I swing at the air like Joe Louis.
Sophia’s piercing laugh floods my ears—then there are the big bands onstage with forced smiles; Billie Holiday’s wailing melodies; empty souls clinking glasses; young Black prostitutes looking for someone to love them; the pained cheers of Jackie Robinson stealing base; cell doors closing one after the other; panic-stricken young men in the hole weeping for mercy; Mom—alone with no one to protect her. Railroad tracks, clang, clang, CLANG … Up, up, you mighty race!
“STOP!” I yell into the silent world.
Slowly, through the silence, Papa’s speeches begin to play in my head, full of static like the old radio in the living room. And I remember. Every word. Every. Single. Word. I remember being a little boy watching my papa at the pulpit. I remember it all.
My chest heaves. The blackness in my cell easing.
But the anger is still heavy inside me. I need something to expend it upon.
Hours pass, until sunlight hits my window.
In desperation, I write to the only person that may understand. It’s a shot in the dark but it’s the only shot I have left to take.
* * *
The return letter comes in a cream-colored envelope. Typed in black ink, addressed to me: Mr. Malcolm Little, neat and perfect, like I’m worthy of something good.
I hold the letter in my hand like it’s a message from God, sent from the place where my father is, where all the great ancestors from the beginning of time are. Ausar, Noah, Moses …
I stare at his signature, Messenger of Allah.
His words are echoes of my childhood. Echoes of what I’ve seen and where I’ve been. What I’ve always known deep inside of me to be true.
As-Salaam-Alaikum
In the Holy Name of Almighty Allah, the Beneficent, the Most Merciful Saviour, Our Deliverer, Master of the Day of Judgment. To Allah alone do I submit and seek refuge.
Dear Brother Malcolm,
The Black prisoner symbolizes white society’s self-righteous crime of destroying the Black family. White society has kept the Black man ignorant to the knowledge of self and, as a result, it has been able to keep him oppressed. When the Black man lacks knowledge of self, he may be unable to get a decent job and properly care for his family. Out of an urgency to cope and survive, he may turn to drugs, alcohol, or criminal behavior. White society uses its authority to police his community, causing him to become incarcerated and made into a slave of the State.
Young man, you must remember that Allah is the only Judge—not the white man! Do not focus on what he thinks of you but on what Allah thinks of you. Focus on your whole self, your heart, thoughts, and deeds. Read the Holy Quran. It does not matter who you have been up until now.
Accept your own and be yourself, which is a righteous Muslim. Turn to the East and pray, to Allah only. He will guide you. We are forever here to support you.
Your Brother,
Elijah Muhammad
Messenger of Allah
* * *
And just like that, I am free. Cast from a long spell of self-loathing, the Messenger of Allah has reached deep inside me, grabbed my spine, and shaken me awake from a long, dormant sleep. Time is on my side again.
His words, although new, feel like the encouragement of my father. He genuinely cares for my well-being. Even sent me five dollars to put on the books. With his letter, he welcomes me into the true knowledge. He understands me, and he welcomes me home.
He is just as my brothers and sisters said he would be. His philosophy reminds me of Papa’s and he’s a Garveyite, too. Why didn’t I listen and write to him sooner?
Maybe I was afraid. Maybe Elijah Muhammad will help me be the man Papa wanted me to be. A man who can help our people.
* * *
As-Salaam-Alaikum
In the Holy Name of Almighty Allah, the Beneficent, the Most Merciful Saviour, Our Deliverer, Master of the Day of Judgment. To Allah alone do I submit and seek refuge.
Dear Brother Malcolm,
One thing you must understand is that the history of the Black man has been rewritten and falsely documented. When the white man came to these shores to conquer, he eliminated the Black man from history. There is a reason. For if the Black man thinks all that is white is better than his own, the white man’s desire to control the world’s masses and environmental resources will be a success.
Allah has sent me to open his bewildered children’s eyes to see the truth of their heritage and therefore restore their identity. They will see the white man’s corruption and his fear of being the true minority in the world.
The white man has stolen our history and replaced it for his own. We need true believers, like you, son, who have experienced firsthand the injustice against the true chosen children of Allah.
Ground yourself in the glorious history of the Black man who is the father and mother of civilization. Seek true knowledge by learning the Holy Quran’s scriptures.
Awaken your mind. Trust in Allah. I am here for you upon your return.
Your Brother,
Elijah Muhammad
Messenger of Allah
* * *
The Honorable Elijah Muhammad’s letters make me want to learn everything there is to learn. Bembry set the course for my studies, and Mr. Muhammad added the gasoline. It’s hard to explain what it feels like to have someone of his caliber willing to speak to someone like me—a prisoner—and show me my heritage as a Black man. I take none of his words for granted.
I start with the first volume of The Destruction of Black Civilization. It details the journey and horror of the slave trade. How millions of Black people had thriving societies and democracies and were strategically conquered, tortured, raped, and even murdered during the Middle Passage. How the West undermined the rulers of Africa, and then greedily portioned control to the British, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Belgians, Germans, and Italians for its natural resources. They required unity of the smaller European nations. I learned that of all the land on this earth, God blessed Africa, the second-largest continent in the world, to be the birthplace of humanity and the foundation of the wealthiest natural minerals and resources.
