That’s all gone now. I was in the Audubon Ballroom when it happened. I don’t know what to do with the feelings. Anger... frustration... grief. It’s too much. I need to get away from here for a while. Maybe after the funeral.
Rodnell Collins
I wasn’t surprised to see Brother Michaux at the funeral. He was a major influence and source of support for my uncle, very much like a father to him.
His National Memorial African Bookstore provided an important part of Uncle Malcolm’s social, philosophical, and psychological diet. It was not an ordinary bookstore, but part library and part school. Brother Michaux had seemingly endless energy and was an expert on the Harlem Renaissance.
When visiting Uncle Malcolm, Ma and I would meet him at the store, where he was welcomed any time of day or night. He spent more time there than anywhere else in New York City. I believe, at times, Malcolm may have actually lived there. Sometimes he would fall asleep while reading in the back room. Brother Michaux would usually have a pile of phone messages or mail for Malcolm when he stopped by, since people who wanted to contact him would phone or write the store.
There were occasions when Ma, Uncle Malcolm, and Brother Michaux would talk all night while I slept peacefully among a cavern of books. Malcolm loved books with a passion. He seemed to be in seventh heaven when in the store or in the basement of his own home, where books abounded—on the floor, on shelves on the walls, on tables and desks.
It was at Brother Michaux’s in the 1950s that Ma and I first really saw and felt for ourselves how a crowd in an outdoor space was affected by my uncle’s words, feelings, and convictions. We had always seen him speak in a temple, inside public arenas, and in television or radio studios. When we saw him speak outdoors in front of the bookstore, in the open air, with or without a microphone, he never missed a beat, speaking clearly, bluntly, passionately, and accurately about the racial reality in this country. His words of wisdom would inspire crowds of hundreds, sometimes thousands of people. I had no idea he could touch people like that. Even a person who disliked or hated what he said would be impressed by his oratorical skills.
This is why they feared him. This is why they murdered him.
LEWIS
Malcolm never spoke on the platform until after he came in and got his notes together in the back of the store. Thousands of people would be outside waiting, but his bodyguards would escort him inside, and we would sit down and talk about different things. We’d laugh and joke and talk serious.
I miss that. Our conversations.
I got more mail for him at the store today. Guess I’ll walk it on over to his sister, Ella, at the OAAU office.
FBI FILES
1966
MICHAUX attended a memorial for MALCOLM X on February 21, 1966,which was held at 178 West 135th Street, New York City.
White College Professor
When I took my students to Harlem last week, it was with the arrogant notion of giving them a ghetto experience, one they could not gain in the classroom. It went pretty much as expected, until we found the National Memorial African Bookstore and Lewis Michaux.
I have visited with many respected scholars all over the country about the question of race, but after listening to him in the tiny, dusty, overstuffed back room at his bookstore, I discover I haven’t been anywhere.
Our interview with Michaux was memorable. Indeed, the students were somewhat unsettled over the way he outlined the conditions of black people and the reasons they are in this predicament.
His words were stinging.
“You white people...”
I almost ended the discussion right then but held off. There was a compelling intensity in his voice.
“...have been throwing us out of the window and thought we were gone,” he said, “like a man who lives in a castle and keeps on throwing bones and bread crumbs out the window and then sees those things come back to him in the form of roaches. Now what you’ve done is pushed us and pushed us back into these ghettos and thought we would stay there. But we’ve come out of the ghetto. We’re in Times Square and out in your neighborhood in Westchester. We’ve spread everywhere. The ghetto can’t hold us. You created this. You’re responsible.”
Stinging, yes, but thought provoking.
One student asked, “What can we do to help, Mr. Michaux?”
He said, “Some men came to me the other day and asked the same question. I said, ‘You want to help the ghetto? Go home and pull off those fancy clothes, put on an apron and get you a broom and go down in the community and help those people clean up their houses and you’ll prove to them that you’re sincere.’ People always want to know what can we do? But it isn’t what ‘ we do,’ but what you do as an individual.”
LEWIS
My father said to me when I was a child, “Boy, set there until I come back.” That was his law and I had to obey him. He went off somewhere and forgot about me. I sat there all day waiting for my father and almost got a stroke from the sun.
I said to my son one time, “Boy, set there until I come back.” You know what he said to me? “For what?”
You’re not going to cram down the throats of today’s youth what got crammed down my father’s. Young people want to know the facts now. We need institutions like this bookstore so the kids can educate themselves.
Snooze
Yesterday I go into the bookstore and give The Professor the closed-fist salute.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Black Power!” I reply. Cool.
“Where’d you learn that?” Mr. Michaux asks.
“The brothers in the Movement,” I say.
“Open your hand,” Mr. Michaux says.
I do.
“See, you ain’t got nothing in it.”
