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About the Authors
Copyright Page
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This book is dedicated to my father, El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, Malcolm X. You marched to the beat of a different drummer in a lifelong quest for knowledge, truth, and justice. What a wonderful and exemplary teacher and leader you were and still are in our hearts, minds, and spirits! You continue to blaze a promising new trail for our people—and for all people. I am forever proud to be your daughter!
To my beloved mother, Dr. Betty Shabazz, who stood by her husband shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand—his muse, partner, and eternal friend. Together and apart, you taught us well and never dropped the baton of love and the pursuit of equality. You are forever etched in my heart.
And to the brave and bright young people of every race, creed, and color who have taken the baton firmly in hand, who will keep alive the work and spirit of Malcolm, Betty, and selfless teachers everywhere—past and present. It is you upon whom we rely to cross the finish line in the race for world peace and universal human rights.
And lastly—to the incarcerated. May God continue to bless each one of you with an abundance of love, faith, and determination.
—ILYASAH SHABAZZ
PART 1
FEBRUARY 1946
“Are you sure about this, Red?”
Shorty paces, still in the same clothes they arrested us in five weeks ago, the cramped quarters of this cell making us feel like we’re living inside an icebox.
“Man, you know I can’t go to jail. I’m a musician. I got plans!”
“Don’t sweat it, homeboy, it’s cool,” I reassure him. “We went over this. Just tell the judge and that jury it was my idea. Those cats will take it easy on you, for sure.”
“But it wasn’t your idea,” Shorty counters, his voice sharp. “It was them girls! We’re in here and they’re out there jivin’ us, man.”
I shrug. “They ain’t putting pretty girls like them in here. It’s all a part of the play, you see? Sophia is just gonna tell them that we’re not real robbers. Got it?”
And it’s true. Sophia’s idea to snatch loot from those empty homes was brilliant, but we’re not hard criminals. We could barely break open a back door. Only reason we got caught was because I took that watch and tried to get it fixed. Should’ve just walked myself right into the police station. It would’ve been faster.
“We’re not going to get any real time. We’re too young,” I say. “They’ll see neither of us have ever been to jail a day in our lives. Hell, we’ll probably be out by the holidays, maybe even fall. I guarantee you, homeboy, they’ll see we ain’t no real criminals and let us go.”
Plus, with Sophia sticking up for us, I have the ace of spades in my back pocket. We just have to play it cool.
Shorty rubs the back of his head. “You sure you trust her?”
“She don’t want to lose me. She loves me, man. And maybe, maybe when this is all over, we’ll be together for real, you know.”
Shorty’s lips press into a hard line.
“Don’t know about this, Red. Something don’t feel right. Those girls haven’t even checked on us. It’s been five weeks! They got us in here trapped like some slaves!”
Shorty shakes his head, chewing on his nails, eyes wide and jittery. It’s strange to see him this way. He’s cooler than a cucumber any other time. With so many days since my last high, it’s hard to keep my composure. But I have to, for Shorty’s sake. He’s been there for me when I needed him the most. Only right to return the favor.
“Remember that day you told me you got cleared from the draft?” I ask. “And I caught the first thing smoking out of Harlem. Had to celebrate with you, man! We had on our clean threads, all them pretty girls eyeing us. And you and your band up on that stage at the Crow? Boy, you were something else. I had no idea you could blow like that!”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I remember. That night was something.”
“Well, today is gonna be just as smooth, homeboy. Then … you’ll be back with your band, playing that sax in supper clubs and ballrooms all over this city. Maybe even on tour. And I’ll be your road manager.”
“Hey! Who said I was hiring?”
“You know you gonna want your main man with you!”
He nods. “You brilliant, you got that gift, Red. Can’t take credit for that. Aight, sounds good!”
We slap skins, a small smile returning to Shorty’s face.
“We’ll be back in Roxbury before you know it,” I say.
Even if my heart is in Harlem.
* * *
Shorty and I enter the courtroom together. The charges:
Breaking and entering
Possession of stolen property
Grand larceny
Carrying a firearm
The words sound heavy and full of time.
On the stand, Sophia sniffles, her blond hair pinned back off her face. I’ve never seen her dressed this way before. Not a slice of skin to be seen. She even has on eyeglasses. They make her look real sophisticated … and innocent. Something doesn’t sit right in my gut. Maybe it’s her getup, maybe it’s because she won’t look at me. I’ve tried for the last twenty minutes to smile at her so she knows I’m all right.
But why won’t she look at me?
Head bent low, holding one of those little embroidered hankies, Sophia begins to whimper and the jury hangs on her every word. She licks her pink lips a few times. Something I’ve seen her do before … when she’s about to lie.
“They’re just so big,” Sophia says. “I was scared to say no.”
I sit up straight as my heart starts to race, my mouth going dry. Shorty’s face crumples and pales as he turns to spot his mother in the audience. I don’t move, can’t look at Ella’s face. It’ll break me.
