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Given his influence on the white liberal establishment, can Coates be marginalized like any other American who dares speak the truth about Israel, let alone at this particular moment in history?
The United States is the single most powerful supporter of the Israeli settler colony.
The U.S. government heavily arms and gives political cover to Israel, and considers the people at the mercy of its aggression as America's enemies. And president after president, Republican and Democrat, has enabled Israel to commit war crimes, crimes against humanity, and even genocide with total impunity.
The current genocide Israel is committing in Palestine is legally and morally placed at the doorstep of the U.S.
Therefore, what happens in the U.S.—especially when the political mainstream begins to wake up and see Zionism for the apocalyptic genocidal fanaticism that it is—matters for world peace.
For generations, liberal Zionists have infiltrated the ranks of American liberal imperialists with terror visited upon the world. West and Mishra saw through Coates clearly; now, so has he.
Zionists—whether Israeli or American, Christian or Jewish—do not like the prospects of that awakening.
As the racist and colonial nature of Israel's regime became more widely recognized, the experiences between Palestinians and the African American community also became more prominently linked, especially in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement.
Over the last year, several outlets—from The New York Times to Politico, Vox, and others—published articles examining the history of Black and Palestinian solidarity.
Indeed, these discussions emerged in full force after 7 October 2023 as several leading African American public figures and intellectuals made clear their stance on Israel—even making headlines on "how Gaza has shaken Black politics."
When U.S. Ambassador to the United NationsLinda Thomas-Greenfield raises her hand and vetoes one Security Council resolution after another to stop the Israeli murderous machinery; when we see U.S. Secretary of Defence Lloyd J Austin III in the news pledging his mighty military will protect Israel against attempts to stop its rampage; when the irredeemably corrupt New York City Mayor Eric Adams delivers nauseating "stand with Israel" speeches, something deep in the history of African American experience cries foul.
And when Congresswoman Cori Bush of Missouri avows: "Aipac [American Israel Public Affairs Committee], I'm coming to tear your kingdom down!" she invokes an entirely different legacy of solidarity with Palestinians in African American history, as Israel systematically unleashes its savageries against Palestinians and other Arab nations like Lebanon.
Towering figures like Malcolm X, James Baldwin, Angela Davis, Alice Walker, and Cornel West have been bold, precise, and hard-hitting when it comes to condemning the criminal atrocities of the U.S. and Israel in cahoots together.
It was not too long ago when the heat on Ta-Nehisi Coates, a prominent African-American literary and critical voice, got so bad he ran out of the kitchen.
Back in 2017, he deleted his Twitter account with millions of followers and went into occultation following a scathing critique levelled against him by the unflinching moral conscience of Cornel West, a distinguished scholar and activist who called him "the neoliberal face of the Black freedom struggle."
Coates soon left his main outlet, The Atlantic, a major Zionist operation run by former Israeli prison guard Jeffrey Goldberg, that was grooming him as a feather in their Israeli hat. For years, he would oblige.
Coates published his 2008 hymn for Israel, " The Negro Sings of Zionism," which he followed with "The Case for Reparations" in 2014. The essay, which sparked criticism among Palestine advocates, made him a darling of American Zionists.
Coates presented Israel as the model for reparations and thought African Americans ought to do the same as the Israeli state did with Germans.
For a decade now, that bit of Zionist newspeak he embraced under the condition he now calls " default Zionism" has haunted his conscience. Rightly so: Today, when he appears for public interviews, he repeatedly says: "I am ashamed!"
He should be.
Had he not heard of Edward Said when he was entrapped in that "default Zionism"? Any answer he might give to that simple question would be even more incriminating.
The most damning assessment of Coates, however, was not by West, who said in 2017 that Coates "reaps the benefits of the neoliberal establishment that rewards silences on issues such as Wall Street greed or Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands and people."
In his characteristically patient and precise prose, the eminent Indian public intellectual Pankaj Mishra published a major review of Coates' 2017 book on the Obama era, We Were Eight Years in Power, in the London Review of Books.
Mishra detailed and dissected Coates' deeply white-identified career, which banked on his Black identity to drive guilt-ridden white America to celebrate him—just as Barack and Michelle Obama had done. This was a fact that West had also intuited and laid bare to him.
Mishra picked up on Coates' own sense of wonder in himself, "Why do white people like what I write?" and analysed with surgical precision:
[Coates] also visibly struggles with the question, "Why do white people like what I write?'' This is a fraught issue for the very few writers from formerly colonized countries or historically disadvantaged minorities in the West who are embraced by "legacy" periodicals, and then tasked with representing their people—or country, religion, race, and even continent (as in The New York Times's praise for Salman Rushdie: "A continent finding its voice"). Relations between the anointed "representative" writer and those who are denied this privilege by white gatekeepers are notoriously prickly. Coates, a self-made writer, is particularly vulnerable to the charge that he is popular among white liberals since he assuages their guilt about racism.
This was published in February 2018, just a few months after West had, with the stroke of a few bold and brilliant paragraphs, forced Coates into early withdrawal from the public to lick his wounds.
It did him good and well.
His new book, The Message, is his deliverance from error, as it were, his version of al-Ghazali's classic al-Munkidh min al-Dalal/Deliverance from Darkness, published nearly 1,000 years ago.
Imagine that! A young African American writer publishes a book that reminds me, a Muslim, of the autobiographical masterpiece of a towering Muslim philosopher mystic. This should mean more to him than any Pulitzer or Booker.
But Coates' visit to Palestine for just 10 days is reminiscent of another even closer Muslim to his home and habitat when Malcolm X visited Gaza in September 1964.
On this occasion, he wrote: "The ever-scheming European imperialists wisely placed Israel where she could geographically divide the Arab world, infiltrate and sow the seed of dissension among African leaders, and also divide the Africans against the Asians."
