The Awakening of Malcolm X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  Most of the other inmates I’ve met ask about the outside, eager to know what they’re missing. They quickly lose interest once they discover I’m a transfer and have nothing to report.

  “Easy, fellas,” this cat named Alfred says from the sink next to me. “He’s tall for his age but young. Fresh meat. Don’t scare the poor boy!”

  Here they go. They think I’m some green-as-okra cat they can take advantage of. The way Shorty did, all those years ago when I first found my way to Roxbury. I always seemed to stand out in a crowd, he told me, like I didn’t belong on his side of the tracks.

  “Not that new to the way things go around here,” I correct him. “From one prison to another, it’s all the same.”

  I say it like this was just another walk in the park.

  Alfred raises an eyebrow at some of the other fellas in the kitchen, smirking. “Well, don’t we have a live one here. Introduce yourself, fellas.”

  “How you doing? Frankie,” an older white man says with a toothless grin. He has sandy blond hair and a scar across his left cheek.

  “Frankie, he helps with the cooking. Ozzy handles the deliveries.”

  A tall Black man with a bald head, who is carrying crates to the back, stops by the sink.

  “The name’s Osbourn. Folks call me Ozzy.”

  I can barely hear him. Too busy staring at the eggs in his crate. Eggs! It’s been so long since I’ve seen them.

  “Say, you come from Charlestown? You know my brother, Big Lee?” Ozzy asks.

  “Yeah, sure do.”

  Ozzy smiles. “You’ll have to give me the news then.”

  I nod.

  Alfred goes on to show me around the kitchen. It’s big, high ceilings, white walls. New everything and sparkling clean, just how I like it. They have milk, cereal, coffee … and even fresh vegetables. Real food … not processed slop. Alfred’s been here since the place opened more than two decades ago. You’d think they paid him to be a part of the welcoming committee.

  He reminds me of Bembry in some ways. Almost the same height, same weight, same freckled skin. If he were as smooth as Bembry in the way he talked, I would’ve mistaken them for cousins.

  “So you see, when you been around like me, you know a little something.”

  I shrug. “Perspective doesn’t guarantee wisdom.” Something Bembry would say.

  An “oooh” comes from behind us. For a split second, a dark look comes over Alfred’s face that he quickly pushes away with a laugh.

  “All right now, we got an educated Negro here!”

  The way he says it, it doesn’t feel like a compliment. I have to keep my wits about me with this one.

  “I’m just surprised how wide open and spacious it is here,” I say, pretending not to be put off by his tone. “I can see the road from my window. Haven’t had a window in almost two years.”

  “Yeah. This is one of a kind. Not like any other prison I know,” Frankie says. “But you still got folks hell-bent on breaking free. There were two of them a few weeks ago.”

  “They escaped?”

  “Didn’t get far.” Frankie laughs. “Remember that tunnel you came through before intake? It got vents, with tear gas. They’ll set them off the moment you try to fly the coop. That’s one thing about Norfolk: You step out of line, they’ll make you regret it.”

  * * *

  My first letter at Norfolk is from Bembry. He must have sent it to his nephew, who sent it to me the day I left, or even a couple of days earlier, because it comes during my first week:

  Young Brother,

  Not sure when you’ll receive this letter, but as promised, here is a list of books you should read. They’ll help you grow into your true self. Help you do better. When the mind is engaged, the heart heals.

  Keep reading. You’ll find what you’re looking for.

  Bembry

  * * *

  I open the heavy wooden door and stare in awe.

  The library has high cream ceilings and oak wood shelves. The room is bright and is a perfectly shaped square, like a cottage chapel. There are more books here than I’ve seen in my entire life. The shelves are overflowing. Bembry had the whole world at his fingertips in here. There’s gotta be well over ten thousand books.

  “Hey, there,” a voice says behind me. “Can I help you with something?”

  A white man with a heavy beard stands with a stack of books in his hands behind a desk. Doesn’t seem like an inmate. He must work here.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a few books.” I take out Bembry’s letter and read. “Um … The Story of Civilization by Will and Ariel Durant. Volume one: Our Oriental Heritage and volume three: Caesar and Christ. The Outline of History by H. G. Wells. Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup. Sex and Race by J. A. Rogers.”

  “Oh, we have those, for sure,” he says. “But first, let’s set you up with a library card.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “You must be one of the new intakes. My name’s George. I run the library.”

  George goes over the rules of the library while writing out my name and prison ID number on a small card.

  “There you go,” he says, blowing on the ink to dry. “Your ticket to the world!”

  We tour around the aisles while picking up the titles I need. I’m in heaven.

  At the checkout, George asks, “Studying for something specific?”

  “No,” I mumble, collecting the pile from him. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He pulls on his beard a little. “You seem like an avid reader. We have a book discussion club that meets here on Thursdays, before supper, if you want to join.” He gestures over his shoulder. “Akil, over there, never misses a meeting.”

  At a table on the far end is a brother with an olive-toned complexion, black curly hair, and thick-framed glasses, wearing one of those knit kufi crowns I’ve seen another Muslim brother wear. My stomach tenses, thinking of my family, their letters, and endless requests to join them.