Every day, I take out as many books as I can get my hands on and read with a fiery urgency. The sense of purpose is invigorating. Every atom in my body is coming alive. The more I read, the more I learn. The more I learn, the more I see how this white man has made just about every person of color in the world suffer under his reign. After taking the indigenous peoples’ identity and history, they inserted themselves as the founders and scholars of civilization instead.
How do people not know of these truths? Why aren’t we talking about it? Mr. Muhammad thinks that people will listen to me. I will not let him or my people down. This is my mission now. My purpose is clear, and days at Norfolk become almost bearable. Any task to which I’m assigned, I do with expedient accuracy, so I can return to the library and resume my studies. I was always a reader but now I’m a purposeful reader.
“Bet Fresh Meat don’t even realize how far we are from our very first ancestors.” Alfred’s voice competes with the running sink water during kitchen duty.
“What’s that?”
“I said, did you know we aren’t that far from Plymouth Rock? That’s where the first ship came. Crazy, right? We so close to where it all started, yet so far.”
Alfred is giving another lesson on Norfolk and the surrounding areas. Most of the time I ignore him. But today, my soul thrums with the blood of my father and begins to boil.
“Landed right over yonder on what they call Plymouth Rock.”
“Yup!” Frankie says. “We are where the Pilgrims first discovered America, where this country first started. If it wasn’t for my ancestors, y’all wouldn’t be here.”
“You got that right,” I snap.
A pot drops out of Alfred’s hand before he can catch it. The room turns to me, the air changing with it.
“Sounds like you disagree,” Frankie hisses.
<
br /> Ozzy sets down a crate, as if preparing himself to intervene. I wipe my hands dry.
“You got that right, too. But your people didn’t discover America. America already belonged to the indigenous people. Your people stole it with fake treaties. And you also brought disease, trickery, and crime with you.”
Alfred’s mouth drops. Frankie flusters, his face growing red.
“But … your people landed there, too. Ain’t you proud of that?”
“How can I be proud when my ancestors came to this country in chains, tormented in the bottom of a ship?” I say. “We were hunted, kidnapped, and stolen from the Empire of Benin, which today has been divided into Ghana, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Senegal, Mali. We weren’t pilgrims who willingly migrated for a better life. We were already living it. We were among our kings and queens living on a land of mineral wealth. We were enslaved and traumatized at the hands of your ancestors—real criminals. So, yes, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be locked up in here! We’d be cohabiting peacefully.”
The room holds a breath. My chest heaves, heart pounding.
Frankie takes a quick survey of the room, realizing no one is going to stand up for him, and storms out, madder than mad.
“Well, well, Fresh Meat,” Alfred says, and laughs. “You got some real intellect held up in them bones. With all that mouth, you should just go on ahead and join the debate team.”
I feel the frown take up my face. “What’s that?”
* * *
Norfolk Prison Colony Debating Society meets twice a week in the classroom adjacent to the library. It’s not a large group. About six or so men plus two coaches, Coach O’Connell and Coach Nash, who teach the day classes. One of the men is Akil, from the library. Shorty and I wait outside the classroom for the meeting to adjourn before entering.
“Little … Jarvis,” Mr. O’Connell says with a smile. “What are you two doing here?”
“We’re here about the debate team,” I say.
The men gather around. Akil sits on the desk.
“You ever been in one before?”
“Yeah. I argue with people all the time.” I smirk.
They laugh.
“It’s not just about arguing,” Mr. Nash says. “It’s more of a … discussion. It’s about articulating your point or position rationally, making a case for it.”
“And if you’re able to prove your point, you win?” Shorty asks.
“Yup.”
“How do you do that?”
“Building a case with research, facts, and statistics,” Mr. Nash explains.
“Books, Malcolm,” Akil adds. “You know, I’ve seen the books you’ve taken out the library. This is right up your alley, brother.”
Suddenly, I see how my brothers are right. Everything is put in order, by Allah.
“Who do we debate?”
Akil smirks. “Rich college kids. Usually once per semester. We got one coming up in three months that we’re starting to prepare for. You in?”
I laugh. Oh, I’m going to love the debate team.
* * *
Dear Brother,
Receiving your letter has brought me much joy. I am elated that you are asking for advice on how to pray to Allah. You can pray anywhere, even standing where you are. All you have to do is open your palm and bow your head.
Seek council and guidance.
We pray daily for you, brother, and can’t wait until you are back at home with us.
Best,
Wilfred
* * *
“So how do you know this cat, again?”
After lunch, Shorty and I head to the visitation hall together. At Norfolk, Shorty and I can have a visitor at the same time. We can even hug someone if we want, real human contact.
“He’s an old music buddy of mine,” Shorty says, excited. “We’ve been writing to each other ever since I got here.”
“But why does he want to see both of us?”
