The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  If you take one step toward God, He will take two steps toward you.

  In a flash of panic, I hold my palm upward as best I can, like I’ve seen Walter do, and bow my head.

  Allah, I don’t know what you want from me. I’m trying to take a step, but it’s hard to take a step in that hole. I can’t go there again, Allah. Please, I am begging you.

  I don’t know if I’m praying right or how you’re supposed to pray to Allah. I’ve heard the other brothers pray in different languages. But as I’m praying and pleading, the words actually calm me.

  The warden doesn’t look up as we enter his office. He continues scratching some notes in a file on his giant desk while we stand there in silence for fifteen minutes.

  Heart pounding through my ears, my knees begin to shake, thoughts of the hole come rushing back. Except this time, I’m ready to fight, just like Chucky. Not out of insanity, but injustice. Chucky, who fought in a war that had nothing to do with him, is lying in a dark cell, broken and scared, all for some loosies? I shouldn’t be punished for telling others the truth about this place. People need to know.

  “Malcolm Little,” the warden says finally.

  I clear my throat, not allowing an ounce of fear to taint my voice, even with a stomach full of dread.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looks up, then adjusts his tie.

  “You are being transferred.”

  I release the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Transferred, sir?”

  “Your so-called petition has been approved. You’ve had two infractions but mostly good behavior. You’ll be moved in three days. Pack your things.”

  * * *

  “You’ll have to read up about Concord yourself. But boy, that place is something.”

  I swear, you’d think Bembry was paid by Concord’s local government to give such a glowing endorsement of a place he’s never been. But Concord, Massachusetts, is the town of my new home: Norfolk Prison Colony.

  “You’ve been given a real chance. Not a lot of people leave Charlestown before they supposed to. You ready?”

  I glance around my cell. Nothing to take except my letters, notebooks, and a few pens.

  “Just about.”

  Bembry nods. He looks like he’s going to say something but then changes his mind.

  “There’s a good library at Norfolk, thousands of books, the kind they don’t have here. The kind they don’t have at many libraries either. You better use it. Classes, too.”

  “Okay, thanks for this.”

  I hand over The Souls of Black Folk.

  “Right, yeah,” Bembry says with a laugh, palming the book. “What’d you think of it?”

  “Well, it helped me to read about history from the perspective of such an accomplished Negro. But it’s hard to understand how any man, especially a Black man as educated and committed to the struggle as Mr. Du Bois, would want so desperately to be respected by his oppressor. I don’t get that. Don’t think I ever will, not anymore. A new set of standards should be established by people who have integrity, who see the universal brotherhood of people. I mean, on what ground did God give white people the authority over man, the authority to dehumanize us with the law on their side—but no law to protect our rights as human beings? On what ground? I don’t get it.”

  My heart is beating hard and fast, my fist shaking.

  He smirks. “A Garveyite! Well, it all makes sense now, brother.”

  For the first time, I don’t disagree. I am my father’s child.

  “To your point,” he says, holding his chin. “Hard to imagine a world that considers us equals when the core of our very existence is human and they don’t even consider us that. What have I been telling you, son?”

  “Everything starts from the root.”

  “Yup. And if they don’t consider us human, first they’ll never consider us equal, no matter how we paint the picture. But that’s their problem, their shortcomings—not ours.”

  “So … how do we get them to recognize our humanity?”

  He smiles. “Keep reading. You’ll see.”

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 11

  So early in life, I had learned that if you want something, you had better make some noise.

  —MALCOLM X

  Wake up, Malcolm!

  The bus stops short and I’m wrenched out of a hazy sleep. Outside the windows, layered with thick metal mesh, the sun is peeking over the horizon.

  Two guards board the bus and unhook the chains from around our seats, then order us off. As my feet touch the gravel, I smell … trees. Blooming greenery, morning dew on the grass. The smells of my childhood. The smells of Lansing.

  It’s a sprawling property. No large gates, no hideous bars, just a wide, open quarter, surrounded by tall buildings. Like a college campus.

  My mouth dries. Am I dreaming?

  “Everyone, line up!”

  I steel myself, breath quickening, remembering my first day at Charlestown. The fear that entrapped me from the moment I stepped through its gates. Won’t let them see that same fear in me here. This time, I’m ready.

  We enter through a pair of double doors and are led down a long, brightly lit tunnel, with various-sized vents scattered above. The guards leading us are all empty-handed, their weapons still tucked safely in their belts. Eyes forward, head straight, I suck in a breath, the last bit of clean air, before we come to what appears to be the main hall.

  A group of prisoners—white, some Black—walk past, wearing denim and white T-shirts, carrying books, talking among themselves as if it were perfectly normal to do so. I’m gaping, then I recognize a familiar scent—coffee. Brewing somewhere nearby.

  A guard stands waiting in front of a massive gated window. He’s tall with bright red hair and a crooked smile. We line up in front of him.

  “Hello! Welcome to Norfolk Colony! This here, where you’re standing, is the heart of our facility. It leads to all dorms, classes, the recreation center, gardens, and the canteens.”