  “Uh, thanks,” I say as something on George’s desk catches my eye. It’s some sort of newspaper, but unlike the ones I’ve seen from the outside. It’s titled The Colony. George notices me staring and smiles.

  “It’s our own paper,” he says, handing it over to me. “Comes out biweekly. You can have it if you’d like.”

  “Prison paper?”

  “Yeah. Inmates submit articles, short stories, poems, anything we’d like to publish.”

  I take the paper, turning it over slowly, reading in disbelief. I’m back at my kitchen table, reading over Mom’s shoulder as she typed articles for Negro World.

  “Thanks.”

  I glance around until I find what I’m searching for. It’s the exact copy Bembry had at Charlestown, which makes it easy to find my place.

  Pertinacious. Adjective. Adhering resolutely to an opinion, purpose, or design; perversely persistent.

  As I sit there facing the door, soaking in each new word, more and more inmates pour in. Some reading books, some studying, and others copying and taking notes. Men with whom I had no ties a moment ago, immediately become brothers in the love of reading. Is this a dream, too? Or the lifeline I need to keep from sinking? For the first time, I let go of what feels like a real sigh.

  Pliant. Adjective.

  Pliable, 1) Easily bent; flexible. “quality leather is pliable and will not crack”

  2) Easily influenced. “pliable teenage minds”

  * * *

  Somewhere around midnight, as I huddle near the bars of my cell, struggling to make out words in the darkness, a siren blares, and the cell doors open simultaneously.

  A troop of guards come running in, batons in hand, yelling over one another.

  “On the ground! NOW!”

  Every prisoner wakes up in a fright, shuffling quick outside their cells.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Shorty as he steps out of the cell across from mine.

  Before he can answer, a guard approaches, his boots stomping.
>
  “I said on the ground,” he screams, shoving Shorty’s face with his hand. “Ground! Now!”

  I drop to my knees, lying flat on my stomach with my palms on my head. Shorty and I exchange a worried glance. They ran these types of drills at Charlestown. But I’ve only been at Norfolk a few weeks and this intensity is unfamiliar. Disorienting. For a moment, I wonder if this has all been a dream.

  “You find it yet?” a guard yells.

  “Nope. Search them.”

  They pat us down, hands grabbing every inch of our bodies, then begin shifting through our meager belongings. Uprooting bedsheets, ripping down photos, throwing everything into a pile in the middle of our cells. I glance to the left and right at the men on their stomachs, confusion and fear in their eyes.

  “What are they looking for?” I whisper.

  “Shhh,” Shorty warns.

  The guard in my room shuffles through my letters, throwing them on top of my mattress, now bare on the floor.

  He picks up the composition book, tucked inside the dictionary I had shoved under my bed. I take a deep breath as he flips through it.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  I keep my eyes down. “My workbook, sir.”

  “What the hell you doing copying the dictionary?”

  “For reading purposes. Sir.”

  “Who reads a dictionary,” he mumbles, shaking his head before tossing it on the mattress.

  I take another breath to fight the rising anger, realizing it doesn’t matter how nice a place is, they still think we’re less than nothing and not worthy of mere dignity.

  * * *

  The classes at Norfolk are constructed to mimic schools on the outside. We take courses like history, literature, civics, and mathematics. It’s thrilling to be back in the classroom, back to learning. I do the majority of my studying in the library. But I’m not just focused on classwork; I read everything and anything that sparks my interest.

  Shorty is taking classes, too, between his work detail and orchestra practice. We often find each other in here, nose deep in the pages.

  “They keep us busy in here, don’t they?” he says from across the table, setting his open book down. We’re not hanging out in Roxbury smoking reefer or sharing a bottle, but this feels just as cool if not better.

  “Well, that don’t look like English homework. What you got there, homeboy?”

  “It’s a book on Egyptian hieroglyphics.”

  “What?” I chuckle, reaching over to flip a page. “Man, this thing looks like sheet music. You understanding it?”

  “I’m getting there, homeboy. Don’t rush me,” he says with a laugh. “You ain’t the only one putting these books to work. I’ve been studying, too. I figure, you know, with all this time, it’s best to accomplish something good for yourself. No sense walking out this place the way we came in.”

  Sounds like something Bembry said once.

  “You … you came in just fine,” I correct him. “It was me that got you caught up in this. It was me messing with people that never … never were for us.”

  Shorty shook his head. “I’m a man. I made my choices. I had two infant sons and a wife to feed. This wasn’t my first, Malcolm, but it was my last. I’m sorry I got you entangled in this, man.”

  I nod, knowing that we both made mistakes, knowing that’s what he truly feels in his heart.

  “So, what you reading?” he asks.

  I hold up a book. “Trying my hand at Latin.”

  “Another language? Whewww … that’s tough stuff.”

  “It’s not that hard, man. It helps you figure out how words are built, like the root of a word. And when you know the etymology of a word, the roots, you can figure out what anything means. Look, I can teach you what I learn, and you can teach me what you learn, especially this hieroglyphics stuff. We can test each other. What do you say?”