Bearing witness to Palestinian suffering and Zionist thuggeries, Coates has a giant pair of shoes to fill if he continues on this path.
The long essay Coates wrote on his visit to Palestine, which is included in his book, marks his deliverance from Zionist prose.
For generations, liberal Zionists have infiltrated the ranks of American liberal imperialists with terror visited upon the world. West and Mishra saw through Coates clearly; now, so has he.
Immediately after the publication of Coates' latest book, the pro-Israel hasbara machinery, of course, went berserk and unleashed its furies, the racist nature of which managed to surprise even Coates himself.
Other liberal Zionists like Ezra Klein of The New York Times tried to undermine his arguments by asking him why he did not consult with rabid Zionists in Israel when he was there, and of course, setting the usual propaganda trap, "What about Hamas?"
As defined and determined by well-endowed and ideologically committed outlets like the Times, The Wall Street Journal, and The Atlantic, the U.S. media is a well-oiled propaganda machinery of hasbara-informed pro-Israel newspeak.
The gap between the liberating truth Coates now sees and speaks and the ugly propaganda Zionists continue to keep dominant in American political culture is now widening apace.
Previously, when others like Coates suddenly found a conscience, the mainstream press just turned a deaf ear and pretended it did not happen. Perhaps one recent example is New York Congressman
Jamaal Bowman, whose changed position on Israel not only cost him his reelection campaign but has largely relegated him to obscurity.
Given his influence on the white liberal establishment and their understanding of race and diversity in this country, can Coates be marginalized like any other American who dares speak the truth about Israel, let alone at this particular moment in history?
The gap between the liberating truth Coates now sees and speaks and the ugly propaganda Zionists continue to keep dominant in American political culture is now widening apace.
More than half a century after the Civil Rights movement—when the world thought racism had been dealt with—Americans gave Donald Trump to the world right after Obama lent his Black identity to career opportunist liberal imperialism of the worst kind.
The stockpile of bombs the Israelis are dropping on Palestinians, Lebanese, Syrians, Yemenis, and others remains Obama's legacy in the Middle East.
As I write, Americans are almost evenly split on the upcoming presidential election, poised to vote for either a Mussolini wannabe rank charlatan fascist or a Genocide Joe replacement who, like a parrot or a broken record, can only repeat AIPAC talking points.
Between a genocidal administration with the blood of tens of thousands of Palestinians and Lebanese on its hands and a fascist wannabe, the future of the U.S. and all its global warmongering, particularly its Israeli garrison state, is now being determined.
The significance of what Coates has written weighs far less for Palestinians who have equally if not more eloquent voices to speak on their behalf.
But for Americans, Coates' corrective message may both inspire and signal a broader cultural shift in which this country may be liberated from the curse of Zionism.
The former Berkeley mayor's record of accomplishments from civil rights activism to groundbreaking political initiatives to far-sighted community economic development programs to global solidarity and elder statesman leadership could fill volumes.
Former Berkeley, California Mayor Gus Newport, a titan of progressive politics in the late 20th Century, social justice champion who worked with Malcolm X, and a lifelong humanitarian and internationalist, died June 17 in San Francisco. He was 88.
Gus was the embodiment of the adage of a life well lived. His record of accomplishments from civil rights activism to groundbreaking political initiatives to far-sighted community economic development programs to global solidarity and elder statesman leadership could fill volumes.
“The beauty of Gus,” said actor Danny Glover in an interview, “is that I trust him to elevate our story. When you spend time with someone with Gus’s history and character and listen to his stories, you are changed. I hope that a little of my story could resonate with others the way Gus’s stories have resonated with me and so many around the world.”
As a young activist in 1962, leading the Monroe County Nonpartisan League, the largest civil rights group in his hometown of Rochester, NY, Gus shepherded the first successful police brutality case in federal court after the beating of a Black gas station attendant Rufus Fairwell who would win a financial settlement from the city.
Daisy Bates, who led the NAACP campaign to integrate Little Rock’s Central High School in the late 1950s and now organizing in Rochester for the NAACP, introduced him to Malcolm X by phone. Gus and Malcolm worked to defend nine Black Muslims assaulted and arrested in a police raid on a Black Muslim Mosque in Rochester during a worship service.
When Malcolm flew into Rochester, and landed on the tarmac on a cold February day, Gus was waiting in the airport surrounded “by a lot of white men in felt hats and white shirts and ties. When Malcolm walked in and asked, ‘who is Gus Newport.’ I raised my hand and said, “I am.” He said, “Young blood, you got the best-tapped telephone in America. This is all FBI around you.”
He would go on to count Malcolm and Harlem Congress member Adam Clayton Powell as mentors. He assisted Malcolm in founding his Organization of Afro American Unity (OAAU).
In February 1965, after Malcolm’s house was firebombed, Malcolm asked him to join him for a speech in Rochester about his situation. Returning to New York, “when we landed at LaGuardia, we were met by the chief of police of New York and the fire marshal. They accused him of firebombing his own home.” Four days later Malcolm was assassinated. Later Gus would help Malcolm’s widow Betty Shabazz with burial and financial support, including with a fundraiser for the family headlined by Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, and Max Roach at the home of Sidney Poitier.
Malcolm, Gus would later say, was “the greatest person I think I ever knew,” a “great teacher” and “one of the dearest friends I ever had.”
Gus would move west after leaving a Department of Labor stint assigned to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, due to a distaste for the politics of President Nixon. A cousin helped him get work for the city of Berkeley, developing youth employment service programs and as a senior analyst in the City Manager’s office and Parks and Recreation department.
