The Autobiography of Malcolm X: As Told to Alex Haley

by Alex Haley

  After several big rallies, Mr. Muhammad directed that we would admit the white press. Fruit of Islam men thoroughly searched them, as everyone else was searched—their notebooks, their cameras, camera cases, and whatever else they carried. Later, Mr. Muhammad said that any whites who wanted to hear the truth could attend our public rallies, until a small separate section for whites was filled.

  Most whites who came were students and scholars. I would watch their congealed and reddened faces staring up at Mr. Muhammad. “The white man knows that his acts have been those of a devil!” I would watch also the faces of the professional black men, the so-called intellectuals who attacked us. They possessed the academic know-how, they possessed the technical and the scientific skills that could help to lead their mass of poor, black brothers out of our condition. But all these intellectual and professional black men could seem to think of was humbling themselves, and begging, trying to “integrate” with the so-called “liberal” white man who was telling them, “In time…everything’s going to work out one day…just wait and have patience.” These intellectual and professional Negroes couldn’t use what they knew for the benefit of their own black kind simply because even among themselves they were disunited. United among themselves, united with their own kind, they could have benefited black people all over the world!

  I would watch the faces of those intellectual and professional Negroes growing grave, and set—as the truth hit home to them.

  We were watched. Our telephones were tapped. Still right today, on my home telephone, if I said, “I’m going to bomb the Empire State Building,” I guarantee you in five minutes it would be surrounded. When I was speaking publicly sometimes I’d guess which were F.B.I. faces in the audience, or other types of agents. Both the police and the F.B.I. intently and persistently visited and questioned us. “I do not fear them,” Mr. Muhammad said. “I have all that I need—the truth.”

  Many a night, I drifted off to sleep, filled with wonder at how the two-edged-sword teachings so hurt, confused, concerned, and upset the government full of men trained highly in all of the modern sciences. I felt that it never could have been unless The Most Learned One, Allah Himself, had given the little fourth-grade-trained Messenger something.

  —

  Black agents were sent to infiltrate us. But the white man’s “secret” spy often proved, first of all, a black man. I can’t say all of them, of course, there’s no way to know—but some of them, after joining us, and hearing, seeing and feeling the truth for every black man, revealed their roles to us. Some resigned from the white man’s agencies and came to work in the Nation of Islam. A few kept their jobs to counterspy, telling us the white man’s statements and plans about our Nation. This was how we learned that after wanting to know what happened within our Temples, the white law agencies’ second major concern was the thing that I believe still ranks today as a big worry among America’s penologists: the steadily increasing rate at which black convicts embrace Islam.

  Generally, while still in prison, our convict-converts preconditioned themselves to meet our Nation’s moral laws. As it had happened with me, when they left prison, they entered a Temple fully qualified to become registered Muslims. In fact, convict-converts usually were better prepared than were numerous prospective Muslims who never had been inside a prison.

  We were not nearly so easy to enter as a Christian church. One did not merely declare himself a follower of Mr. Muhammad, then continue leading the same old, sinful, immoral life. The Muslim first had to change his physical and moral self to meet our strict rules. To remain a Muslim he had to maintain those rules.

  Few temple meetings were held, for instance, without the minister looking down upon some freshly shaved bald domes of new Muslim brothers in the audience. They had just banished from their lives forever that phony, lye-conked, metallic-looking hair, or “the process,” as some call it these days. It grieves me that I don’t care where you go, you see this symbol of ignorance and self-hate on so many Negroes’ heads. I know it’s bound to hurt the feelings of some of my good conked non-Muslim friends—but if you study closely any conked or “processed” Negro, you usually find he is an ignorant Negro. Whatever “show” or “front” he affects, his hair lye-cooked to be “white-looking” fairly shouts to everyone who looks at his head, “I’m ashamed to be a Negro.” He will discover, just as I did, that he will be much-improved mentally whenever he discovers enough black self-pride to have that mess clipped off, and then wear the natural hair that God gives black men to wear.

