The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [76]
“That told us that the people of Harlem are angry and that they are more for Africa and Africans”
“than they ever let on …”
Malcolm was leaning back in his chair, his chin tilted down, his attention totally ours. He straightened abruptly.
“We know of the demonstration, but Muslims were not involved. New York Times reporters telephoned me and I told them, ‘Muslims do not demonstrate.’ And I'll tell you this, you were wrong.”
Rosa and I looked at each other. Malcolm X, as the most radical leader in the country, was our only hope, and if he didn't approve of our action then maybe we had misunderstood everything.
“You were wrong in your direction.” He continued speaking and looking straight into our eyes. “The people of Harlem are angry. And they have reason to be angry. But going to the United Nations, shouting and carrying placards will not win freedom for anyone, nor will it keep the white devils from killing another African leader. Or a black American leader.”
“But”—Rosa was getting angry—“what were we supposed to do? Nothing? I don't agree with that.” She had more nerve than I.
“The Honorable Elijah Muhammad teaches us that integration is a trick. A trick to lull the black man to sleep. We must separate ourselves from the white man, this immoral white man and his white religion. It is a hypocrisy practiced by Christian hypocrites.”
He continued. White Christians were guilty. Portuguese Catholic priests had sprinkled holy water on slave ships, entreating God to give safe passage to the crews and cargoes on journeys across the Atlantic. American slave owners had used the Bible to prove that God wanted slavery, and even Jesus Christ had admonished slaves to “render unto their masters” obedience. As long as the black man looked to the white man's God for his freedom, the black man would remain enslaved.
I tried not to show my disappointment.
“Thank you. Thank you for your time. Mr. X—oh, I don't know your last name. I mean, how should you be addressed?”
“I am Minister Malcolm. My last name is Shabazz. But just call me Minister Malcolm.”
Rosa had stood, irritation on her face.
Malcolm said, “I know you're disappointed.” His voice had softened and for a time the Islamic preacher disappeared. “I'll tell you this. By twelve o'clock, some Negro leaders are going to be like Peter in your Christian Bible. They will deny you. There will be statements given to the press, not only refuting what you did, but they will add that you are dangerous and probably Communists. Those Negroes”—he said the word sarcastically—“think they're different from you and that the white man loves them for their difference. They will sell you again and again into slavery. Now, here's what we, the Nation of Islam, will not do. We will not ask the people of Harlem to march anywhere at any time. We will not send black men and black women and black children before armed and crazy white devils, and we will not deny you. We will do two things. We will offer them the religion of Islam, the Prophet Muhammad and the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. And we will make a statement to the press. I will say that yesterday's demonstration is symbolic of the anger in this country. That black people were saying they will not always say ‘yessir’ and ‘please, sir’ And they will not always allow whites to spit on them at lunch counters in order to eat hot dogs and drink Coca-Colas.” He stood; our audience was over. Suddenly he was aloof and cool, his energy withdrawn. He said, “Salaam aleikum” and turned to join a few men who had been waiting for him at the counter.
We left the restaurant in a fog of defeat. Black despair was still real, the murders would continue and we had just used up our last resource. When Rosa and I embraced at the subway there was no elation in our parting.
That evening the radio, television and newspapers bore out Malcolm's predictions.
Conservative black leaders spoke out against us. “That ugly demonstration was carried out by an irresponsible element and does not reflect the mood of the larger black community.”
“No good can come from