In 1979, Gus was elected Berkeley Mayor, with the backing of the progressive Berkeley Citizens Action coalition on a platform of community economic control, serving two terms until 1986. “I never aspired to run for mayor,” he would relate. “I was talked into it by John George, the first African American elected to the Alameda County Board of Supervisors, and Congressman Ron Dellums. Danny Glover (who met Gus while interning with the city of Berkeley) and Harry Belafonte (who he had known in New York) helped with my campaigns.”
As Mayor, Gus would lead Berkeley to become the first city in the U.S. to divest from apartheid South Africa, the first city to create a domestic partner benefits program for LGBTQ+ families, a child care initiative to help working women, and innovative programs on affordable housing, rent control, policing reforms, environmental protections, and community development. Berkeley landlords sued to block limits on rent increases the city had enacted. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court where Berkeley was represented pro bono by famed Constitutional attorney Lawrence Tribe, “and we won.”
He was one of the first mayors in the country to ride in a Gay Freedom Day parade, in San Francisco in 1979. He also challenged U.S. immigration policy. “The wars in Central America were creating thousands of refugees,” he says, “and I gave orders to our police not to arrest immigrants because of their status.”
As a result of Berkeley and Gus’ prominent role in the broad anti-apartheid movement, he was made an honorary member of Nelson Mandela’s African National Congress and served on the advisory board of the US Conference on Apartheid.
When Mandela first toured the U.S. after his release from prison, Gus was invited to help host Mandela on his visit to Boston, and Glover and Belafonte “introduced me to Mandela.” Gus had worked in Boston after leaving Berkeley as the first senior fellow at the newly founded William Monroe Trotter Institute at the University of Massachusetts.
Gus spent years helping other municipalities on community development projects including in Boston, Seattle, Palm Beach FL, New Hampshire. The Boston area Dudley Street Neighborhood Initiative, in Roxbury, was a particular success, the only non-profit organization in the U.S. to receive the powers of eminent domain which became a national model for empowering a diverse community and sustainable change profiled in two award-winning films: Holding Ground and Gaining Ground.
He would also serve on the five-person advisory body to oversee the planning to rebuild New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina and teach at Yale, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and the University of California, Santa Cruz. In 2009, he gave the commencement speech at Heidelberg University at his alma mater in Tiffin, OH and was awarded an Honorary Doctorate of Letters.
Global peace and social justice was a life long focus for Gus. He was co-chair of the U.S. Peace Council and vice president of the World Peace Council and worked in solidarity with people’s movements, in Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East.
He was outspoken in opposition to U.S. policies in Haiti, Cuba, and Central America. In 1985, as mayor, he visited El Salvador, along with a Jesuit priest, with representatives of New El Salvador Today, a group he helped found. “The priest drove us to Chalatenango, and we were told we would walk for an hour, but it took us six hours! When we arrived, the village had no electricity and many roofs were torn off from bombing, but they managed to create a huge sign: ‘Welcome to the Mayor of Berkeley’.”
He was also a prominent supporter of Palestinian rights, as a long time board member of the Berkeley-based Middle East Children’s Alliance. In 2019 Gus was awarded the Khalil Gibran Spirit of Humanity Award by the Arab American Institute.
During the 2016 election, Gus and Danny Glover traveled across the U.S. as national surrogates for the Presidential campaign of Sen. Bernie Sanders. Gus had developed a friendship with Sanders after Bernie was elected mayor of Burlington, VT in 1981. They also collaborated with the few other progressive mayors, including Chicago’s Harold Washington, at U.S. Conference of Mayors meetings. “We’d compare notes on public policy, community planning, and organizing.”
In his later years, Gus served on the leadership committee of the National Council of Elders, an organization of people over 65 dedicated to advancing civil, women’s, environmental, farm workers, and LGBTQ+ rights.
Gus maintained a connection to Oakland and the East Bay, from the early 1990s living on and off in Oakland with his longtime wife and partner Kathryn Kasch. He was on the board of the Urban Studies Council, a Bay Area regional policy and research organization, focused on addressing inequities. In one of his last roles, Gus served on Oakland’s Reimagining Public Safety Task Force, formed after the police murders of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd.
Asked what kept him working for a better world in the face of so many threats from white supremacy and assaults on democracy, Gus would say he was guided by Dr. Martin Luther King’s vision of a Beloved Community of inclusion, cooperation and justice for all which he had first imbued from his parents and grandmother. “We need to come back to what Martin called Building the Beloved Community — helping communities address education, incarceration, mental and physical health in an integrated and systematic way. If we want a better future for the next generation, we need to build a movement that is strategic and constant!”
In interviews he frequently talked about the inspiration of his grandmother who took him to concerts with Marian Anderson and Paul Robeson when he was five. “My grandmother grew up in the Jim Crow South,” he noted. “One day, after picking cotton, she came to school late and the teacher slapped her. She walked out and never went back.”
“I’m lucky enough for what my grandmother instilled in me: Don’t think you know it all, learn something new every day. I learned it by engaging with people and having an analysis and understanding the integrated role that can be played by communities, universities, government, all kinds of people. We don’t live in a community that has reached its limit as to what’s best.”
To hear Gus in his own words, watch a 2021 interview with the Berkeley Historical Society and Museum.
The Progressive Editor's note: This commentary first appeared on the website of The Progressive on May 27, 2013. This year on Memorial Day, we repost it in memory of all people working for change in our world--some are honored and remembered, others lesser known. Some are quiet essential workers, risking their lives while helping individuals day-to-day in this time of global pandemic.
For Memorial Day, it is customary to remember the soldiers who died for our country.
But I'm not one for custom, so, on this day, I'd like to remember the peace and justice activists who died for our country.
I remember, of course, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X, and Bobby Kennedy.
I remember Medgar Evers, an organizer with the NAACP, who was gunned down in Mississippi in 1963 while wearing a t-shirt that said, "Jim Crow Must Go."
