A Brief Meditation on 'The Autobiography of Malcolm X'
In a word: relevant. The plight of Black men endures in America. Rote and senseless violence reigns down in Her ghettos, where too many Black babies have too little to eat. Malcolm speaks in ominous tones of the inevitability of 1964’s “long, hot summer.” Succeeding his death, America is confronted with the long, hot summer of 1967. Perhaps it is less strenuous for us to call back to our memories the long, hot summer that was 2020. The world watched in horror an “officer” Derek Chauvin lynch George Floyd in the street. With his last breaths, he pled for his life: a futile labour to implore the humanity of his fellow man. The world heard the cries and shared in the torment of those who loved Breonna Taylor. She was murdered in her home by the hand and bullet of an ‘officer’ Myles Cosgrove. Ahmaud Arbery—a Black man—was gunned down and murdered by Gregory and Travis McMichael – white men— while William Bryan (also a white man) filmed – sadistically. United, we took to the streets. Much to our horror and dismay we bore witness as America reared Her ugly head. Bullets and Billy clubs tore the flesh of our men, tear gas chocked the lungs of our women and little ones. Fifty and five years after Malcolm’s untimely martyrdom, racism continues to murder Black men in America.
This month (December) alone, in Columbus, Ohio, 23-year-old Casey Goodson Jr., and 47-year-old Andre Maurice Hill were murdered by “sheriff’s SWAT deputy” Michael Jason Meade and “officer” Adam Coy, respectively. A quarter century after Malcolm's assassination—halfway between then and now— Nelson Mandela, upon his release from prison, took a short time to reflect. He had taken a great many steps on his long walk to freedom. He vowed then that as long as he lived, he’d walk. He bestowed upon all of us an obligation to join him on his journey and to persist in freedom’s name when—inevitably—he was no longer for this world. America, too, has walked a great many steps on Her long walk to freedom. But She, too, has stopped to reflect upon her progress, and She has stopped now for far too long. In Her vanity, Her loathsomeness has borne its ugly head. It is now that She must resume her journey, until, “in our mutual sincerity we might be able to show a road to the salvation of America’s very soul. It can only be salvaged if human rights and dignity, in full, are extended to black men. Only such real, meaningful actions as those which are sincerely motivated from a deep sense of humanism and moral responsibility can get at the basic causes that produce the racial explosions in America.” (The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Haley 385)
Written in clear, concise language. Telling a plethora of cardinal truths. A story that epitomizes growth and transfiguration. Indubitably one of the most important books of the twentieth century.
Ode to Ali
When he fights: his feet reminisce on days when the soles of his ancestors kissed music into the earth. His fists fly to the beat of their drums. Less so war than art, violence than virtuosity. Pugilistic perfection.
In slumber: he dreams of gardens watered by flowing streams. Jannah?
At dawn: he makes wudu. He prays Fajr.
At noon: he runs with a pride of lions and dances with the spirits of his kin.
At dusk: he speaks in prose.
“I am the greatest. I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. I. AM. THEE. GREATEST! And ohhhh, I’m sooooo pretty. I am the prettiest and the greatest in all the land! Ahhhhhhh.”
It’s true: his skin is the colour of honey. His smile is just as sweet. Atop his head sits the diadem of his regal ancestry. Its roots grow from his scalp like a tree grows from the earth: up. In aim of the sun. He is strong. Kin of Yaa Asantewaa.
At midnight, under moonlight: he is black. Man child. Music in his mind’s ear.
“I was borrrrrrrnn by the river.”
Hood on his head. Candy in his pocket. He shadowboxes, spars with the stars. Jab. Jab. Hook. Jab.
POP. Flesh is hacked, bone is cracked. His dream’s streams run red.
The curtain closes. His-story ends. She cowers on Her course. And cries.