“I told him how we’ve been studying Islam and want to become Muslims, and he said he wanted to visit. Came all this way so be cool, okay?”
We enter the hall, already crowded with visitors. I think of Lightning’s last days before he was executed, how they stole him from his wife and son without hesitation.
“There he is,” Shorty says, pointing across the room. A brown-skinned Asian man with shiny black hair smiles and gives us a slight wave.
Shorty rushes over, and while they laugh and shake hands, I hang back, taking in this stranger. He has on a sharp black suit and tall black kufi hat with a long string tassel hanging from the top that swings whenever he moves.
“Red,” Shorty calls me over. “Meet my old pal, Abdul Hameed.”
Abdul nods with a beaming smile. “As-Salaam-Alaikum.”
I freeze, turning to Shorty.
Abdul laughs. “It’s a greeting we say. It means, ‘peace be unto you.’ Please, let’s sit. It’s good to finally meet you! Shorty has told me many things.”
“Hope only the good stuff,” I chuckle as we gather around a table. “So how do you two know each other?”
“We jammed at a few clubs in Roxbury,” Shorty says, beaming. “Abdul here is mean on them piano keys!”
“I miss Shorty’s sound and pray for his freedom, always.”
“Where are you from?” I ask, noting his thick accent.
“India,” he says. “I came to this country some years ago.”
“The man was classically trained in London!”
“I have loved music all my life,” Abdul agrees.
He talks more about his musical journey that brought him to Boston. There’s a calming presence about him. He seems at ease, even inside a prison, everyone staring at that wild hat of his.
He folds his hands on the table. “So, Shorty says you two are studying Islam?”
“That’s right,” I boast proudly. “Do you know the Honorable Elijah Muhammad? Have you met him before?”
Abdul shakes his head. “No, afraid I don’t know much of him nor much about this Nation of Islam. I’m a member of the Ahmadiyya Movement in Islam. We are orthodox.”
First I’ve heard of other Muslim organizations. Wonder why Reginald never mentioned them. Or maybe he didn’t know.
“I thought if you have any questions, I can be of assistance. It is the will of Allah to carry out His teachings to anyone eager to learn. But first, I must ask, do you know how to pray?”
Shorty and I share a quick, uneasy look.
“Well, sort of. From what I’ve been gathering from my brothers and some of the books I’m reading.”
Abdul nods. “It’s good that you are praying. I will assist you so you are praying the right way to honor Allah. That is one of the most important steps in our faith.”
Shorty leans in. “All right, so what do we have to do?”
“You must pray five times each and every day without fail,” Abdul says, taking a brown leather-bound book out of his satchel. “First, make sure the area you plan to pray in is clean. You, too, must also be as clean as possible. Wash your face, ears, nose, hands, and feet. Then lay a mat or blanket on the floor, facing the east, toward Mecca, the Al-Ka’bah. If you are ever unclear, remember, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
“Before you utter a word, have a prayer in your heart and drop down to your knees and bow unto the Creator, the Lord of the Universe, the God of our ancestors, God of the righteous.”
He slides the book across the table. “This is the Quran, filled with the sacred words of Allah.”
“Is … is this for me?” I ask.
He nods. “Every Muslim man should have one of his own.”
“But I don’t even know you,” I say in disbelief.
“It is one of the pillars of our faith, to help our fellow human beings and give to those in need. When you leave this place, it will be your duty to help your fellow brothers, even strangers. Allah will reward you twofold for your generous and selfless acts.”
I grip the
book tight, tracing a finger against the engraving, overwhelmed by its power.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He smiles wide. “Shall I go over some prayers for you to master?”
“Yes!” I blurt out. “Yes, please.”
Brother Abdul lists the steps carefully, saying more Arabic words I don’t know how to pronounce yet.
But I will learn, and very soon.
* * *
Reading is my sanctuary. In some ways, it always has been. I’m back at the kitchen table in Lansing. Studying books. Remembering facts. Preparing for deliberations with my brothers and sisters. I think of the essay assignments Mom would make us do. But she didn’t position them as debates, more like a game of fact-finding, asking us questions and letting us flip through encyclopedias to find the answers and create summary narratives. Felt like I was preparing my whole life to be part of something larger than myself.
Every book helps to mend Papa’s teachings in my heart—the ones I ripped up and discarded, hoping to forget. At lights-out, I sit by the door of my cell, using the faint light of the hall to continue reading. I read everything I can lay my hands on. It’s like I am under a spell.
Reading also helps me better articulate my thoughts in new letters to the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. Every time I receive a reply, I am hit with more clarity.
Nothing can stop me.
* * *
“Here’s how it works,” Mr. O’Connell begins. “There are two teams…”
He scribbles on a blackboard in front of the class during our last practice before the big debate. They set up two podiums on opposite sides of the room to help us become familiar with arrangement and protocol.
“Each side speaks for and against the proposed argument. As you know, our topic is Should Capital Punishment Be Abolished?, which Norfolk Colony is arguing in favor of.”
“What a question to throw at us,” Akil says, shaking his head. “As if we’re not already fighting for our lives every day.”
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 16