I turn to our lawyer, who seems uninterested in the proceedings.
“Aren’t you gonna ask her questions or something? She’s supposed to be on our side!”
“Nothing to say. She’s not my witness. Prosecution brought her in.” He rests his hands on the table. “She’s their witness, not ours.”
“They said if I didn’t help them,” Sophia cries, “they would … they … I was just trying to protect my little sister. She’s only a kid, you know.”
But I’m only a kid, I thought. And I was a kid when I met her.
“So this wasn’t your idea?” the lawyer demands. “You had nothing to do with this plan.”
“No. It was them. They took advantage of us. The tall one.”
“What?” I mumble.
“They tricked us. I didn’t know what I was doing,” she says.
“But you drew the map!” I burst out. “You picked all the houses!”
The judge slams down his gavel three times. “ORDER! Counselor, control your client!”
My lawyer shushes me as Sophia’s guilt-filled blue eyes finally meet mine.
&nb
sp; “She’s lying,” I whisper, insides burning, as I watch her sit up there sniveling while we’re down here in handcuffs.
“Be quiet. You shouldn’t have been with a white woman anyway.”
The jury leaves the courtroom to deliberate, a few of them staring me down on the way out, like they’ve already made up their minds.
Shorty palms the side of his head, and any confidence I had quickly dissolves into fear.
Eight to ten years.
The moment after our sentences are read, I look at Ella.
“I’m sorry,” I cough out, just as Shorty faints, slumping to the floor.
The officers kick him a few times, yank him to his feet, and usher both of us out of the courtroom. I try to take one last look at Sophia, but she’s gone.
Shorty and I are put on separate buses. I have no idea where he’s going, they won’t say. Fear spreads through my bones, pulsing.
The men on my bus are the kind of men I’ve met a hundred times before. Their faces stoic, eyes hard, staring straight ahead as we’re driven over to Charlestown. The state prison on Lynde’s Point. We are unloaded at the gate, ushered through a long dark corridor to frigid, windowless cement rooms. In an instant, I gag at the revolting, suffocating smell. Boots and screams echo all around us. Something squeaks under my shoe and I stumble.
“R-rats,” I stammer, but none of the guards seem concerned.
“Line up!” a guard shouts.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to the older brother beside me, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think. “Where are we?”
But he says nothing as we’re surrounded by guards, weapons drawn like a firing squad. My heart drops.
Oh, God, no …
“Niggers, strip!” a guard orders, and I watch the others begin to take off their clothes.
“Faster! Move it!” he screams, and I fumble with my belt, buttons, and laces, fingers trembling.
Even though I’m from Michigan, and have lived in Grand Rapids and East Lansing, I have never experienced any place colder than here. The kind of brutal cold that pinches the tip of your earlobes and won’t let go. The cement floor is wet, my bare feet standing in a puddle of ice, as if it rained inside and froze solid. Is there a leak somewhere? But then I see it, the water hose. It comes alive with a shriek, and the water hits our bodies, slamming us into the cold cement wall with all its pressure. I huddle, letting it beat me.
God, please help me.
Water off. More shouting. Screaming. A hot, loud breath in my face. The brother next to me begins to cry. The guards inspect and shepherd us like cattle, pushing and kicking the ones who move too slow. Afraid the guards will shoot, I work fast to follow their orders. They give us dark blue uniforms and a few small items. Something jabs at my back. A baton.
“I SAID MOVE!” a guard barks in my face. My fists clench close to my body. We’re lined up, heading down the tunnel, toward light. At the end is a counter, another guard working behind it. He hands me a piece of paper with the numbers 22843 scribbled on it.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up at me as he checks off something on his clipboard.
“Your new name, boy.”
The guard shoves me forward into a massive hall. So many eyes and hard faces stare at us through thick iron bars. I try to get my bearings. The rancid smell, rodents scurrying across the floor, keys jangling in the guard’s hands. He stops short in front of a cell the size of a closet and shoves me inside. No windows. The cement walls littered with scratches, closing in on me. My chest tightens with a pent-up scream as the door squeaks then slams shut behind me.
CHAPTER 1
If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches, there’s no progress. If you pull it all the way out, that’s not progress. The progress is healing the wound that the blow made.
—MALCOLM X
My mother’s dress was sky blue with tiny white polka dots sprinkled like snowflakes. She wore it with her pearls when she went into town. She walked tall, head high, with a beautiful smile and skin bursting with pride so thick people felt her before they saw her, wondering what this white woman was doing with all these Negro children. All seven of us lined up like ducklings behind her. Even when we were home, we orbited her like the planets. We couldn’t get enough of her.