  No Muslim smokes—that was another of our rules. Some prospective Muslims found it more difficult to quit tobacco than others found quitting the dope habit. But black men and women quit more easily when we got them to consider seriously how the white man’s government cared less about the public’s health than about continuing the tobacco industry’s billions in tax revenue. “What does a serviceman pay for a carton of cigarettes?” a prospective Muslim convert would be asked. It helped him to see that every regularly priced carton he bought meant that the white man’s government took around two dollars of a black man’s hard-earned money for taxes, not for tobacco.

  You may have read somewhere—a lot has been written concerning it—about the Nation of Islam’s phenomenal record of dope-addiction cures of longtime junkies. In fact, the New York Times carried a story about how some of the social agencies have asked representatives of the Muslim program for clinical suggestions.

  The Muslim program began with recognizing that color and addiction have a distinct connection. It is no accident that in the entire Western Hemisphere, the greatest localized concentration of addicts is in Harlem.

  Our cure program’s first major ingredient was the painfully patient work of Muslims who previously were junkies themselves.

  In the ghetto’s dope jungle, the Muslim ex-junkies would fish out addicts who knew them back in those days. Then with an agonizing patience that might span anywhere from a few months to a year, our ex-junky Muslims would conduct the addicts through the Muslim six-point therapeutic process.

  The addict first was brought to admit to himself that he was an addict. Secondly, he was taught why he used narcotics. Third, he was shown that there was a way to stop addiction. Fourth, the addict’s shattered self-image, and ego, were built up until the addict realized that he had, within, the self-power to end his addiction. Fifth, the addict voluntarily underwent a cold turkey break with drugs. Sixth, finally cured, now an ex-addict completes the cycle by “fishing” up other addicts whom he knows, and supervising their salvaging.

  This sixth stage always instantly eliminated what so often defeats the average social agencies—the characteristic addict’s hostility and suspicion. The addict who is “fished” up knew personally that the Muslim approaching him very recently had the same fifteen- to thirty-dollar a day habit. The Muslim may be this addict’s buddy; they had plied the same dope jungle. They even may have been thieves together. The addict had seen the Muslim drifting off to sleep leaning against a building, or stepping as high over a matchstick as if it were a dog. And the Muslim, approaching the addict, uses the same old junkie jungle language.

  Like the alcoholic, the junkie can never start to cure himself until he recognizes and accepts his true condition. The Muslim sticks like a leech, drumming at his old junkie buddy, “You’re hooked, man!” It might take months before the addict comes to grips with this. The curative program is never really underway until this happens.

  The next cure-phase is the addict’s realization of why he takes dope. Still working on his man, right in the old jungle locale, in dives that you wouldn’t believe existed, the Muslim often collects audiences of a dozen junkies. They listen only because they know the clean-cut proud Muslim had earlier been like them.

  Every addict takes junk to escape something, the Muslim explains. He explains that most black junkies really are trying to narcotize themselves against being a black man in the white man’s America. But, actually, the Musli
m says, the black man taking dope is only helping the white man to “prove” that the black man is nothing.

  The Muslim talks confidently, and straight. “Daddy, you know I know how you feel. Wasn’t I right out here with you? Scratching like a monkey, smelling all bad, living mad, hungry, stealing and running and hiding from Whitey. Man, what’s a black man buying Whitey’s dope for but to make Whitey richer—killing yourself!”

  The Muslim can tell when his quarry is ready to be shown that the way for him to quit dope is through joining the Nation of Islam. The addict is brought into the local Muslim restaurant, he may occasionally be exposed to some other social situations—among proud, clean Muslims who show each other mutual affection and respect instead of the familiar hostility of the ghetto streets. For the first time in years, the addict hears himself called, genuinely, “Brother,” “Sir” and “Mr.” No one cares about his past. His addiction may casually be mentioned, but if so, it is spoken of as merely an especially tough challenge that he must face. Everyone whom this addict meets is confident that he will kick his habit.

  As the addict’s new image of himself builds, inevitably he begins thinking that he can break the habit. For the first time he is feeling the effects of black self-pride.

