I want to tell her how she has so much of our father in her face, but I don’t.
“I pray for you, Malcolm. Every night, I’m on my knees praying hard to the Lord to protect you from these animals and restore your mind. I pray to God.”
The word God made me want to spit. Is God gonna get me out of here? Where was God when Papa was killed? When they took away Mom and locked her up in an institution? Where was He then?
“Don’t waste your breath.” I shove my seat back and stand. “Don’t pray for me. I don’t want nobody praying for me for nothing. God? He ain’t been there for me before, and He sure ain’t here now.”
The guards flinch. “Little! Back in your chair.”
“We done here,” I bark back.
“Little, I said get in your seat.”
Ella reaches for my hand. “Malcolm, I’m just trying to—”
“NO TOUCHING!”
Ella reels back, her arms up as if to block a hit.
“Okay, visitation is over. Everybody up!” Ella doesn’t like anybody telling her what to do, especially no white man, so she stays there.
The guards descend, yanking each prisoner by the arm without a moment to say goodbye, slapping on cuffs, hauling us away, leaving women and children in tears as they see their men, their so-called protectors, powerless this way.
This is the picture they paint of us, this is the nightmare they give our children. Makes me want to punch the guard in his face and shove a knee in his stomach.
* * *
My Dear Brother,
How are you? I pray this letter finds you well. Ella said she is working on getting you moved from that dreadful place. Said last time she visited, you were as thin as a twig. You can’t be tall like Papa and thin as a rail. Are you eating? Why haven’t you written back to my last letter? I know I wrote to the right address. Your family is very concerned about you.
Things are fine here in Lansing. Been looking through some of Papa’s old books I had stored. Do you remember how well Mom used to take care of them? The way she made us read them over and over again, and then we had to wipe them clean before putting them back in the cupboard? I finally understand why reading was so important to Mother. It was also important to Papa and to Mr. Garvey. Reading helps you find new ways of looking at the world in which we live. We discover new skills and ideas toward becoming better people and how to improve our situations. That must be what drove Papa to strive for perfection in all he did. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new. Remember how you would write your own books and then read them to us? You are a perfectionist, too. You loved to read. I hope you’re keeping it up. “Reading maketh the full man.”
Daddy always said you were just like him. Remember who you are, Malcolm. That’s the only way you’ll find solace in your time of need.
Your Big Sister,
Hilda
* * *
There is a small fire burning in my fingertips. Every morning, I wake up and feel it there first. Under my nails, crawling up to my knuckles, covering my hands. Gloves of flames spread. Then arms, chest, and legs blaze until my whole body is covered.
Big Lee has a deep bass voice, like a blues singer who lost his guitar. Used to hear men like him singing on the road all the time, in juke joints and speakeasies, where cats just kicked it with one another and danced freely. Drinking homemade moonshine without a worry in the world.
I sit in the back row of the chapel now, listening to him sing. Reminds me of Paul Robeson’s bass-baritone.
“Mary had a golden chaaaaaiiiiiin, ev’ry link waaaaas my Jeeeesus’ naaaaaaame…”
Big Lee stands at the front of the chapel, eyes closed, mouth grinning. He sings all the time in the shop or in the mess hall, trying to ease spirits. Those old-timey Negro songs don’t do nothing but make me angrier, that God would give a man such a gift and let him rot.
The chaplain runs Bible study on Mondays and Wednesdays. The chapel is nothing but a room with a wooden cross hanging on the wall behind the pulpit and a picture of a white Jesus. Papa said Jesus was Black, with woolly hair and feet of bronze.
You can still smell the stench in this so-called sanctuary, feel the draft through our paper jackets. There are more of us here today. Yesterday, another prisoner hanged himself with his bedsheets. That’s the seventh suicide this month. Your mind plays tricks on you. The escape route seems easier than living, I guess.
Maybe some of us are here trying to find meaning in our existence. Maybe not. I only go to chapel to keep from having to stay in my iron cage longer than I have to. Helps pass the time. But after Ella’s visit, the fire burning inside me feels more urgent. I thought the two extra matchbooks of nutmeg I had at breakfast would curb an explosion, but I feel nothing. The fire swallows anything I put inside my body, trying to keep the flames at bay. No way out.
Jimmy sits next to me, humming along with Big Lee as he ends his hymn. Everyone in the room applauds like they were watching a performance of Duke Ellington and his big band. Jimmy claps the loudest.
The chaplain looks like most white men do, pale and lanky, spitting words of authority from a book not made to inspire or rehabilitate. A book not made for us. Jimmy hangs on to every word like a helpless child, grunting along with the flat sermon.
“Homeboy, you really into all that?” I whisper to him. “You don’t believe this shit, do you?”
He cuts me a surprised glare. “The question is, why ain’t YOU a believer, homeboy?”
He can’t be serious. I could think of a dozen reasons.
“As it says in John 3:16,” the chaplain shouts. “‘For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that who shall ever believe in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.’”
Ha! I chuckle. Loud.
“Excuse me?” the chaplain squeaks.
The entire room turns to stare. Big Lee raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir?” I say with a hint of amusement.
“Is there something … funny?”
“Nothing really, it’s just brainwash. I think it’s wrong for you, as a man of God, to be lying to us like this. Like you really care about us.”
The room stirs. Panicked, Jimmy jumps to his feet, cap in his hands.
“Uhhhh, s-sorry sir,” he stutters. “Young brother’s not feeling too well.”
“I can speak for myself,” I say, still seated, crossing my arms.
Jimmy plops back into his seat, muttering under his breath, “Cool it, homeboy. You trying to get yourself buried? What’s going on?”
The chaplain collects himself. “And what part do you not believe?”
“He loved His Son so much that He sacrificed Him to bloodthirsty men? That sounds like love to you? Sacrificing His only child! Would you do that? Would any of you?”
The chaplain’s face turns red. “God’s love is greater than our understanding.”
I laugh. “Where are you getting this stuff from?”
“It’s good to have questions, Malcolm. But about your faith, lean not on your own understanding…”
Something about him saying my name, as if he knows me, makes my skin crawl. He doesn’t have the right to speak my name.
“Oh, you’re very mistaken. I don’t have questions. I have answers. And the answer is God’s words ain’t in that book and it damn sure ain’t in here.”