I. Was. There.

by

K. Michael Williams

Re/Creation celebrates Black History Month. As urged by the event's creators in 1969, we are grateful for the opportunity to "honor the too-often neglected accomplishments of Black Americans in every area of endeavor throughout our history."

I’m sitting in the dining room. The sixteenth floor of a building in the South Bronx Morris House projects. Visiting with my Mom. We sit across from each other, chopping it up as best a mother and son can do without getting too familiar.

Mom notices the book at my elbow. (Now this was back in the day when I didn’t go anywhere without a good read.) It’s my copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Even after all these decades, one of my favorite books. Up there with Taylor Branch’s Parting the Waters, Stephen King’s Night Shift and Moore/Gibbons Watchmen.

Mom takes the book. Not like she’s never seen or heard of it before, but more with a demeanor of politeness, a modicum of curiosity. She gives the pulpy paperback a slow burn before setting it between us. When she opens her mouth, the words that come out send me reeling.

Almost forty years later, they still do.

“I didn’t like him.”

I’m numb. Malcolm is one of my heroes. An influencer in a civil rights movement that changed the world and gave people of color strength. He was a minister and supporter of black power and nationalism. Radical or not, he was an influencer long before cell phones and Instagram.

And none of that had anything to do with my admiration of Malcolm. Not his political leanings or black pride. I mean, in adulthood, I have the great respect a young man of color is supposed to have for our leaders who fought and lost their lives for the cause.

But no, I more respect Malcolm for his sense of humor than anything. From his writing to public speaking and interviews, Malcolm had a knack for injecting humor into the most serious matters.

Now, I’m sitting in front of another of my heroes, probably my greatest, hearing words that sting like a wasp.

I ask, “You didn’t like him? Why?”

“He was a troublemaker.”

She says it plainly as if that made all the sense in the world.

The author’s mother (left), his brother George, and his grandmother

Mom proceeds to tell me about a time when we lived in Harlem off of Lenox, a life I still have vague memories of. Malcolm would set up a literal soapbox, stand on it and speechify on the corner. Crowds would linger and listen. Mom did. Either from our apartment window or out there on the street.

I’m stunned. Mom was in the presence of Malcolm X. Listening as he talked about what we as a people need to do if we as a race ever wanted to get out from under and regain our dignity.

Mom thought it was all rabblerousing, a ruse to keep the races apart and fighting. Malcom was a “troublemaker.”

I don’t argue. I understand her point of view. I don’t agree but I understand. I’ve never been one to confront my mother about much, even something that stands outside the mother/son bonding.

Besides, there are far more important topics to cover right now.

In regard to hearing about Malcolm Little speaking in the early days, before Malcolm X became a national figure and political leader, there is one pertinent piece of info I have to know.

I blurt clumsily, “Where was I?”

Like Woody Allen realizing the woman he’s lying next to in bed is confessing she just had sex.

Mom looks at me with a stare that says it all. She says, “You were there.”

My senses are fully discombobulated now. I. Was. There. Before Malcolm. In his presence. I was in the presence of one of my heroes. Sure, I was only two or three years old but I. Was. There.

Did I stand there and listen? Did I run around with my sibs while the man formerly known as Malcolm Little warned us?

I don’t ask. I have all the information I need. I. Was. There. With Malcolm X.

That conversation is almost forty years old. And it’s one of many memorable moments I have about Mom. And Malcolm.

Mom was my hero too. She’s been gone over twenty years now.

Since that conversation in the South Bronx, I often wonder if Mom and Malcolm are somewhere out there. Sitting together and working out their differences…

K. Michael Williams is a freelance writer. He loves to read, draw, go to the movies and watch bad zombie movies (well, with that last one "love" may be too strong a word). He lives in New York City with his family. K. Michael believes COVID has given him way too much reason to not leave the house.