I remember James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, murdered in 1964 for trying to register black citizens to vote in Mississippi.
I remember Mark Clark and Fred Hampton of the Black Panthers, murdered by Chicago cops in 1969.
I remember Jeff Miller, Allison Krause, William Knox Schroeder, and Sandra Lee Scheuer, slain at Kent State by the Ohio National Guard on May 4, 1970.
I remember Phillip Gibbs and James Green, slain by police at Jackson State just 11 days later.
I remember Charles Horman and Frank Teruggi, murdered by Pinochet's thugs in Chile in 1973.
I remember Karen Silkwood, anti-nuclear activist, killed in a highly suspicious car crash in 1974.
I remember Ben Linder, killed by the contras in Nicaragua in 1987.
I remember Judi Bari, one of the leaders of Earth First!, killed by a bomb in her car in 1999.
I remember Rachel Corrie, crushed to death ten years ago by an Israeli armored bulldozer in Gaza.
They all deserve a Memorial Day salute.
Albert Woodfox turned 69 years old on Friday. He also was released from prison that day after serving 43 years in solitary confinement, more time than anyone in U.S. history. "Quite a birthday gift," Woodfox told us during the "Democracy Now!" news hour in his first televised interview after gaining his freedom. Woodfox is a living testament to the resilience of the human spirit when subjected to the cruel and unusual punishment of solitary. His case also serves as a stark reminder of the injustice that pervades the American criminal justice system.
Woodfox was in his early 20s when he was imprisoned for armed robbery in 1971. He was sent to the notorious Louisiana State Penitentiary, known as Angola, a sprawling prison complex with 5,000 prisoners located in rural Louisiana on the site of a former slave plantation. It gets its name, "Angola," from the country of origin of many slaves.
Conditions in Angola in 1971 were so violent and appalling that Woodfox, along with another prisoner, Herman Wallace, formed one of the first prison chapters of the Black Panther Party. In 1972, Woodfox and Wallace were charged with the murder of prison guard Brent Miller. No physical evidence linked the men to the crime. A bloody fingerprint at the murder scene, which matched neither Wallace's nor Woodfox's, was ignored by authorities. Robert King, another prisoner who joined their Black Panther chapter, was charged with a separate crime in the prison. The three were sent to solitary confinement, where they remained for decades, always maintaining they were innocent of the charges.
Albert Woodfox recalled those early days of organizing inside of Angola when we spoke with him just days after his release: "The saddest thing in the world is to see a human spirit crushed. And that's basically what happened with these young kids coming to Angola. And we decided that if we truly believed in what we were trying to do, it was worth taking whatever measures necessary to try to stop this."
Even back then, the Angola 3, as they became known, were well aware of the potential impacts of solitary confinement. Woodfox recalled during our interview, "When we were first put in CCR [closed cell restriction] in '72, myself, Herman Wallace, and Robert King, we knew that if we had any chance of maintaining our sanity and not allowing the prison system to break us, that we had to keep our focus on society and not become institutionalized." When I asked Woodfox what he read in prison, he told me, "History books, books on Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King, Frantz Fanon, James Baldwin."
A movement grew, globally, to free the Angola 3, with Amnesty International and other organizations calling for their release. Documentaries were made about the case. In one, the widow of Brent Miller joined the call, saying in 2010, "These men, I mean, if they did not do this--and I believe that they didn't--they have been living a nightmare for 36 years."
Two major impediments to their freedom were prison warden Burl Cain and Louisiana Attorney General James "Buddy" Caldwell. Cain was the key decision-maker in keeping the men in solitary. In a 2008 deposition in Woodfox's case, Cain admitted, "I still know that he is still trying to practice Black Pantherism." And while Woodfox's case was overturned on three separate occasions, with a federal judge ordering his release, Attorney General Caldwell insisted on repeatedly retrying the case. Cain resigned in December, facing state ethics violations and a criminal probe for business dealings during his reign as the longest-serving warden in Angola's history. Caldwell lost re-election to fellow Republican Jeff Landry, who allowed Woodfox to leave prison on the condition that he plead "no contest" to manslaughter.
Woodfox squinted into the camera as he spoke on "Democracy Now!." The years of confinement in a six by nine foot cell had damaged his vision. He is proud of his activism. "We've put this solitary-confinement issue before American people, before the people of the world, and it just started building," he said. "It got to the point where it wasn't just about the Angola 3, but it was about solitary confinement."
Robert King was released in 2001, his conviction overturned after serving 29 years in solitary confinement. Herman Wallace was freed in 2013, only after a federal judge threatened to jail Cain if he refused to release him. Wallace died one day later of liver cancer. On Monday, we asked Albert Woodfox about his plans: "I've been locked up so long in a prison within a prison. So, for me, it's just about learning how to live as a free person," he told us. "I'm just trying to learn how to be free."
When the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. announced his strong opposition to the war in Vietnam, the media attacked him for straying outside of his civil rights mandate. In so many words, powerful interests told him: "Mind your own business." In fact, African American leaders have long been concerned with broad issues of peace and justice--and have especially opposed nuclear weapons. Unfortunately, this activism is left out of mainstream corporate-produced history textbooks.
When the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. announced his strong opposition to the war in Vietnam, the media attacked him for straying outside of his civil rights mandate. In so many words, powerful interests told him: "Mind your own business." In fact, African American leaders have long been concerned with broad issues of peace and justice--and have especially opposed nuclear weapons. Unfortunately, this activism is left out of mainstream corporate-produced history textbooks.
On June 6, 1964, three Japanese writers and a group of hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors) arrived in Harlem as part of the Hiroshima/Nagasaki World Peace Study Mission. Their mission: to speak out against nuclear proliferation.
