In the corner, by his cell, I see Mack leaning against the wall, smiling proudly.
* * *
Chucky was released from the hole the day I returned.
He walks with a limp. His eyes constantly shifting. A young Black man with hair white as snow.
I slide my tray next to him and he flinches, wincing up at me as if I am the sun.
“Chucky,” I say in a calm voice.
He gives a half smile. “Oh. Hey,” he mumbles and his shoulder twitches. “Um, you see Lucille?”
“Lucille?”
“Yeah … she was down in the … in the place with me. Now I can’t find her. I got to get her … to get her home.”
I take a deep breath, calculating my words.
“There was no one down there with you, brother. No one.”
Chucky is contemplative, playing with his food, before a fit of laughter bursts from his lips.
The sight of a broken Chucky sends shock waves through Charlestown. He was kept in the hole the longest of any prisoner we know. A record fifteen months in solitary confinement. That kinda time can cause you to play with your breath and create images with darkness. Chucky spent less time overseas fighting in the war. I tell him he is a descendant of refined and industrious kings who lived under the sun and beside beautiful oceans, who wore clothes of silk and slippers of gold. I whisper to him, “You are one of God’s favorite kings, brother. You are one of God’s favorites.”
More brothers come to talk to me, asking me questions about history and about the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.
I speak with great care to every single inmate who comes to me. I do not try to scare them with the truth, but let it soak in and build them up. To give them some dignity that had long been dormant in their souls. It took years for me to wake up; it is only right I give them such grace.
We are all brothers here.
We are not prison numbers or possessions. We are not labor to build someone else’s wealth. We are men. We are Gods. We are Africans. And, we are Americans.
CHAPTER 15
To have once been a criminal is no disgrace. To remain a criminal is the disgrace.
—MALCOLM X
My parole has been approved, I write to Mr. Muhammad. I’m coming home.
I sign my letter:
Malcolm X
“Little” was not my last name. It was a slaveholder’s name. It was the name of my foreparents’ kidnapper.
To be reborn, you must free yourself of your chains.
* * *
I stand in the warden’s office in a cheap brown suit issued by the state. It’s hot, itchy, and made of wool; my arms are too long for the sleeves, legs too long for the pants. My socks are showing.
The warden reviews my files with a skeptical eye. He hasn’t aged well over the last few years. Outside his window, across the yard, the first walls of the new unit have been constructed. I think of Shorty. He was also up for parole but had trouble finding a sponsor. Maybe when he’s free, I’ll see him again.
“You’re a part of that Nation of Islam, right? I see in your files you’ve been exchanging letters with an Elijah Muhammad.”
I keep quiet, even though the sound of the Messenger’s name in the warden’s mouth makes my stomach churn. I’m anxious to finish with these final proceedings. As Mr. Muhammad has always guided, we must practice patience.
“I don’t know what it is about you niggers that make you so damn dumb.”
He slams the file, handing it over to the guard behind me. “Don’t need to put this far. This one will be back.”
I stand tall, keeping quiet. I am worthy. I am born from many kings.
Outside, the air is sweet. Crisp. Fresh. The August sun is like the greatest blessing. It beams down on me as I walk a few feet from the gate, my chin held high until I drop to my knees, snatch off my glasses, and pray to Allah. Everything outside seems to be bursting with color. I breathe in as much fresh air as my lungs can hold.
I’m free.
I stand up, and continue to walk. I don’t look back. I never look back.
But I’ll never forget the brothers I’m leaving behind. We are one and the same, always.
* * *
“Welcome home, Malcolm.”
Ella’s house is just as I remember, the aroma from the kitchen an instant hug.
“Welcome home, brother,” Hilda says, hugging me.
“I’ve made all your favorites, with all the trimmings,” Ella says nervously. My nephew Rodnell surprises us from the kitchen. He is now almost as tall as me and is a tennis pro. “Been working at it all day. We have fish, chicken, beef, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, collards, string beans, yams—all of your favorites, Malcolm. Even apple pie and strawberry ice cream.”
“Sounds wonderful, Ella. Thank you.”
Up on the third floor, my room is just as I left it. All my papers, the book I was writing, just where I left them.
Warm water. I never knew something so simple and pure could feel like a luxury. I let the tub fill with piping hot water, dip my toes in before submerging my entire self. I hug my knees to my chest and sit in silence, letting the water cool.
I drain the tub and fill it again. Using a washcloth and soap, I begin to scrub. I scrub until the soapy water splashes on the tile. I scrub until tears brim and I can no longer hear the screams and bars echoing in my ears. I scrub and scrub, ready to peel back my skin anew, shed who I was, wash away the stench.
My body was in prison but I kept my mind intact.
* * *
Hilda throws the old suit in the garbage, laying a new charcoal-gray suit and crisp white shirt and tie on the bed for me. “Bus leaves tomorrow at five a.m. We’re going home, Malcolm. Okay?”
Tears well in her eyes now. She can no longer contain her stoic self. It must’ve been painful for my dear sister. To see Papa killed. Mom taken. Our family separated. Our land stolen. The rug pulled completely from under her feet.
