thousands of books. I loved this place.
I checked out a book on Shaka Zulu and sat enthralled for hours reading about how he’d nearly taken over all of Africa. I felt as if I had been born at the wrong time and in the wrong place. On the plains of Africa I felt like they would have appreciated my skills, my ferocity, my aggression. I would have become a great general in Shaka’s army or maybe even a king myself. Here, I was just a thug who would no doubt wind up in prison someday.
I read the entire book in a few hours and then made my way back over to the shelves and picked up a book I’d never seen before, but whose title called out to me just as it was meant to do. It was called “A Message to the Black Man in America” by some cat named Elijah Muhammed. I checked it out and started reading it as I took the bus back home.
It was almost five o’clock in the evening when I made it home. I walked past all the kids playing in the street and all anyone was talking about was how I’d kicked Tank’s ass and how his older brother Huey had been around looking for me. I had only read the first ten pages of Elijah Muhammed’s book, but already there were thoughts in my head of black unity and how the social diseases of poverty, racism, and oppression had corrupted our brains and made us self-destructive creatures who fed on one another turning all our rage and hatred inward rather than turning that aggression outward towards our oppressors. Old habits die hard though.
“Shit, I don’t give a fuck! I’ll kick his ass too! Them North Philly niggas ain’t shit!” I said boldly and loudly. Too loudly in fact ’cause my grandma overheard me.
“Is that you cussin’ like that Malik? Boy, you’d better get your fresh behind in here ’fore I take this belt to your hide!” Sometimes I wished she was half deaf like most other grandmothers. But at forty-seven years old she was the youngest grandmother I knew.
“Did you hear me boy? Get your bad behind in here! I want you to clean up that filthy room of yours before your momma gets home and haves a fit!”
“Damn!” I said under my breath as I skulked up the steps and into the house.
Grandma could talk real mean sometimes, but it was all a front. Deep down she was as soft and sweet as cotton candy. She just yelled when she was lonely, just to get attention. I don’t know why my mother couldn’t see that. It was probably ’cause she was so stressed out from working all day and, in her words, “Takin’ shit from white folks.”
I went inside and Grandma was all over me as soon as I stepped through the door.
“Where’ve you been boy?”
“I went to the library after school.”
I put the book down on the kitchen table and Grandma’s eyes zeroed in on it then seemed to stay fixed on the book. She stared back at me in shock like I’d just set a decapitated head on the table instead of a book.
“You got that at the library?” She asked.
“Yeah.”
“Who told you about this book?” she asked.
“Nobody. I just saw it sitting on the shelf and it looked interesting.”
“Mmmhmm.” She replied and then turned away from both me and the book.
“Well, get upstairs and clean that nasty room of yours.”
I went to work on her.
“But, I’m starving, Grandma. Do I have to wait for Mom to get home to get something to eat?”
“You didn’t look that hungry when you was outside runnin’ that filthy mouth of yours.”
“Them boys was sayin’ some kid from North Philly was gonna beat me up.”
“Who’s gonna beat you up, boy? What have you done now?” There was worry and concern on her face. It wasn’t just me getting into a fight that scared her. It was that around our way fights had a way of turning deadly.
“I ain’t did nothin’. This kid just wants to fight me ’cause he wants to prove he can beat me. I don’t even know the kid.” That seemed to relax her a little. This was just typical adolescent machismo and not the type of thing
I checked out a book on Shaka Zulu and sat enthralled for hours reading about how he’d nearly taken over all of Africa. I felt as if I had been born at the wrong time and in the wrong place. On the plains of Africa I felt like they would have appreciated my skills, my ferocity, my aggression. I would have become a great general in Shaka’s army or maybe even a king myself. Here, I was just a thug who would no doubt wind up in prison someday.
I read the entire book in a few hours and then made my way back over to the shelves and picked up a book I’d never seen before, but whose title called out to me just as it was meant to do. It was called “A Message to the Black Man in America” by some cat named Elijah Muhammed. I checked it out and started reading it as I took the bus back home.
It was almost five o’clock in the evening when I made it home. I walked past all the kids playing in the street and all anyone was talking about was how I’d kicked Tank’s ass and how his older brother Huey had been around looking for me. I had only read the first ten pages of Elijah Muhammed’s book, but already there were thoughts in my head of black unity and how the social diseases of poverty, racism, and oppression had corrupted our brains and made us self-destructive creatures who fed on one another turning all our rage and hatred inward rather than turning that aggression outward towards our oppressors. Old habits die hard though.
“Shit, I don’t give a fuck! I’ll kick his ass too! Them North Philly niggas ain’t shit!” I said boldly and loudly. Too loudly in fact ’cause my grandma overheard me.
“Is that you cussin’ like that Malik? Boy, you’d better get your fresh behind in here ’fore I take this belt to your hide!” Sometimes I wished she was half deaf like most other grandmothers. But at forty-seven years old she was the youngest grandmother I knew.
“Did you hear me boy? Get your bad behind in here! I want you to clean up that filthy room of yours before your momma gets home and haves a fit!”
“Damn!” I said under my breath as I skulked up the steps and into the house.
Grandma could talk real mean sometimes, but it was all a front. Deep down she was as soft and sweet as cotton candy. She just yelled when she was lonely, just to get attention. I don’t know why my mother couldn’t see that. It was probably ’cause she was so stressed out from working all day and, in her words, “Takin’ shit from white folks.”
I went inside and Grandma was all over me as soon as I stepped through the door.
“Where’ve you been boy?”
“I went to the library after school.”
I put the book down on the kitchen table and Grandma’s eyes zeroed in on it then seemed to stay fixed on the book. She stared back at me in shock like I’d just set a decapitated head on the table instead of a book.
“You got that at the library?” She asked.
“Yeah.”
“Who told you about this book?” she asked.
“Nobody. I just saw it sitting on the shelf and it looked interesting.”
“Mmmhmm.” She replied and then turned away from both me and the book.
“Well, get upstairs and clean that nasty room of yours.”
I went to work on her.
“But, I’m starving, Grandma. Do I have to wait for Mom to get home to get something to eat?”
“You didn’t look that hungry when you was outside runnin’ that filthy mouth of yours.”
“Them boys was sayin’ some kid from North Philly was gonna beat me up.”
“Who’s gonna beat you up, boy? What have you done now?” There was worry and concern on her face. It wasn’t just me getting into a fight that scared her. It was that around our way fights had a way of turning deadly.
“I ain’t did nothin’. This kid just wants to fight me ’cause he wants to prove he can beat me. I don’t even know the kid.” That seemed to relax her a little. This was just typical adolescent machismo and not the type of thing
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