He picks up a book, puts it in my hand, and says, “Now that’s power! Tell your brothers in the Movement that black is beautiful, but knowledge is power.”
LEWIS
I remember the day that banker refused me a loan because “Negroes don’t read.” Back then, I couldn’t make enough money to pay the light bill. Now it’s wonderful to walk in this store and hear, “That’s $32.70 plus tax.” That’s one person! All day long this is going on. Sometimes, I can’t hardly get in this store for all the people. And today young people come in here at times buying four and five books. I mean little kids eight and nine years old.
Every company that publishes books on black people sends me copies now. I’ve gotten letters from writers and editors saying I’m responsible for opening up the avenue of publishers accepting black manuscripts.
And some of the books here in the store are collector’s items. I’ve made it my business to find out-of-print books, if they can be found. I’ve built up my reputation and people are saying, “If you can’t find it at Michaux’s, don’t look no more.” It pays to be sincere in what you’re doing.
True, I haven’t been to a show or a movie but once in thirty years. I don’t go hardly anywhere ’cept here and home. When I’m home, I read. I stick to my business. I’ve found out that if you want a crop to grow, you tend it. Any woman who has a baby and don’t give it plenty of her milk and she goes and leaves it with somebody else to nurse, that woman’s in for a mess when she comes back to get that baby. Well, I nursed this business and it’s grown up nicely.
A fellow told me one day, “I guess you’re doing well enough now to move into one of those upper-class neighborhoods.”
Sure, I could move. But I won’t. Sometimes I go up on the mountain and it’s nice up there. But I made it in the valley, so I got to come back to the valley to live. I love Harlem and wouldn’t move out of here for nothing.
Street Hustler
The Professor? Yeah, he’s cool. Me and my boys, we hit some other places around Harlem, but the bookstore—that’s off-limits. We scratch each others’ backs, if you get my meaning. He helps us out when we need it, and we keep an eye on the store for him. ’Cause there’s some bad people out there. The Prof know
s all he needs to do is blow his bugle and we’ll bring the cavalry.
LEWIS
No dope addicts come in here and stick me up. They protect me.
They come in here sometimes and say, “Professor, give me fifty cents. I want to go downtown.”
I put out about thirty-five dollars a month giving fifty cents and quarters. They wouldn’t let nobody roll this store. If there’s a disturbance of any kind, you’ll see ’em rush in here and say, “What’s the matter, Professor? Need me?”
I say “Naw, everything’s cool.”
LEWIS
To say Mary and I didn’t harmonize on much is an understatement. Still, I’m sorry for her passing. I feel for Lightfoot. He’s hurting. Sixty years is a long time for two people to live together as man and wife. On the other hand, this is the day she’s been living for since she found her religion.
No question, Mary and I were day and night. But I guess I should thank her for all the times she prayed for my soul. Not many people do. Maybe I should worry there’s one less around.
I give the woman credit. She set her mind to saving souls and put everything she had into it. Like that Young People’s Purity Club she started. “Be a Peach Out of Reach,” she told the ladies. And “If there is nothing for sale, take the sign down.” That Mary was something. Firm, relentless in her teaching of high—if she was living, I’d say high and mighty—morals and virtuous living to young people. As tiresome as she was, Mary was fixed, certain, unchanging in her beliefs. I tip my hat to her on that. I might even find myself missing her flak.
Poet Nikki Giovanni
When Black Feeling, Black Talk came out last month, Lewis was kind enough to put it in his store. I was thrilled. If you’re a black writer, there are three places you want to carry your books—Curtis Ellis in Chicago, Marcus Books in San Francisco, and Michaux’s in New York. Michaux, of course, is the pioneer.
I visit Michaux’s a couple of times a week, and yesterday, when I walked in, Lewis said, “Nikki...” Actually, he calls me Giovanni. He said, “Giovanni, guess what?”
I said, “What?”
He said, “Your book was stolen.
I said, “Oh!” thinking this was a bad thing.
But he said, “That’s wonderful! People want to read you!”
I laughed.
If Lewis is happy about this, maybe I’ll have a career.
LEWIS
When I get the news that Cleaver is coming to town, I want him to autograph his book at the store.
So I call the publisher and say, “I want five hundred copies of Cleaver’s book, Soul on Ice. He’s in town and I want him to autograph it.”
The man says, “Do you have an account with us?”
I’ve been purchasing most of my books from jobbers, so I often don’t buy directly from publishers.
No, I haven’t,” I say. “But I’ve got to have them in the morning.”
The man says, “It’s impossible for you to get them by tomorrow morning because you have to establish your credit. I’ll have to send you an application.”
“But Cleaver will be here tomorrow. I’ve got to have the books,” I tell him.
"Wait a minute,” he says and calls another man to the phone.
“Who is this?” the second man asks. “Are you the man who’s been up on Seventh Avenue for years selling Negro books?”