  The terms he uses are bewildering. Dorms? Classes? Recreation center?

  “If you ever get confused about where you’re supposed to be, you can come find me right here. Just follow your heart,” he says with a laugh. “We will be giving you your bedding, uniforms, and ID numbers. Go on ahead and line up to your right.”

  Beside us, a delivery window opens in the door of a supply room. Inside, inmates are working alongside guards to prepare our items. Last in line, I let the others collect their gear as I survey the spot.

  Outside in the courtyard, inmates roam, taking what looks like leisurely walks. They pass a set of guards and tip their hats. None of the guards are alarmed or threatened by our presence. They almost seem at ease, courteous, respectful … friendly.

  This must be some type of trick, I think, clocking every person I see. What’s their play? Then I hear a voice that sends chills straight down my spine.

  “Here you go, homeboy!”

  No. No way in the world …

  Inside the storage room, his back is turned as he digs through a bag of laundry for another set of uniforms. Haven’t seen him in so long, I almost don’t recognize him. He’s lost a good thirty pounds, has grays in his new beard as if he aged twenty years. But if I could spot him in a crowded ballroom at Roseland, I could sure spot him here.

  I clear my throat. “What’s happening, daddy-o?”

  He jolts, spinning upright. Face matching my shock.

  Shorty.

  * * *

  The air here isn’t soaked with the same heaviness it had in Charlestown.

  Nor the revolting stench.

  My uniform feels soft and new, like no one else wore it before me. My shoulders ease out of their tense hold. The guards and prisoners speak … peacefully. Giving eye contact, saying “good morning” and “good afternoon.” There’s no segregation here. The white prisoners talk to Negroes. Almost like … equals.

  Two guards show up at my cell later that week. “
Come on, Little, this way.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Processing.”

  Straightening up, shoulders back, I walk erect and confident, despite my mind racing. What’s processing and why am I the only one going?

  On the way, I scan the hallways, hoping to see Shorty again.

  Shorty and I … we’re family, we’re brothers. Not by blood but by bond. Feels like I’ve known him my entire life. When I think of home, I envision Shorty there. And yet he hasn’t said one word to me since our trial. Been here at Norfolk, alive and well. All that time I spent worried about where they sent him, sick with guilt that he was thrown on the chain gang, and turns out he’s just fine. Better than me. Prisoners can’t write to other prisoners, but surely he could’ve found a way to let me know where he was and that he was okay.

  I want to be angry, but mostly I feel relieved … and a little scared that he might hate me.

  * * *

  “Hello. Malcolm Little, right?”

  The superintendent stands as I enter the room. Immediately, I’m on guard.

  “Um, yes, sir.”

  “Good to meet you. My name is Winslow. Please, have a seat.”

  Did he just say … please?

  Winslow sits behind his desk, resetting his thin silver eyeglasses. Dressed in a brown wool suit, he’s tall, pale, with soft features and shiny brown hair.

  “Did I … did I do something wrong, sir?” I ask, even though I couldn’t see how that was possible. Only got here a few days ago. Haven’t even been outside my cell.

  He laughs. “No need to be nervous. Nothing’s wrong.”

  I’m not nervous. I’m distrusting and with good reason, Reginald’s warnings sinking deeper into my skin.

  “I just like to meet with every individual who comes to our facility,” he says, motioning to the chair across from his desk.

  Hesitant, I peer around the room before slowly taking a seat. Winslow’s office is full of landscape paintings, books, plants, and polished mahogany furniture. It feels like a home, like he lives here.

  He smiles again, opening a file.

  “Says here you’re twenty-two and originally from Lansing, Michigan,” he reads, looking up at me. “What’s it like out there?”

  Unnerved, I’m almost too stunned by the kind question to respond. “It’s … a nice place.”

  “I bet you have a big family. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, I do. There’s eight of us.”

  He nods. “I’m the youngest of nine. A lot of mouths to feed.”

  “We did all right,” I say quick, lifting my chin up. Even in the hardest times of the Depression, we were far from destitute, if that’s what he’s trying to get at.

  Winslow notices my change of tone and smiles warmly.

  “Well, I bet you have a lot of questions, so I’ll jump right into it. As you’ve already seen, especially coming from a place like Charlestown, Norfolk Colony isn’t your typical facility. Here we have a different goal in mind for men who join us.

  “The goal here is rehabilitation. Do you know what that word means?”

  Of course I do, but before I can answer, he says, “It means to restore back to a healthy state so if and when you reintegrate into society, chances are you’ll be more of a productive citizen.”

  I shift in my chair. “How?”

  “By providing opportunities that may not have been available to you before. Educational courses and other services of your choosing. I’m sure we can both agree, if a man is trying to survive by any means necessary because opportunities are scarce, taking a course in literature would be last on his priority list.”

  I nod. “So what’s the catch?”

  He laughs. “There’s no catch! You are the captain of your own ship here, young man. How you spend and use your time will be in direct correlation to your success.”

  Makes sense. Almost too much sense.

  “Sounds like you’re asking me to trust you,” I challenge, hoping to see him drop the act. It’s risky, but I’m curious.

