decided to wear a cute little shorts and shirt combination I had bought for summer camp. At camp everyone wore shorts; it was no big deal.
I was walking down the street, thinking how cute I looked, when my mother pulled up beside me in her car. “Get in,” she ordered. I climbed into the passenger seat, surprised at the serious tone of her voice.
“What do you think you're doing, walking around here dressed like that?” she asked.
“Dressed like what?”
“Those shorts are too revealing,” she said.
“But I wear these at camp,” I argued. “Everybody wears shorts at camp.”
But my mother was not a woman to waste time arguing with her children. When she set a rule, that was that. “Do not let me see you wearing that outfit around here again,” she said. “You have to dress like a young lady and be mindful of what you wear, say, and do. Your father would not condone this dressing.”
Now, this might have been simply the worried warning of any mother concerned that her adolescent daughter's body was maturing faster than her sense of the world, and I probably took it that way. But part of me wonders now if she was not also trying to gently prepare me for the scrutiny that would come my way as the daughter of Malcolm X. Perhaps the reason she did not address the issue more forcefully with her daughters is that she did not want us to focus our lives on it, to allow what people said or thought of us to determine what we thought about ourselves. As I matured and thought anew about her advice to be careful in everything we said and did, I found this meaning: I had to be conscious of the decisions I made, and I had to make the right decisions—and “right” meant what was right in the eyes of God, not other people.
It's really the same thing I tell my nephew Malcolm: He must choose his own friends rather than allow people to choose him. You never know what ideas or passions or assumptions people will try to pro
ject on you, especially if you are the daughter or grandson of an icon. True friends will allow you to be you.
My mother was conscious of our security, but she was not paranoid and she did not raise us to be that way. She did not smother us with watchfulness or hover over us. She taught us not fear and suspicion but optimism. “Look for the good and praise it,” she said over and over again. When we were at home, we were allowed to play outside, in the backyard, in the yards of friends, and even to roam the neighborhood just like any other children. It was my grandparents, and not my mother, who raised my anger by being what I thought was vastly overprotective.
After camp every summer my sisters and I went to spend a few weeks at my grandfather's house in Philadelphia. Shelman Sanders—we called him JuJu—was my mother's biological father, and his wife, Madeline, was my mother's stepmother. They had three grown sons: Uncle Shelman Jr., whom we called Uncle Dickey; Uncle Stanley; and Uncle John.
My grandparents weren't worried about the Nation of Islam or the federal government; these were vague and distant threats. They were worried about the normal, everyday dangers that can befall a young girl in the city—accidents, illicit substances, crime, and, most of all, boys. Their way of keeping us safe and secure was simple: We were never allowed out without an adult. My grandparents took us lots of places—to church, to the park for picnics, even to the zoo. But if we were home at their house we could venture no farther than the front steps alone. We couldn't step into the street to join a kickball game. We couldn't visit the homes of other children or run around the corner to the store for a bag of potato chips. If one of my uncles was going to the store for a package of gum, we'd cluster around him, begging “Please, can we go?” because the only time we could leave that block was escorted by an uncle or in a family member's car.
There was a boy in the neighborhood named Donald Bird. He was a fine brother with Ethiopian muscles and beautiful Sudanese skin. We liked each other, and if he saw me sitting on the steps of my grandparents' house he would come over to talk, at least until one of my uncles sauntered outside, leaned against the railing, and gave Donald “The Stare.” But that didn't stop me from giving Donald my address in Mount Vernon. We exchanged a few letters during the school year, and as the summer of my fifteenth birthday rolled around, we arranged to meet one day away from the prying eyes of my family.
I arranged to spend the day at the West Philadelphia home of Uncle Dickey, because one of Donald's brothers had a house in the same neighborhood. I waited until Uncle Dickey was out of the house, then asked his wife, Aunt Pat, if I could go to the store. Aunt Pat was a nurse, a calm and unflappable woman who seemed less worried about the lurking dangers of the streets.
Mommy, Attallah, Daddy holding Qubilah, and Muhammad Ali with me on his lap.(Photo copyright Robert L. Haggins. Reprinted with permission.)
Attallah, Ilyasah, and Qubilah in our backyard. Mommy couldn't get those scarves and dresses on me…. I probably would have snatched them off. (Photo copyright Robert L. Haggins. Reprinted with permission.)
That's me with my head on Attallah's lap. (Photo copyright Robert L. Haggins. Reprinted with permission.)
On the front steps of our house in 1964. Left to right: Qubilah, Attallah, me, and Gamilah in Mommy's arm. (Photo copyright Robert L. Haggins. Reprinted with permission.)
Me, Daddy, and Qubilah. (Photo copyright Robert L. Haggins. Reprinted with permission.)
Mommy looking at a photo of Daddy in 1965. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Mommy and the twins in 1968. They were in her belly when daddy was assassinated.(Photo copyright Merrill A. Roberts Jr. Reprinted with permission.)