  “Sounds like a fair shake.” His smile fades. “Hey, you think this is all gonna matter?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Do you think we can be saved? They have us in here like college students, learning things. I’m just wondering if it’s really gonna make a difference when we get back on the outside.”

  “Shorty, if we had known, really known everything like we do now, you think we would’ve wound up here?”

  * * *

  The walls of the Norfolk visitation hall are a soft yellow with white molding. The windows are spotless, letting in bright sunlight and fresh air from lots of beautiful trees. A few guards stand about, hands folded behind their backs, not itching to grab their weapons at your slightest move. But now I know that behind their facade of kindness sometimes lies the devil itself.

  Philbert sits across from me, nodding. “I like the new digs.”

  I shoot him a glare. “Real funny.”

  He cracks a smile. “Easy there, slugger. I’m not here to fight you.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “We’re here to set you free,” Reginald says, next to him.

  Free? I think, letting the unfamiliar word roam around my head. I’m no freer than when I was first locked up. But now … the concept almost seems possible. That when I leave this place, I’ll be in a suit, armed with knowledge, ready to take on the world.

  Still, I shake my head at him. “Can’t believe I let you trick me into thinking that you had some power to get me out of here.”

  Reginald’s eyes grow big. He slowly opens his hands on the table, like in prayer.

  “I never meant to trick you, Malcolm. I love you. You’re my brother.”

  Philbert cuts the tension. “Well, this place is a far cry from where you’ve been. How are you feeling?”

  Despite the recent hope that has blossomed from a stark change in scenery and reconnecting with Shorty, nothing seems to help me forget that my every move is still controlled by someone else. I’m still trapped. And worse, I’m tormented by the conditions my brothers in Charlestown are living in. I can’t stop thinking about them and there’s nothing I can do to help them.

  I’m reading day and night until my eyes hurt, hoping to tame the anger, but it’s still there. And I don’t know what to do with all the anger, empathy, and compassion living deep in my gut, eating me from the inside.

  This is what I want to tell my brothers, but I don’t because they’ll never understand. Philbert measures my silence then clears his throat.

  “You’ve been lost for some time, Malcolm. We’ve all seen you … lose yourself. I’m grateful to Allah that you are alive.” He gives me a hopeful smile. “You are looking more like my brother again, man. And we need you to come on home.”

  “We love you, Malcolm,” Reginald adds.

  “Your family needs you to be whole again, brother. You’re already on your way. Look,” Philbert says, waving around the room. “Allah has brought favor to your life. You take one step toward Allah, and He’ll take two toward you.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Write to the Honorable Elijah Muhammad,” Reginald says. “He will guide you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  My alma mater was books, a good library … I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.

  —MALCOLM X

  The streets of Lansing were empty, as they should’ve been for the late hour, but the backdrop of snowcapped mountains was glistening under a star-filled sky. The ground was wet with mud. A streetcar bell rang in the distance. I turned quickly to the sound of someone standing next to me …

  “Papa?” I gasped.

  There he was. In his dark double-breasted coat, hat, round spectacles. His coal-dark flawless skin shined in the moonlight. It had been so long, I wasn’t sure if I would remember his face, but it was him. I knew it in my bones.

  Papa didn’t say a word, his eyes steady on me, full of wonder. Like he didn’t recognize me.

  “Papa? It’s me. Malcolm,” I whispered.

  He looked me over, as if he were inspe
cting a property he never meant to purchase. I had disappointed him.

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  We stood under the stars of which our people were made.

  Without a word, he turned and then the mob swarmed around him, barking slurs. They began slowly walking ahead … toward the streetcar tracks.

  “Papa? Papa, what’s going on? What are they doing?”

  One hit him on his head with a metal pipe. His hat tumbled in the wind. The streetcar bells jingled. Closer than before. They were forcing him onto the tracks. I yelled, but no sound came out. I shut my eyes.

  “Don’t make me watch this! Please don’t make me watch,” I begged.

  They wrestled him onto the tracks and tied him down.

  I tried to scream again. But nothing came out.

  I heard Mom’s voice. Hilda’s voice. Reginald’s voice.

  “Remember who you are. Remember who you are.”

  “It’s what Papa would’ve wanted.”

  Up, up, you mighty race!

  “It’s time to wake up, Malcolm.”

  I fell to my knees, covered my ears, and waited for the streetcar to pass, crushing his giant body, as they watched in delight.

  The silence came fast.

  And I find myself once again on a cell floor, sobs tearing from my chest.

  * * *

  Tears and sweat roll down my face, splashing on the floor like a rainstorm.

  I climb to my feet and jog in place, kicking up my knees, higher and higher as the darkness of my cell creeps in closer. I have no idea how long it is until sunrise, but I can’t sleep again.

  I can’t face Papa again.

  He’s seen all I’ve done. He’s watched me plummet, away from everything he taught me. He saw me steal. Lie. Fornicate. Drink. Smoke. Snort. Eat swine. He saw me pretend I couldn’t read, and, worse, deny Marcus Garvey’s call …

  Up, up, you mighty race!

  And yet he loved me. My brothers—Wilfred, Philbert, Reginald, Wesley, Robert—they love me. How can anyone love someone like me?