Yuri Kochiyama, a Japanese American activist, organized a reception for the hibakusha at her home in the Harlem Manhattanville Housing Projects, with her friend Malcolm X. Malcolm said, "You have been scarred by the atom bomb. You just saw that we have also been scarred. The bomb that hit us was racism." He went on to discuss his years in prison, education, and Asian history. Turning to Vietnam, Malcolm said, "If America sends troops to Vietnam, you progressives should protest." He argued that "the struggle of Vietnam is the struggle of the whole Third World: the struggle against colonialism, neocolonialism, and imperialism." Malcolm X, like so many before him, consistently connected colonialism, peace, and the Black freedom struggle. Yet, students have rarely heard this story.
With the recent developments in Charleston surrounding the Confederate flag, there is a renewed focus on what should be included in U.S. history textbooks and who should determine the content. Focusing on African American history, too often textbooks reduce the Black freedom movement to the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the March on Washington. Rosa Parks and Dr. King are put in their neat categorical boxes and students are never taught the Black freedom struggle's international dimensions, viewing slavery, Jim Crow, and the Civil Rights Movement as purely domestic phenomena unrelated to foreign affairs. However, Malcolm X joined a long list of African Americans who, from 1945 onward, actively supported nuclear disarmament. W. E. B. Du Bois, Bayard Rustin, Coretta Scott King, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Black Panther Party were just a few of the many African Americans who combined civil rights with peace, and thus broadened the Black freedom movement and helped define it in terms of global human rights.
If students learn about Du Bois at all, it is usually that he helped found the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) or that he received a PhD from Harvard. However, a few weeks after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Du Bois likened President Truman to Adolph Hitler, calling him "one of the greatest killers of our day." He had traveled to Japan and consistently criticized the use of nuclear weapons. In the 1950s, fearing another Hiroshima in Korea, Du Bois led the effort in the Black community to eliminate nuclear weapons with the "Ban the Bomb" petition. Many students go through their entire academic careers and learn nothing of Du Bois' work in the international arena.
If students ever hear the name Bayard Rustin, it is usually related to his work with the March on Washington. He has been tragically marginalized in U.S. history textbooks, in large part because of his homosexuality. However, Rustin's body of work in civil rights and peace activism dates back to the 1930s. In 1959, during the Civil Rights Movement, Rustin not only fought institutional racism in the United States, but also traveled to Ghana to try to prevent France from testing its first nuclear weapon in Africa.
These days, some textbooks acknowledge Dr. King's critique of the Vietnam War. However, King's actions against nuclear weapons began a full decade earlier in the late 1950s. From 1957 until his death, through speeches, sermons, interviews, and marches, King consistently protested the use of nuclear weapons and war. King called for an end to nuclear testing asking, "What will be the ultimate value of having established social justice in a context where all people, Negro and White, are merely free to face destruction by Strontium-90 or atomic war?" Following the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962, King called on the government to take some of the billions of dollars spent on nuclear weapons and use those funds to increase teachers' salaries and build much needed schools in impoverished communities. Two years later, receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, King argued the spiritual and moral lag in our society was due to three problems: racial injustice, poverty, and war. He warned that in the nuclear age, society must eliminate racism or risk annihilation.
Dr. King's wife largely inspired his antinuclear stance. Coretta Scott King began her activism as a student at Antioch College. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, King worked with various peace organizations, and along with a group of female activists, began pressuring President Kennedy for a nuclear test ban. In 1962, Coretta King served as a delegate for Women Strike for Peace at a disarmament conference in Geneva that was part of a worldwide effort to push for a nuclear test ban treaty between the United States and the Soviet Union. Upon her return, King spoke at AME church in Chicago, saying: "We are on the brink of destroying ourselves through nuclear warfare . . . . The Civil Rights Movement and the Peace Movement must work together ultimately because peace and civil rights are part of the same problem."
Soon, we will commemorate the 70th anniversaries of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Not long after comes the anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington. Students will then return to school and to their history textbooks. However, most will not learn how these issues are connected. They will not learn of all those in the Civil Rights Movement who simultaneously fought for peace. But this must change, and soon. The scarring of war and poverty and racism that Malcolm X spoke of continues. It's time that students learn about the long history of activism that has challenged these deadly triplets.
When I was growing up in Columbia, South Carolina, I was awoken by one singular task from my mother. "Get out of South Carolina," she would sermonize. This would be repeated to me regularly and in different ways. "Get out of South Carolina and don't come back." Sometimes she would say, "Don't get trapped here."
My mother, who birthed me at 14-years old, and was the first to graduate college in her family, pushed me to pursue college outside the state and to never return because, she would say, South Carolina would trap and kill me. Maybe it was the way my uncle was coerced to admit to a crime he didn't commit that resulted in him being sentenced to 14 years in prison. Maybe it's the way South Carolina unapologetically praises its racist history by flying the confederate flag on the state grounds. Or maybe it was the way my guidance counselor suggested I go to community college because "that's all you'll probably get."
As a black boy growing up there, South Carolina was never my home. I've felt more at home at Howard University, when I could share a similar sentiment of displacement, pride and fury for the way in which black people like me are treated in America. I realized I was not a South Carolinian (nor did I want to be) when I recognized South Carolina didn't care about me or anyone who looked like me--nothing had changed for black life since I was kid. Black children are shipped from poverty-stricken neighborhoods to sub-par schools with little to no resources and excess police that patrol neighborhoods, some of which have a curfew. If you're black and lucky enough not to be arrested, you may get a service job and be able to make minimum wage. My mother wanted to break that cycle.
When I recognized this trend, I began to believe I had no home and was seemingly alone. It turns out I was only partially right: I am not alone--the Charleston massacre is a stark reminder of that.