I hold her close to my chest, her tears soaking my shirt, and whisper, “It’s okay, Hilda. I got you. It’s okay.”
* * *
I step off the bus onto Michigan soil for the first time in over eight years. I help Hilda off and breathe in the cool air. I adjust my thick-rimmed glasses. I’ll need a new pair.
My eyes wander about Detroit and its busy streets, the unfamiliar cars and businesses. Caged like an animal for years, and yet I can still sense the hum of a city pulsing in my veins.
Wilfred, his wife, and Philbert are at the bus depot to greet us. They look older, mature, and refined.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” Wilfred says.
“Welcome home,” Philbert says, grabbing our bags.
* * *
At Wilfred’s home, Hilda helps his wife cook a feast. After all the food I ate at Ella’s, I still have space to spare. The family gathers at the table and we offer a prayer of thanks to Allah. I’m the first to tear into Hilda’s warm sweet bread, and I savor it. It’s just how I remember.
“It will be a fresh start here for you. A new beginning,” Philbert says.
“For all of us,” Hilda adds with a loving smile. “I am just so happy to have our brother back. Our family is almost complete again.”
“Michigan is the best place for you,” Wilfred says. “You understand Elijah Muhammad’s teachings, through our correspondences. But you still have more to learn. Come to Temple with us. You can join and build upon your foundation with practice.”
My brothers are official members of the Detroit Temple. Soon, I will be, too.
“I already have a job lined up for you at one of the stores.”
I look around the table at my siblings. So much has changed and yet so much stayed the same. We are in a new house, in a new city, and have seen what life has offered us, no longer in Lansing.
And yet, something is missing. Or someone.
* * *
After dinner, I pace around the halls, happy to have space for my long limbs but my mind is heavy wi
th thought, enough to feel stifled, constricted.
“Something troubling you?”
From his seat in the living room, Wilfred peers over his newspaper.
“Have you heard from Reginald?”
Wilfred’s jaw tenses. “No. I have not.”
“Shouldn’t we look for him?”
“It would be against the rules of Islam,” he says in a hard voice that reminds me of Papa. “He was suspended.”
“If it wasn’t for Reginald, I would not be here today. He is our brother, our blood brother. That should have some precedence.”
His face holds several expressions before he sighs.
“You must be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” I snap. “Papa would never let one of his sons fall.”
Wilfred places down his newspaper.
“What you’re saying is blasphemy, Malcolm! Everyone here abides by rules. You are under my custody. I expect you to use your good judgment.”
* * *
At night I can still hear the echoes of the prisons. The screams. The guards’ batons. I can almost feel their boots on my neck. I wonder who is in the hole. I ask Allah to protect them and to give them emotional strength and comfort.
The night is chilly, Detroit winds blowing against the windows. I wonder if Reginald is out in such weather, remembering all those evenings we spent in Harlem, gallivanting, and how cold he used to get. He was with me at a time in my life that I needed him most. He saved me from myself. My best friend, my kid brother.
How can I turn my back on him?
* * *
Outside the Detroit Temple, I watch men with their old conks stumble by. There is a liquor store on almost every corner, a government seal on every bottle. Like bombs in a minefield, they’ve been thrown in neighborhoods to derail our progress.
I check the time on my new wristwatch Hilda gave me. I buy a few items before our big trip to Chicago with my first paycheck. I didn’t have much, but I knew having these basic things were a necessity:
Eyeglasses, to rid myself of the ones Charlestown gave me.
Wristwatch, so that I’m always on time, like Hilda reminds me to be.
The Green Book, for my safety.
Suitcase, to travel wherever Mr. Muhammad needs me most.
I walk inside the temple and to my surprise, it’s nearly empty. Only a few followers scattered about.
“Why are all these seats empty? I pass dozens of brothers on the streets. Drinking, cursing, smoking, broken.”
Wilfred calmly leaves pamphlets on each seat.
“Allah will bring more followers to His word.”
“What if Allah meant for us to educate and inspire our brothers to see?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I know these brothers. If there’s one thing I learned in prison, it’s that you have to meet brothers where they are. I am them, I know how to talk to them. We have to bring the gospel to these lost souls. They’re everywhere. We have to help them get in these seats. It requires work. I’m up for it.”
Wilfred gives me a warm smile and places a stack of flyers in my hand.
“Patience, brother. In due time.”
It’s hard to have patience when I know in my bones that everything I’ve been through has brought me to this moment. Tomorrow is not promised. My people are suffering in darkness with no way out. I may not be able to save my brother, but I can save my people. Give them hope, give them their dignity back, and give them truth.
Wake up. Clean up. Stand up.
“We drive to Chicago tomorrow,” Wilfred says. “Are you ready to meet the Messenger?”
I’m … nervous, excited. I’m so many things.
But most of all, I’m ready.
LATER ON
If you’re not ready to die for it, take the word “freedom” out of your vocabulary.
—MALCOLM X
The Black man in the ghettoes, for instance, has to start correcting his own material, his own moral and spiritual defects, and his own evils. The Black man needs to start his own program to rid drunkenness, drug addiction, and prostitution. The Black man in America has to lift up his own sense of values.