“That’s me.”
And the man says, “The books will be there in the morning.”
And here they are. Right on time.
The House of Common Sense is getting some respect.
Nikki Giovanni
Well, I have arrived! Lewis invited me in for a cup of coffee, and I’m not talking Chock full o’Nuts. I’m talking about his African coffee from Nkrumah. The coffee from Ghana’s Black Star Line.
When he closed the store tonight, Lewis looked at me and said, “Giovanni, would you like a cup of coffee?” I knew what he meant, and I know you have to be pretty important to be asked.
So here I sit in the National Memorial African Bookstore, talking with Lewis, sipping his coffee, savoring the moment, making it last.
Yes, I have arrived.
LEWIS JR.
APRIL 4 After I heard the news, I headed for Seventh Avenue. It was scary on 125th, but I needed to see Mom and Dad. When black folks heard Dr. King was killed, they went wild. Throwing rocks and burning things. Breaking windows. Taking stuff from stores. Some people were just running the streets screaming and crying. When I got to the bookstore, Mom was getting ready to close up.
"Child, what in the world are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you to stay home?” She pulled me in and locked the door.
Dad hugged me and said, “We lost another one, son.”
I went to look out the window, but Mom pulled me back.
“You get away from there! What is wrong with you?”
Dad sat down and put his head in his hands.
“It’s senseless,” he said.
Looters got into the jeweler’s next door, the butcher’s, and about every other store around us. But they didn’t bother our place. They didn’t touch the bookstore.
LEWIS
APRIL 5 I didn’t always agree with King, but he surely did his part as a soldier in the fight for right.
Some think if they can eliminate the outspoken among us, black people will crawl away defeated. But they’re wrong. Others will find their voices, sharpen their weapons, join the battle.
I am not a violent man. I fight my battles with words, but I understand why so many black people are angry.
Violence originated in Heaven, and God used it on His enemy the Devil. He threw him the hell out of Heaven, and that’s violence. And all through the Old Testament, God advocated violence. If it was good for Him, it’s good for me when the time comes. In Ecclesiastes, Solomon says there’s a season and a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to get and a time to lose. A time to love, to hate, to kill, to be born, to embrace your wife, to turn her loose. And there’s a time to use violence. If God uses it, and He’s perfect, man has a perfect right to use it when he’s attacked.
Sometimes a man gets pushed, pushed too hard. Too far.
Until the neglected and the rejected are accepted and respected, there’s gonna be no damn peace...nowhere! Only a tree will stand still while it’s being chopped down.
FBI FILES
1968
Lewis MICHAUX, owner of the National Memorial African Bookstore, planned to start a protest movement against the New York state government because of the plans for a state building on West 125th Street, Harlem. MICHAUX believes that the erection of this building at this location is an attempt by the government to eliminate his bookstore, which has become a rallying point for Black Nationalists.
BETTIE
When Lewis learned New York had bought four city blocks to build a state office building in Harlem, he wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t worried even when he learned that our bookstore stands on one of those blocks. And when some local people approached him to sign a petition protesting the state tearing up the black community, Lewis wouldn’t sign it.
“Most of these businesses are not black owned anyway,” he said. “Who am I to stand in the way of progress?
He told me later that new construction could be a good thing for Harlem; it would bring business to the area.
More than that, Lewis had a meeting with Governor Nelson Rockefeller to discuss the matter. He felt confident he and the governor could come to some kind of agreement.
When Governor Rockefeller visited the bookstore, he asked, “Are all these books about black people?”
He was impressed, but he quickly got to the point. He told Lewis we would have to move the store.
“I’m not against the state building, and I’m not against progress,” Lewis told him, “but I want you to remember me and this place.”
Rockefeller said, “We’ll remember you.”
Two days later we got the keys to a storefro
nt at 125th Street and Lenox Avenue, a few blocks down from where we are now. The governor told Lewis we can stay there until the state building is finished and that we will have a place on the new site.
Lewis is banking on the governor’s promise.
Gus Travers,
New York City Newspaper Reporter
(OFF THE RECORD)
Harlem is no longer my beat, but I remember the first time this reporter was sent to cover the National Memorial African Bookstore and Lewis Michaux. Not your average story. Not your average man. Over the years, I developed an affection for Michaux. On a slow news day, I could often count on him to provide me with great material, along with some laughs.
Now I hear he’s being forced to relocate down 125th Street from Seventh to Lenox, a move which will certainly disrupt the store’s functioning and could jeopardize its future.
The question on the street is was there a political agenda in selecting Harlem Square for the new state building? Is the white power structure so fearful of the bookstore’s activities that it will go to any lengths to stifle them?
You’ve been living in a cave if you have to ask.
No question which side this reporter is on.
Snooze
The Man is always pushing us around, politicians taking whatever they want.
No Crystal Stair Page 8