  That’s a powerful combination for a man who has been existing in the mud of society. In fact, once he is motivated no one can change more completely than the man who has been at the bottom. I call myself the best example of that.

  Finally, vitally, this addict will decide for himself that he wants to go on cold turkey. This means to endure the physical agonies of abruptly quitting dope.

  When this time comes, ex-addict Muslims will arrange to spend the necessary days in around-the-clock shifts, attending the addict who intends to purge himself, on the way to becoming a Muslim.

  When the addict’s withdrawal sets in, and he is screaming, cursing, and begging, “Just one shot, man!” the Muslims are right there talking junkie jargon to him. “Baby, knock that monkey off your back! Kick that habit! Kick Whitey off your back!” The addict, writhing in pain, his nose and eyes running, is pouring sweat from head to foot. He’s trying to knock his head against the wall, flailing his arms, trying to fight his attendants, he is vomiting, suffering diarrhea. “Don’t hold nothing back! Let Whitey go, baby! You’re going to stand tall, man! I can see you now in the Fruit of Islam!”

  When the awful ordeal is ended, when the grip of dope is broken, the Muslims comfort the weak ex-addict, feeding him soups and broths, to get him on his feet again. He will never forget these brothers who stood by him during this time. He will never forget that it was the Nation of Islam’s program which rescued him from the special hell of dope. And that black brother (or the sister, whom Muslim sisters attend) rarely ever will return to the use of narcotics. Instead, the ex-addict when he is proud, clean, renewed, can scarcely wait to hit the same junkie jungle he was in, to “fish” out some buddy and salvage him!

  If some white man, or “approved” black man, created a narcotics cure program as successful as the one conducted under the aegis of the Muslims, why, there would be government subsidy, and praise and spotlights, and headlines. But we were attacked instead. Why shouldn’t the Muslims be subsidized to save millions of dollars a year for the government and the cities? I don’t know what addicts’ crimes cost nationally, but it is said to be billions a year in New York City. An estimated $12 million a year is lost to thieves in Harlem alone.

  An addict doesn’t work to supply his habit, which may cost anywhere from ten to fifty dollars a day. How could he earn that much? No! The addict steals, he hustles in other ways; he preys upon other human beings like a hawk or a vulture—as I did. Very likely, he is a school drop-out, the same as I was, an Army reject, psychologically unsuited to a job even if he was offered one, the same as I was.

  Women addicts “boost” (shoplift), or they prostitute themselves. Muslim sisters talk hard to black prostitutes who are struggling to quit using dope in order to qualify morally to become registered Muslims. “You are helping the white man to regard your body as a garbage can—”

  Numerous “exposés” of the Nation of Islam have implied that Mr. Muhammad’s followers were chiefly ex-cons and junkies. In the early years, yes, the converts from society’s lowest levels were a sizable part of the Nation’s broad base of membership. Always Mr. Muhammad instructed us, “Go after the black man in the mud.” Often, he said, those converted made the best Muslims.

  But gradually we recruited other black people—the “good Christians” whom we “fished” from their churches. Then, an increase began in the membership percentage of educated and trained Negroes. For each rally attracted to the local temple a few more of that particular city’s so-called “middle class” Negroes, the type who previously had scoffed at us “Black Muslims” as “demagogues,” and “hate-teachers,” “black racists” and all the rest of the names. The Muslim truths—listened to, thought about—reaped for us a growing quota of young black men and women. For those with training and talents, the Nation of Islam had plenty of positions where those abilities were needed.

  There were some registered Muslims who would never reveal their membership, except to other Muslims, because of their positions in the white man’s world. There were, I know, a few, who because of their positions were known only to their ministers and to Mr. Elijah Muhammad.

  —

  In 1961, our Nation flourished. Our newspaper Muhammad Speaks’ full back page carried an architect’s drawing of a $20 million Islamic Center proposed to be built in Chicago. Every Muslim was making personal financial contribution toward the Center. It would include a beautiful mosque, school, library, and hospital, and a museum documenting the black man’s glorious history.

