“R-rats,” I stammer, but none of the guards seem concerned.
“Line up!” a guard shouts.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to the older brother beside me, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think. “Where are we?”
But he says nothing as we’re surrounded by guards, weapons drawn like a firing squad. My heart drops.
Oh, God, no …
“Niggers, strip!” a guard orders, and I watch the others begin to take off their clothes.
“Faster! Move it!” he screams, and I fumble with my belt, buttons, and laces, fingers trembling.
Even though I’m from Michigan, and have lived in Grand Rapids and East Lansing, I have never experienced any place colder than here. The kind of brutal cold that pinches the tip of your earlobes and won’t let go. The cement floor is wet, my bare feet standing in a puddle of ice, as if it rained inside and froze solid. Is there a leak somewhere? But then I see it, the water hose. It comes alive with a shriek, and the water hits our bodies, slamming us into the cold cement wall with all its pressure. I huddle, letting it beat me.
God, please help me.
Water off. More shouting. Screaming. A hot, loud breath in my face. The brother next to me begins to cry. The guards inspect and shepherd us like cattle, pushing and kicking the ones who move too slow. Afraid the guards will shoot, I work fast to follow their orders. They give us dark blue uniforms and a few small items. Something jabs at my back. A baton.
“I SAID MOVE!” a guard barks in my face. My fists clench close to my body. We’re lined up, heading down the tunnel, toward light. At the end is a counter, another guard working behind it. He hands me a piece of paper with the numbers 22843 scribbled on it.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up at me as he checks off something on his clipboard.
“Your new name, boy.”
The guard shoves me forward into a massive hall. So many eyes and hard faces stare at us through thick iron bars. I try to get my bearings. The rancid smell, rodents scurrying across the floor, keys jangling in the guard’s hands. He stops short in front of a cell the size of a closet and shoves me inside. No windows. The cement walls littered with scratches, closing in on me. My chest tightens with a pent-up scream as the door squeaks then slams shut behind me.
CHAPTER 1
If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches, there’s no progress. If you pull it all the way out, that’s not progress. The progress is healing the wound that the blow made.
—MALCOLM X
My mother’s dress was sky blue with tiny white polka dots sprinkled like snowflakes. She wore it with her pearls when she went into town. She walked tall, head high, with a beautiful smile and skin bursting with pride so thick people felt her before they saw her, wondering what this white woman was doing with all these Negro children. All seven of us lined up like ducklings behind her. Even when we were home, we orbited her like the planets. We couldn’t get enough of her.
I lay my head on her shoulder as she cradled Wesley in her arms, singing to us in English, French, Creole, Yoruba. Eyes closed, voice like a hummingbird. Mother soon fell asleep. She must have been tired from staying up late the night before, working on an article she was writing for the Negro World newspaper. She was by far the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. It was probably why Papa always brought something home for her after his travels—nutmeg, mint candies, new books.
In the living room, some of my brothers and sisters were hunched over their encyclopedias as news hissed from the radio. Outside, the sky was pinkish peach and orange as the Midwestern sun slowly set on Lansing, Michigan. I could smell Hilda’s cinnamon hot cross buns rising in the oven and Mom’s West Indian stewed chicken simmering on the stove next to a pot of greens seasoned with her own garden spices.
We were all together: Papa, Mom, Wilfred, Hilda, Philbert, me, Reginald, Wesley, Yvonne—even Robert. Though he wasn’t born yet, he was there, and everything was perfect. Warm, cozy, safe. No one could harm us. No one could break us. Papa wouldn’t let them. We were family.
But in a blink, it all changed.
Mom startled awake with a gasp that shot up from her toes.
“Mommy?” Hilda said from the stove, tending to the pot. “Mommy, are you okay?”
Mom placed a trembling palm on the table to balance herself, eyes searching, taking each of us in. Wilfred, the eldest, entered the kitchen, book still in hand, followed by the others.
“Where’s your father?” she whispered.
“I think … he’s in his room,” Wilfred said.
“You think?” she snapped, passing the baby to Hilda. I scrambled out of her way as she rushed into the hall.
“Earl!” she called. “Earl! Where are you?”
There was a frantic desperation in her cries that we hadn’t heard since the night the KKK set our first house on fire in Omaha. I remembered the way we had burst out into the night, her screams urging us to run. Philbert stood behind me, holding my shoulders, Reginald squeezing against my side.
Now we listened to my father’s heavy footsteps slowly walk down the hall before he appeared at the kitchen doorway, dressed in his clay-brown tweed suit, hat in hand.
“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” Papa said to her with a grin. “You dozed off there real good.”
She took in his tall, stocky frame and smooth black skin but didn’t seem comforted by his presence. “Where are you going?”
Papa chuckled, fixing the brim of his hat. “Going into town to collect rent and money for the chickens.”
Mom bit her bottom lip and shook her head real slowly. “No. Earl. Don’t go.”
“Woman, I am not afraid of those—”
“Earl, don’t!” she snapped. “Just listen to me, now.”
“Louise, don’t start this funny business again. Now you know—”
Mom’s voice became real soft, at the edge of tears. “Earl, if you go, you won’t come back, ever!”
The room fell silent, even the radio lost signal. My heart started to race wildly. What did she mean, Papa wouldn’t come back? Of course, he’d be back. He’d be back in time for supper. Then there would be work to do, meetings to attend, time to spend ministering to people and spreading Mr. Garvey’s teachings. Papa said I could go with him again to the next meeting. It was good for my training, my organizing, my destiny. Papa said I was going to make a great leader someday.
My brothers and sisters huddled together by the table as if to keep warm, trying to make sense of Mom’s words. Mom’s words were always soft yet firm and true. She was never ever wrong. But these words, they frightened us, more than anything. I needed her to be wrong.
Papa touched the top of Mom’s head, cradling her cheek with a smile. Papa, with a body as strong as the finest steel, could be tough on us kids, but he held a sweet spot for Mom. We could see it in his eyes, the way he looked at her, endearing and proud.
“Louise, don’t fret, okay? I’ll be back before supper. Nothing will ever take me away from our family. Nothing will ever take me away from you.”
“Papa?” Wilfred started. He wasn’t a man yet and he wouldn’t dare question Papa’s decisions, but the way Mom clutched herself, he at least had to try. “Uh, can I come with you?”