My blood and the blood of the oppressed is boiling to extraordinary proportions as we learn that a young white man, Dylann Storm Roof, entered the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, where he slaughtered nine church members during a prayer meeting, claiming, "I have to do it. You rape our women and you're taking over our country, and you have to go."
The feeling I feel right now is being felt across the country. It is the rebirth of the black radical--the generational development of a group of activists indignant over the subjugation, demise, and murder of its people. And it's not the first time. It has reemerged through the history of America.
It was in the early 1900s, following the Civil War, when we saw it in the rise of the New Negro Movement. Progressive minds such as Hubert Harrison, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Alain Locke--individuals that used art, literature and intellect to combat Jim Crow laws--were the apparent black radicals of their time. Again in the 1950s, following the murder of 14-year old Emmett Till, and in the 1960s with the assassination of civil rights activist Medgar Evers and incessant police repression, there was an extreme surge in the civil rights movement. Led by the likes of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Ella Baker, the movement used a diverse series of protest tactics to focus on policy and social change--emphasis on social change.
There were the Birmingham Riots of 1963, the Selma and Montgomery marches, and the March on Washington, where King delivered the speech that made him what the FBI called, "the most dangerous and effective Negro" in America. This was also America's introduction to the Black Panther Party, which focused on reducing poverty and improving health in the black community but also staunchly protesting against police brutality, the murder of black people, and the all-too-common terrorism inflicted on black communities. In this sense, black radicalism proved to be a diverse and cross-generational practice from a variety of activists. That is similar to what we see growing today--from the #BlackLivesMatter movement and #SayHerName to the recently launched StayWoke.org. We take different avenues, but there is one thing we share: the burning need for justice and the end of racism.
The apathy of drive-by social media activism has waned with every publicized example of unchecked police brutality and domestic terrorism. The Charleston massacre is no different; it will show that there is not, and never has been, a question of whether we as black Americans are capable of galvanizing beyond the gabs of activists, politicians and talking-heads. It is only a question of when, in what form and concentration. It could be in the form of black Twitter or it could be a series of marches. It could be political conversations and campaigns or it could be rioting, but if the past has taught us anything, it is that activism against racism and police violence is diverse and, at time, interdependent.
It is happening now--on the campuses of colleges and universities across the nation, in the community and church centers of predominantly black neighborhoods, in barbershops and hair salons, on group chats, on Instagram and black Twitter. Watching what's unfolded in Charleston, we're looking beyond mythic stories to discuss more impactful and radical actions and to leverage that shared feeling of hurt when we heard that nine people were slaughtered in a black church.
I am not a South Carolinian; I am the re-birth of the black radical and this time, the cause du jour is serving as a catalyst more so than a trending topic. And when the radicalism of my generation fully emerges from behind the curtain of traditional marches and tactics, there will be little acquiescence offered. The seemingly hollow musings of President Obama will go unnoticed, and the gait of the disenfranchised and attacked black youth will move like a levanter out of the concrete. The only thing to stop it will be drastic and unequivocal change in American policies, practices and moral consciousness.
As the #BlackLivesMatter movement continues to grow in strength like the perfect storm, the prescient words of Malcolm X (El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz) slice with laser-sharp precision through the rhetoric of politicians and pundits alike as if he still walked among us.
He was born Malcolm Little on May 19, 1925 in Omaha, Neb., and he would have been 90 years old today. We don't know how long he would have lived had he not been assassinated 50 years ago on Feb. 21, 1965, on the stage of the Audubon Ballroom at Broadway and West 165th Street in New York City. We just know that he was taken from us far too soon. Still, his intense, bespectacled gaze, forefinger resting against his face, remains the prevailing emblem of black rage and resistance. That his legacy has reverberated for decades without the stamp of approval from the U.S. government, without being taught in schools or quoted in Christian churches on Sunday mornings, speaks to the sheer magnitude of the man and the undeniable truth in his message.
Malcolm didn't tiptoe around diagnosing the illness of white supremacy or pointing out its symptoms in the form of religious terrorism and police brutality. He boldly declared that systemic racism is not baseless conjecture; rather, it is a deeply embedded statement of fact that provides the framework for the United States of America.
Malcolm X loved black people and hated white racism. Today, as dead black bodies continue to fall in U.S. streets from Ohio to New York, a booming prison-industrial complex continues to scour street corners for prey and a corrupt political system continues to placate black citizens with a blurry carbon copy of equality, his words in a 1964 letter to the Egyptian Gazette still ring true:
We can never get civil rights in America until our human rights are first restored. We will never be recognized as citizens there until we are first recognized as humans. ... The American "system" (political, economic and social) was produced from the enslavement of the black man, and this present "system" is capable only of perpetuating that enslavement.
It is often said that revolution is for the young; this was true of Malcolm. Though he looms larger than life, he was 27 years old when he began preaching at Muhammad's Temple No. 7 in Harlem and only 39 years old when at least seven bullets left him gasping for his final breaths mere moments after greeting a crowd with "As-Salaam-Alaikum."
Peace be unto you.
And when he said peace, he also meant freedom because he taught us that there is no way to be at peace without it.
In his riveting and iconic eulogy, activist and actor Ossie Davis declared Malcolm to be our "shining black prince." What is less often quoted is that Davis also said that Harlem's black community--"beleaguered, unfortunate, but nonetheless proud"--had never had a "braver, more gallant, young champion" than Malcolm X. And it is that same bravery that propels a movement from city to city today.
Many of us know the myth and the legend of Malcolm X. Here, The Root takes a look at the young man in action, putting on for his city and for his people, in these rarely seen clips.