  Mr. Muhammad visited the Muslim countries, and upon his return he directed that we would begin calling our temples “mosques.”

  There was a sharp climb now, too, in the number of Muslim-owned small businesses. Our businesses sought to demonstrate to the black people what black people could do for themselves—if they would only unify, trade with each other—exclusively where possible—and hire each other, and in so doing, keep black money within the black communities, just as other minorities did.

  Recordings of Mr. Muhammad’s speeches were now regularly being broadcast across America over small radio stations. In Detroit and Chicago, school-age Muslim children attended our two Universities of Islam—through high school in Chicago, and through junior high in Detroit. Starting from kindergarten, they learned of the black man’s glorious history and from the third grade they studied the black man’s original language, Arabic.

  Mr. Muhammad’s eight children now were all deeply involved in key capacities in the Nation of Islam. I took a deep personal pride in having had something to do with that—at least in some cases, years before. When Mr. Muhammad had sent me out in his service as a minister, I began to feel it was a shame that his children worked as some of them then did for the white man, in factories, construction work, driving taxis, things like that. I felt that I should work for Mr. Muhammad’s family as sincerely as I worked for him. I urged Mr. Muhammad to let me put on a special drive within our few small mosques, to raise funds which would enable those of his children working for the white man to be instead employed within our Nation. Mr. Muhammad agreed, the special fund drive did prove successful, and his children gradually did begin working for the Nation. Emanuel, the oldest, today runs the dry-cleaning plant. Sister Ethel (Muhammad) Sharrieff is the Muslim Sisters’ Supreme Instructor. (Her husband, Raymond Sharrieff, is Supreme Captain of the Fruit of Islam.) Sister Lottie Muhammad supervises the two Universities of Islam. Nathanial Muhammad assists Emanuel in the dry-cleaning plant. Herbert Muhammad now publishes Muhammad Speaks, the Nation’s newspaper that I began. Elijah Muhammad, Jr., is the Fruit of Islam Assistant Supreme Captain. Wallace Muhammad was the Philadelphia Mosque Minister, until finally he was suspended from the Nation along with me—for reasons I will go in
to. The youngest child, Akbar Muhammad, the family student, attends the University of Cairo at El-Azhar. Akbar also has broken with his father.

  I believe that it was too strenuous a marathon of long speeches that Mr. Muhammad made at our big rallies which, abruptly, badly aggravated his long-bothersome bronchial asthmatic condition.

  Just in conversation, Mr. Muhammad would suddenly begin coughing, and the coughing tempo would increase until it racked his slight body.

  Mr. Muhammad almost doubled up sometimes. Soon, he had to take to his bed. As hard as he tried not to, as deeply as it grieved him, he had to cancel several long-scheduled appearances at big-city rallies. Thousands were disappointed to have to hear me instead, or other poor substitutes for Mr. Muhammad in person.

  Members of the Nation were deeply concerned. Doctors recommended a dry climate. The Nation bought Mr. Muhammad a home in Phoenix, Arizona. One of the first times I visited Mr. Muhammad there, I stepped off a plane into flashing and whirring cameras until I wondered who was behind me. Then I saw the cameramen’s guns; they were from the Arizona Intelligence Division.

  The wire of our Nation of Islam brought all Muslims the joyful news that the Arizona climate did vastly relieve the Messenger’s suffering. Since then he has spent most of each year in Phoenix.

  Despite the fact that Mr. Muhammad, convalescing, could no longer work the daily long hours he had previously worked in Chicago, he was now more than ever burdened with heavy decision-making and administrative duties. In every respect, the Nation was expanded both internally and externally. Mr. Muhammad simply could no longer allot as much time as previously to considering and deciding which public-speaking, radio, and television requests he felt I should accept—as well as to some organizational matters which I had always brought to him for advice or decision.

  Mr. Muhammad evidenced the depth of his trust in me. In those areas I’ve described, he told me to make the decisions myself. He said that my guideline should be whatever I felt was wise—whatever was in the general good interests of our Nation of Islam.