I lay my head on her shoulder as she cradled Wesley in her arms, singing to us in English, French, Creole, Yoruba. Eyes closed, voice like a hummingbird. Mother soon fell asleep. She must have been tired from staying up late the night before, working on an article she was writing for the Negro World newspaper. She was by far the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. It was probably why Papa always brought something home for her after his travels—nutmeg, mint candies, new books.
In the living room, some of my brothers and sisters were hunched over their encyclopedias as news hissed from the radio. Outside, the sky was pinkish peach and orange as the Midwestern sun slowly set on Lansing, Michigan. I could smell Hilda’s cinnamon hot cross buns rising in the oven and Mom’s West Indian stewed chicken simmering on the stove next to a pot of greens seasoned with her own garden spices.
We were all together: Papa, Mom, Wilfred, Hilda, Philbert, me, Reginald, Wesley, Yvonne—even Robert. Though he wasn’t born yet, he was there, and everything was perfect. Warm, cozy, safe. No one could harm us. No one could break us. Papa wouldn’t let them. We were family.
But in a blink, it all changed.
Mom startled awake with a gasp that shot up from her toes.
“Mommy?” Hilda said from the stove, tending to the pot. “Mommy, are you okay?”
Mom placed a trembling palm on the table to balance herself, eyes searching, taking each of us in. Wilfred, the eldest, entered the kitchen, book still in hand, followed by the others.
“Where’s your father?” she whispered.
“I think … he’s in his room,” Wilfred said.
“You think?” she snapped, passing the baby to Hilda. I scrambled out of her way as she rushed into the hall.
“Earl!” she called. “Earl! Where are you?”
There was a frantic desperation in her cries that we hadn’t heard since the night the KKK set our first house on fire in Omaha. I remembered the way we had burst out into the night, her screams urging us to run. Philbert stood behind me, holding my shoulders, Reginald squeezing against my side.
Now we listened to my father’s heavy footsteps slowly walk down the hall before he appeared at the kitchen doorway, dressed in his clay-brown tweed suit, hat in hand.
“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” Papa said to her with a grin. “You dozed off there real good.”
She took in his tall, stocky frame and smooth black skin but didn’t seem comforted by his presence. “Where are you going?”
Papa chuckled, fixing the brim of his hat. “Going into town to collect rent and money for the chickens.”
Mom bit her bottom lip and shook her head real slowly. “No. Earl. Don’t go.”
“Woman, I am not afraid of those—”
“Earl, don’t!” she snapped. “Just listen to me, now.”
“Louise, don’t start this funny business again. Now you know—”
Mom’s voice became real soft, at the edge of tears. “Earl, if you go, you won’t come back, ever!”
The room fell silent, even the radio lost signal. My heart started to race wildly. What did she mean, Papa wouldn’t come back? Of course, he’d be back. He’d be back in time for supper. Then there would be work to do, meetings to attend, time to spend ministering to people and spreading Mr. Garvey’s teachings. Papa said I could go with him again to the next meeting. It was good for my training, my organizing, my destiny. Papa said I was going to make a great leader someday.
My brothers and sisters huddled together by the table as if to keep warm, trying to make sense of Mom’s words. Mom’s words were always soft yet firm and true. She was never ever wrong. But these words, they fright
ened us, more than anything. I needed her to be wrong.
Papa touched the top of Mom’s head, cradling her cheek with a smile. Papa, with a body as strong as the finest steel, could be tough on us kids, but he held a sweet spot for Mom. We could see it in his eyes, the way he looked at her, endearing and proud.
“Louise, don’t fret, okay? I’ll be back before supper. Nothing will ever take me away from our family. Nothing will ever take me away from you.”
“Papa?” Wilfred started. He wasn’t a man yet and he wouldn’t dare question Papa’s decisions, but the way Mom clutched herself, he at least had to try. “Uh, can I come with you?”
“No, son. I’ll be back before you know it. You check on them chickens?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he mumbled. “Finish your studies and watch after your mother, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Papa nodded at the rest of us, put on his round spectacles, and headed down the hall. The front door creaked and slammed shut behind him. Mom stood there, staring at the door as if she hoped he’d change his mind. The door didn’t open. A darkness fell over the house within seconds.
“Mommy?” Hilda asked gently. “Is it … is it one of your premonitions?”
Mom glanced down at me, her forehead creased with worry. She slid a hand down my cheek and said, “Malcolm. Malcolm? It’s time for you to wake up, sweetheart.”
Wake up? But I wasn’t asleep.
“Huh, Mom? What are you talking about?”
“Malcolm, it’s time.”
Her voice sounded distant, far away, like an echo underwater. My arms and legs went numb. Felt like I was falling.
“Malcolm. Malcolm! It’s time. Wake up!” she shrieked, her scream like a stuck piano key thumping through my head. I closed my eyes and pressed my ears into my skull.
“Wake up, Malcolm! Wake up! Wake up! Malcolm, wake up!”
“Wake up, nigger! Move your ass! Now!”
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 1