My uncles, Wesley and Wilfred, thirty-three years after their brother was assassinated.(Photo courtesy of the author)
At one of Daddy's memorial services. Left to right, top: Qubilah and Attallah; bottom: Malikah, Ilyasah, Mommy, Gamilah, and Malaak. (Photo copyright Merrill A. Roberts Jr. Reprinted with permission.)
My childhood father figure: Mr. John Arthur.(Photo courtesy of the author)
Lisa Anthony! Lisa (John Anthony's daughter) and I were inseparable as far back as the early seventies. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Me and the “three little ones” in front of Grandma's house in Philadelphia. Left to right: Malikah, Ilyasah, Malaak, and Gamilah. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Making cookies at Camp Betsey Cox in July 1970. (Photo courtesy of the author)
The dreadful corn weeding at Camp Betsey Cox, July 1972. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Ninth grade at the Masters School.(Photo copyright West End Entertainment. Reprinted with permission.)
Me and some of my soul sisters at the Masters School. (Photo copyright West End Entertainment. Reprinted with permission.)
Me and my Hustling King, Michael Peeples…. I think we still have the dance routine down. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Malaak and me in 1986. (Photo courtesy of the author)
My days as an aspiring model. I thought I had it, but the agencies thought otherwise…. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Me in my modeling days … wishing I was queen of the Nile. (Photo courtesy of the author)
One of my best friends, Crystal Christmas, and me chilling at the airport. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Jerrod and me. This is when my 5′11″ frame could wear the highest pair of heels because he was 6′11″. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Left to right: LaVallis, Susan Taylor, and Ilyasah. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Bernice King and me at one of her dad's birthday celebrations. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Terrie Williams, my spiritual sister, and me. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Me and President Bill Clinton in South Africa. (Photo courtesy of the author)
A profound experience for me was reading the biography of Winnie Mandela … mind-blowing! And so it was a most endearing and heartfelt moment when Gamilah and I met her. (Photo courtesy of the author)
I spotted the Big Man, Shaquille, at Georgia's in Cali, and he was kind enough to take a photo with me. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Left to right, top: Deb and Liz; bottom: Ilyasah and Sooze. The Pendulum Gyrlz taking a peaceful moment. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Malikah, Auntie Mary Redd (Mommy's best friend), and me at a birthday party in 1998. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Malaak, Attallah, and me. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Me and Auntie Coretta. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Gamilah, Malaak, Attallah, Qubilah, Ilyasah, and Malikah holding her baby girl. (Photo courtesy Hakim Mutlaq © 2001. All Rights Reserved.)
My nephew Malcolm with his infamous smile. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Malcolm and Mommy. (Photo courtesy of the author)
“Sure,” she said, not looking up from her newspaper. “Don't take too long.”
I flew out of the house, giddy with freedom, and raced to the store where Don was waiting. He was dressed up pretty suave and even smelled good. Taking my hand, he smiled his movie-star smile. “Let's go to the mall,” he said.
This was a great adventure for me—remember, I was fifteen years old but had almost never been anywhere, except the homes of a few girlfriends, without some member of my family along.
Don suggested we go over to the local shopping center and walk around. He bought me a soda and a soft pretzel and we held hands as we window-shopped. It was a lovely date. After a few hours we made our way back to the neighborhood and strolled over to Robin Hood Dell park, which was just across the street from my uncle Dickey's house. Don led me to one of the cozy gazebos that dot the park and we settled in there, talking and laughing, brushing hands, and, occasionally, lips. Don was so handsome and so sweet, so gently attentive; being with him put me in a blissful daze. I might have remained in that gazebo all day if I had not happened to glance across at my uncle's house and notice all the car lights out front. A lot of car lights on a lot of cars.
He started walking me back to the house, but as we got closer I noticed that among the cars was one belonging to my grandfather. Then Uncle John and Uncle Dickey appeared suddenly on the porch. They were talking low and seriously to each other and looking very agitated. The sight of them stopped me in my tracks.
“You better go,” I said.
“Why? What's wrong?” Don said. He was trying to be cool, but I could hear the tremble in his voice. My uncles were big men.
“They're mad,” I said. “You better go.”
“Well, if you're sure,” Don said, already backing away.
“I'm sure. I'll call you. Go on.”
Don turned and started walking away just as my uncle Dickey spotted me. He called to my grandfather, who was still inside, then waited. My grandfather came through the screen door like an explosion. He was a big man, very stocky and strong. He looked like Duke Ellington if Duke Ellington was highly agitated, and he crossed the porch and went down the steps like Mike Tyson without even breaking stride. I stood on that hot Philadelphia sidewalk watching him come storming toward me like the Jolly Green Giant. Except his face was not jolly at all. He was hotly furious.