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Jose Sanchez
1201_ENG3316_OL2
02/16/2020
Gone Too Young, Too Soon: The Assassination of Malcolm X
I sat teary eyed, small and broken on the corner of West 165th street and Broadway. Playing and replaying what I could only hope was a bad dream; our brother was taken from us in a hail of bullets. I loved him, was given instruction on manhood by him, I could not imagine a day without him.
The day began with a flurry of activity. I jumped out of bed with more energy than I did during the school week. We were on our way to hear El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz speak in Harlem. My daddy James passed shortly after I was born and mama said that El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz was a righteous example of what Black men were supposed to be in our communities and I loved my mama, so I wanted to become a righteous example of a Black man for her. I got to the bathroom first, and raced through brushing my teeth, combing my hair and washing my face. I put on my Sunday clothes that mama had set out for me, and went to the kitchen to have my toast and milk. Mama was already up and ready. She was humming a tune playing on the radio in her mind, and sipping her coffee. My mama was Willie-May Stephens, and as she would tell it was a lowly woman of ill repute before she met my daddy. Together they found the Nation and changed their lives. They spoke loud, and proud of their Blackness. When daddy died, mama became quiet all the time, and took less time readying herself for the world outside. Then one day when I came home Mama was in a state, she and Ms. Pearl from across the way were gathered over the radio box listening to this booming voice, that was as strong as rock. But, what struck me most was the joy in his laugh, even when he made fun of Christians he didn’t sound altogether disrespectful, just jovial about the lack of knowledge Christians seemed afflicted with. Mama called me over and told me who the voice and laughter belonged to El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, Leader of Temple 5 in Harlem. From that day forward, I read about him, I listened to his teachings, I tried to emulate his laughter. I envisioned growing up to be just like him. So, when I tell you, that the morning of February 21, 1965 was a morning like no other, I assure you there was never a day like it before and there hasn’t been a day close to it since. I’m 48 now as I write this on the anniversary of his death; preparing to give a speech to a group of young men I’ve mentored over the last year, and I find myself stuck trying to wrap up how I want to send these young Black boys off to find their way in a world designed to jail or bury them. I find myself feeling the stiff coldness of that February morning, with its grey clouds, and biting wind, walking quickly from our small two room apartment on 155th and Broadway toward the Auditorium, Mama doing her best to not cry because like she told me just before we left the house “Palmer baby, today we are going to take the first step back toward our greatness, we are going to hear the plans for our people from El-Hajj himself.” I loved when mama talked about our greatness, because when she did she always wore this wide smile on her face, like she was recalling a memory from childhood. It didn’t take us long to get to the auditorium but it did take a few moments for my hands to warm up, and my teeth to stop chattering. We were shown our seats in the middle of the left section by one of the brothers at the door, who greeted my mama like she was royalty. There was a small passage of time as the place filled in with every color and shade of Blackness. Some carried serious faces, some smiled gingerly, some were just nonchalant faces of those who had nothing better to do and just wanted to be out the cold. There came a slender brother to the stage who opened by saying As-Salam-u-Alaikum. The crowd responded in kind wa-Alaikumussalam wa-Rahmatullah. He then started to describe El-Hajj by his works, like one would describe a champion boxer. Then out comes the man of the hour, El-Hajj. He was a Black god to a boy like me, yet unlike the Christian god he was in the flesh, he was real. There were specks of grey in the hair of his beard, and he appeared tired. He gave a greeting, and that’s when a commotion began. There was shouting and then a loud bang, followed by a trumpeting of successive bangs, which would have sufficed, if it were not for the growing crunching of Black bodies colliding with one another, and chairs as people screamed and ran for the doors. Mama had my had caught in hers and was pulling me along out the building and back into the cold, grey of the morning. It took a while for the screaming to quiet down, but what rose out of the silence was more visceral and haunting. The wailing of the collective Black soul as we all grappled with what we had just saw our hero, our voice, our embodiment of god lying still, stiff, lifeless on stage.
Time stood still while we awaited the police and the ambulance. Their arrival came like a flurry of snow. They crowded the block forcing everyone to clear the way while they put on a show of caring about the situation. I saw as they caught one man who I assumed was one of the shooters, only after the mob of supporters had attempted to stomp him to death. By the time the dust cleared, and people were staggering home, holding their hearts, and fighting to keep back a river of tears, I was holding onto my lost sense of reality. Mama and I along with some neighbors shuffled homeward in silence. When we arrived, I had to take the keys from mamas’ hand and open the door, as she just stood there with a blank expression on her face. I didn’t know that the worst was yet to come. The next few months my world was turned upside down. I listened to the trial of the people who the media said killed El Hajj in disbelief. One of the men said the other two had nothing to do with it, but because of something called circumstantial evidence they were found guilty. Mama never quite recovered after that day, and soon found herself committed to a mental ward, and I had to go stay by lady Esther, who was kin to my daddy. Mama died in the mental ward, doctors say from an aneurism but I think it was from heartbreak. Lady Esther did alright by me, kept me grounded, taught me El Hajj’s lessons on being an upright Black man, just like my mama had done. I graduated college and went on to be a successful teacher for wayward students. Every year I revisit that day in memory. Its ties to what make me who I am have been impossible to shake. What could we have become if El Hajj had been given more time with us, his people? My community struggled so much after his passing, we fought so much to reclaim our senses after a drug infestation claimed our streets and so many lives. We fought harder to get decent education in our schools. It has always been my goal to continue with his work, but it has also been a trial filled with tribulations just keeping on a righteous path.