  Winslow smiles. “More like, trust each other. Only thing I ask is that you follow the rules. Report to work duty, stay out of trouble, and take your courses. Let me show you one more thing.”

  He opens another file, full of large photos. He flips through the portraits, mostly white men and just a few Blacks. All dressed in well-fitted suits.

  “These are our success stories. We take a photo of every man who is released from here. Send them on their way cleaned up, in a suit, and with skills in hand. I’ve been here since the very beginning. Helped build this place! I’ve seen the fruits of our labor and I believe in our mission. Severely punishing a man when he’s already down doesn’t rectify the larger problem or prevent repeating offenses. But giving them back their dignity? That elicits real change.”

  Through the window behind him, I see inmates tending to a garden in the courtyard and think of Mom.

  “So what do you think, Malcolm? Think you can work with us?”

  I have a name again. No longer just a prison number. This stroke of luck must be a sign from Allah. I barely escaped with my sanity from Charlestown, but here, at Norfolk, it feels like a bright new beginning.

  “Okay.”

  “Great! And now that you’ve been in intake for about a week, I think it’s time we get you started. Transfer you into your official dormitory assignment. Place you on work duty and enroll you in classes.”

  Intake at Charlestown was thirty days of solitude. I wonder how long I’ll be comparing this place to that hellhole.

  “So,” he says, scribbling some notes. “Any questions?”

  I have a billion questions, but only one is at the top of the list.

  “Yes. Is there any way to be assigned to the same unit as Malcolm Jarvis?”

  He frowns. “Jarvis?”

  “Yes, he’s an old buddy of mine.”

  “Hm. Well, I’m sure it’ll be nice to have a familiar face. Maybe he can also give you a tour.”

  * * *

  There are no units but dormitories, in which each prisoner has his own cell that is three times the size of the ones at Charlestown. Instead of dark, tiny concrete boxes, we have rooms with a window, cushioned bed, sheets, and blankets. My cell gets good light in the morning. Above all of this, there are toilets. Real toilets that flush, showers with proper water pressure. In comparison to where I’ve been, this place is the heaven I was promised.

  There is no mess hall. Instead, each dorm has its own canteen where we eat. It’s like one great big dining hall. That’s where I finally see Shorty again.

  He approaches my table, standing on the opposite side. My tongue feels burnt, at a loss for what to say to him. Really, I’m afraid to say the wrong thing. Can’t blame no one but myself for the crack in our bond. He has every right to blame me, but how many times or ways can I say I’m sorry? Sorry that I got us caught up. Sorry I ruined your life. Ruined our lives. But maybe the damage is not beyond repair; it just needs time.

  “Hey, homeboy.” I raise my hand, thinking maybe if we slap some skins, the spark would help us reconnect. But Shorty remains still. Sullen. Thick nerves build in my throat.

  He takes a deep breath, then sits. “So what slave they got you working?”

  His voice. Haven’t heard it in so long, I never realized how much I missed it.

  “Um, k-kitchen,” I stutter out.

  He chuckles. “Boy, you lucky. Can get yourself an extra cup of joe whenever you want.”

  First, he comes over all cold, now he’s talking about coffee?

  “Is that all you got to say?” I snap. “Man, what the hell happened to you! You could’ve gotten word to me that you were all right.”

  He palms his cup of water, his face stoic. “I ain’t gonna lie to you, homeboy, when I got shipped off, I took it rough. My mind played all kinds of tricks on me. And I was mad as hell. At you.”

  The words I was most afraid of hit like bricks.

  “Yeah,”
I sigh. “Figured as much.”

  Shorty’s eyes narrow on me. “You got us hung out to dry. I should’ve never listened to you! Should’ve never trusted them broads!”

  I wince, wondering if it’s too late to switch dorms again.

  “But then,” he continues, his voice softening. “Thought real hard about everything that happened, and we didn’t deserve the break we got.”

  I nod, letting the moment pass between us.

  “This is just … wild, man,” I say, looking around the room. “That we end up at the same place and at the same time?”

  “Yeah, and this place ain’t all that bad either, Red. You’ll be all right.”

  “So what you been up to ALL this time?”

  He smirks. “Keeping out of trouble. I’m actually heading to orchestra rehearsal now.”

  “What! Orchestra?”

  “Yeah, homeboy. They got an orchestra and a theater, too. Sometimes I help out in there.”

  “Wow. Well, what else they got?”

  He gulps back his water and sets it on the tray, standing.

  “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”

  * * *

  Work duty doesn’t feel much like work. More like chores I would’ve done if I were back home in Lansing. Here, I’m given more responsibility and somehow, it makes me feel alive again. Even a crumb of dignity can change the way you look at the world and the way you see yourself in it.

  I’m assigned to the kitchen. I used to scrub plates back when I was fourteen at Mason Junior High. Went from being the only Black student, working kitchen cleanup, to becoming class president and playing on the football team. They didn’t just give those opportunites to me, I worked hard for it. Studied every chance I could get and always gave 100 percent. Hoping that’s some kind of move I can pull off here, too. I would feel good about that.