—MALCOLM X
Sometimes, I think about my first time on a stage. The shining lights, the sweat on my brow, pencil in hand, Shorty in the orchestra, my fellow inmates cheering. How I wasn’t sure if I was good enough or smart enough. Even when Mr. Muhammad made me chief spokesperson for the Nation, that familiar fear crept up my spine. But I could hear Akil’s voice … follow your passion. And my passion is to rid my people of unwarranted pain—to see my people free. You can’t separate peace from freedom, because no one can be at peace unless he has his freedom.
Up, up, you mighty race!
The room is packed with thousands of brothers and sisters from all over the country. Florida, Alabama, Kentucky. All newly recruited. To think we started with just four temples. Now we’re at almost two dozen. Each face holds a memory, of a street corner or a hall from which I collected them like butterflies. Together, we are changing the world for our people. Just as Papa wanted.
“Brothers and sisters, I present to you: Minister Malcolm X!”
There’s my cue.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” I say, giving the familiar greeting, staring into a sea of beautiful brown faces. “Who are you? What is your native tongue? What is the name of your great-great-great-grandfather? Who was his great-grandmother? Who is the God to whom they prayed? Where did they live? What kind of work did they do?
“The white man named us after himself—Jones, Smith, Jackson. He convinced us that our people back home were savages and animals in the jungle. Well, Islam tells the truth. Islam respects righteousness. Men are revered as men. And man protects and respects his woman and children. We honor our bodies with good food, good health, and hygiene. And, we pray to God, Allah, for His guidance, sustenance, and mercy. And it is the Honorable Elijah Muhammad who is Allah’s noble messenger. He is our honorable teacher…”
Once I’m done, the audience is on its feet, cheering and chanting.
“Allahu Akbar! God is Great! Allahu Akbar!”
My forehead is always a bit damp after a sermon. It reminds me of Papa, how passionately he spoke from the pulpit. I always invite his spirit to take over during our Temple services.
One of the brothers gives me a handkerchief as I step off the stage to a continued thunderous applause. Another gives me a cup of water. Members have already gathered and lined up for quick introductions, words of encouragement, or just a simple handshake. Security gathers tightly around me. We are united. We are family.
A few of the sisters pass out refreshments and information to the newer attendees, including the newspaper I started. An inspiration from my Norfolk days, a legacy from Mom. As I head for the restroom, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Brother Minster,” Sister Aisha says, smiling. “Wonderful sermon, sir, riveting. As always, you take my breath away.”
I keep a respectful space between us. I’m always careful how I engage with the sisters at any temple.
“Thank you, sister. Just remember, all our praise is for Allah and His Honorable Messenger Elijah Muhammad.”
“Before you run off, I just wanted to know if you’ve given much thought to what I asked last week, Brother Minister?”
“I’m sorry, sister, I can’t seem to recall.”
She gives a bashful smile. “I asked when you were thinking about taking one of these sisters as your wife. A good Muslim man needs a good Muslim wife, sir.”
Another question about marriage. It seems to be coming from every angle.
I stiffen but smile. “Sister, at this moment I have too much important work to do. Our people have been asleep for a long time. They need shock treatment, sister. They must be awakened to their humanity before we take action. And that requires a lot of work.” I turn to my assistant. “Car. Now, please.”
As we make our way toward the door, I avoid the l
ong stares from sisters who wonder the same as Sister Aisha. I could give everyone a dozen reasons why marriage is not in the cards for me right now.
But the real reason … Sophia. She laid the foundation of distrust. I often think I can never trust a woman again. I can’t risk sabotaging my purpose by entangling my heart.
“Brother Minister! Oh, I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Brother Joseph says. He handles the affairs of several of our fully owned businesses. He is one of our most trusted brothers.
“Brother Joseph, how are the children? I trust classes are going well?”
“Yes, yes, all fine, Brother Minister. Classes are going just as you prescribed. But I wanted to introduce you to one of our newest members. She is from your hometown, Detroit.”
Her skin glows like fresh brown sugar. She walks over to us with such pride and grace, a beaming light surrounding her.
“This is Sister Betty X. She is a nursing student and she lectures the young sisters on health and hygiene.”
For a moment, a foreign sense of peace consumes me and I’m almost lost in her beautiful brown eyes. They shine with gentility and kindness, and I feel a beat in the part of my heart I had long thought was gone.
“Hello, Sister Betty.” I say her name like sweet music. “I’m … Minister Malcolm X.”
She smiles. “Yes, Brother Minster, I know who you are.”
Malcolm and his half sister, Ella (far right), with friends at a park in Boston
MORE INFORMATION
THE NATION OF ISLAM
In 1952, Mr. Muhammad appointed Malcolm, age twenty-seven, as minister and chief spokesman for the Nation of Islam. In just three years, Malcolm was credited for increasing four temples to fifteen temples, and later to fifty temples by 1958. Membership increased from a handful to tens of thousands by the late 1950s and to several hundreds of thousands by the early 1960s. In his role, Malcolm successfully displayed a focused leadership and organizational skills matched by no other.
The Awakening of Malcolm X Page 20