1. Malcolm X "City Desk" interview, March 17, 1963:
Here's Malcolm X on slavery stealing black identity as well as the enrollment of James Meredith into the University of Mississippi: "It's a farce; it's hypocrisy. Because if it's right for one Negro to be forced into that university then every Negro in the state of Mississippi who is qualified has the same right to go to that university. And if the government is not ready and willing to enforce the right of every Negro in the state of Mississippi, then it's only hypocrisy to pretend they are for justice by pushing one Negro in and blowing it up all over the world to make it look like they're solving the problem when millions of black people in that state are going to segregated schools and getting an inferior education."
2. Malcolm X during an undated ABC interview on the importance of being black:
"The word Negro is a term that was made up by the white man himself during slavery. No right-thinking black man in America will accept it as a term to apply to himself. If the white man, no matter how dark he gets, still regards himself as a white man, then our people, no matter how light we get, still regard ourselves as black people. If it's good enough for them to be white, then it's better for us to be black."
3. Malcolm X speaks in Los Angeles May 5, 1962, at the memorial service for Ronald Stokes, an NOI member killed by the Los Angeles Police Department:
"[Black people] should shock the white man by working together in unity. Despite religious, political, economic, or educational or social differences. Let us remember that we're not brutalized because we're Baptist. We're not brutalized because we're Methodist. We're not brutalized because we're Muslims. We're not brutalized because we're Catholic. We're brutalized because we're black people in America."
This speech is also when Malcolm asked the powerful, rhetorical question: "Who taught you to hate yourself?"
4. Malcolm X debates civil rights leader and March on Washington architect Bayard Rustin on the need for self-determination for black America:
"Today the black man, according to the government economist, has spending power of $20 billion per year. We feel that with the black man spending $20 billion per year, not creating any businesses, not creating any industry, not creating any job opportunities for his own kind, he's not in a moral position to point the finger at the white man and say that he's discriminating against him for not giving him a job in factories that he himself set up. If the black man has $20 billion and these so-called Negroes are such geniuses that they can integrate white restaurants and white factories and force themselves into that which the white man has set up, they should use that same ingenuity to show the black people how to pool our wealth and set up something of our own."
In response to Rustin criticizing the NOI for organizing in the streets of Harlem, Malcolm responded, "You can reach more people in the street who want to change than you can in the bourgeoisie society, the bourgeoisie church and the bourgeoisie circles."
5. Malcolm X on voting:
"I wouldn't suggest that they vote for any party or either party. I would suggest that the so-called Negroes become politically mature, realize the power that they hold in the field of politics. Once the person realizes that the Negro is awakened to the power that he holds, then that person will approach that Negro on a more intelligent plane. As it is right now, most of the Negro leaders sell out to the white politicians for crumbs, and a political awakening among Negroes will make it impossible for the present Negro leaders to sell our people out as they've been doing in the past."
If a nation has the ways and means to solve a social problem that is devastating millions of its citizens' lives, but it fails to act, doesn't that mean resolving the problem depends more on moral values than on coming up with new economic policies?
If a nation has the ways and means to solve a social problem that is devastating millions of its citizens' lives, but it fails to act, doesn't that mean resolving the problem depends more on moral values than on coming up with new economic policies?
The social problem I am talking about is poverty. Poverty has always been an issue that's been framed--one way or another - by morality. For those who view the poor with moral indignation, the solution is to enact policies designed to punish; and for those who apply empathy, the goal is to create programs that are geared to empower and uplift the poor.
What I perceive, based on personal experience -I've worked with many public and private groups on the issues of homelessness and poverty and I've experienced homelessness myself- is that one's moral perspective on the poverty issue usually defines how one goes about finding and implementing solutions to it.
The dividing line seems to be whether you think poverty is caused by people lacking the basic resources they need in order to have stable families, good educational opportunities, and jobs; or, you think that people do not have these basic resources because they lack the personal attributes and social skills needed to earn them, as was implied by columnist David Brooks in a New York Times editorial last year.
I think it's unfair to expect that people who don't have access to basic needs--like adequate food, housing, and health care--should live normal and productive lives. To then punish them on top of that--by denying work and income supports, for example-- is not only immoral, it's irrational as well.
Early on in the battle to end poverty in America, the moral high ground was held by those with an empathic approach to alleviating poverty, in words and actions.
President Roosevelt proclaimed: "The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have little." He followed up those words with the New Deal, giving rise to Social Security and the modern liberal/progressive movement in America.
In his Inaugural Address in 1961, President Kennedy said: "If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich." He then announced a "New Frontier": policies that extended jobless benefits, aid to children, increased Social Security and the minimum wage, and financed public affordable housing.
After Kennedy's assassination, LBJ championed the Great Society and the War on Poverty: "... Neither you nor I are willing to accept the tyranny of poverty, nor the dictatorship of ignorance, nor the despotism of ill health, nor the oppression of bias and prejudice and bigotry. We want change. We want progress." And he backed those words up with the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1968, The Food Stamp Act of 1964, The Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the Housing and Urban Development Act of 1965.
In 1967, Martin Luther King wrote that "poverty has no justification in our age." He compared it to "the practice of cannibalism at the dawn of civilization, when men ate each other because they had not yet learned" to produce their own food. "The time has come for us to civilize ourselves by the total, direct and immediate abolition of poverty." He launched the Poor Peoples Campaign in 1968 to try to "gain economic justice for low-income people in the United States." He was assassinated that year.
Bobby Kennedy took up the mantle as advocate for the poor and during his presidential campaign declared: "I believe that, as long as there is plenty, poverty is evil." He, too, was assassinated--just two months after King.
Even President Nixon continued to build on many of these progressive policy reforms. In 1969 he called for "an end to hunger," expanded the food stamp program, and then created the Supplemental Security Income (SSI) program in 1972.
I was born in the 1950s and lived through each of these periods of inspiration, hope and optimism; each were followed--inevitably, it came to seem--by death and anguish. The sudden, tragic loss of our most gifted and promising political and moral leaders left many in my generation traumatized and deeply scarred.
In the wake of the political carnage of the 1960s, and the national emotional hangover that only worsened with Vietnam and Watergate, Ronald Reagan came onto the national scene in the 1970s with openly racist disdain for the poor. His stump speeches included references to "welfare queens" taking "government handouts" while driving a "Cadillac"; and "strapping young bucks" using food stamps to buy "T-bone steaks."
Does anyone think for a moment that if Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King or Malcolm X were still alive then that they would have let him get away with that racist vitriol unchallenged? But Reagan did, and he backed up his words with actions.
He took particular aim at programs and services that were effectively reducing poverty and preventing homelessness prior to his election. In his own version of a perfect storm for the poor, Reagan gutted the budget of Housing and Urban Development (HUD); discarded the Mental Health Systems Act of 1980, and as a result scores of people suffering from mental illness became displaced, homeless and/or incarcerated rather than treated in community mental health centers; and he changed the political narrative about poverty and homelessness--from one that acknowledged it as a national problem, to one that framed it as a matter of personal choice.
As President Reagan said in a 1984 interview with Good Morning America regarding the unprecedented surge in homelessness: "People who are sleeping on the grates...the homeless...are homeless, you might say, by choice."
It's a legacy we are still unable to escape more than a quarter century since he left office. How many of us liberal and progressive leaders are willing to take on Ronald Reagan's view of America that has seeped so deeply into our national psyche?
I'll start the dance. I'm a writer and David Brooks is a writer. So I'll call him out. Your editorial in the NY Times that singled out single mothers as being one of the chief causes of poverty in America? The last thing a single mother needs is a lecture from you on the "cultural roots of the problem" of poverty that are "really the inescapable core of the thing." What she really needs is a job that pays a wage that is sufficient to house and feed herself and her children; affordable quality childcare so she can work; and access to health care is probably a pretty damn good idea too.
If our current busting-at-the-seams economy can't provide a living wage for her because it's so grotesquely skewed to enhance the wealth of the already wealthy than it's our responsibility--as proudly empathic liberals and progressives--to force our politicians to enact programs that will protect, serve and empower ALL of our citizens equally and together.
Fifty years ago, on Feb. 21, 1965, Malcolm X was brutally murdered in New York City. With his assassination, the United States missed a chance to fully address some of the racial issues that persist to this day.
He was born Malcolm Little on May 19, 1925, in Omaha, Neb. He was raised mostly in Lansing, Michigan, where his father, Earl, an outspoken follower of the black self-determination proponent Marcus Garvey, was killed, allegedly by white supremacists. Earl's death devastated the Little family and eventually led young Malcolm, an exceptional grade school student, to drift into a life of petty crime and drug abuse.
Malcolm went to prison in Massachusetts some years later. It was here where he found himself and his voice when he converted to the religion and worldview of Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam.
Malcolm X emerged from prison a changed man. He became the leading spokesman for racial separatism in America, but also against racism in a very different way from traditional civil rights groups. And he did more than speak out against racism in the abstract; he also spoke out on particular concerns, some of which remain with us.
In a May 1964 speech, he talked about police brutality in black communities. "A black man in America lives in a police state," he said. "He doesn't live in any democracy. He lives in a police state."
In February 1965, Malcolm X again responded in a speech in Detroit to the problem of police brutality. This time, he noted the role of the media. "The press is used to make it look like (the black man) is the criminal and (the police force is) the victim," he stated.
This statement addresses the phenomenon that has occurred repeatedly in the past few years in incidents of police brutality involving black men killed in New York; Ferguson, Missouri; and other cities.
By the mid-1960s, Malcolm X was a major player in the civil rights struggles in America. His was an alternate view to Martin Luther King's call for togetherness to achieve change.
Malcolm X visited Selma in early February 1965 during the campaign for voting rights at the invitation of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). He was direct and confrontational.
"Since the ballot is our right," he stated, "we are within our right to use whatever means is necessary to secure those rights."
Considering all of the current attempts to curtail voting rights through voter ID laws and other such tactics, a voice like Malcolm X on this subject would be quite relevant today.
Malcolm X's place in history continues to evolve. Fifty years ago, more than a life of a great leader was lost. The country also lost a chance to address racial issues that continue to divide the nation.
NEW YORK--Malcolm X, unlike Martin Luther King Jr., did not believe America had a conscience. For him there was no great tension between the lofty ideals of the nation--which he said were a sham--and the failure to deliver justice to blacks. He, perhaps better than King, understood the inner workings of empire. He had no hope that those who managed empire would ever get in touch with their better selves to build a country free of exploitation and injustice.
NEW YORK--Malcolm X, unlike Martin Luther King Jr., did not believe America had a conscience. For him there was no great tension between the lofty ideals of the nation--which he said were a sham--and the failure to deliver justice to blacks. He, perhaps better than King, understood the inner workings of empire. He had no hope that those who managed empire would ever get in touch with their better selves to build a country free of exploitation and injustice. He argued that from the arrival of the first slave ship to the appearance of our vast archipelago of prisons and our squalid, urban internal colonies where the poor are trapped and abused, the American empire was unrelentingly hostile to those Frantz Fanon called "the wretched of the earth." This, Malcolm knew, would not change until the empire was destroyed.
"It is impossible for capitalism to survive, primarily because the system of capitalism needs some blood to suck," Malcolm said. "Capitalism used to be like an eagle, but now it's more like a vulture. It used to be strong enough to go and suck anybody's blood whether they were strong or not. But now it has become more cowardly, like the vulture, and it can only suck the blood of the helpless. As the nations of the world free themselves, then capitalism has less victims, less to suck, and it becomes weaker and weaker. It's only a matter of time in my opinion before it will collapse completely."
King was able to achieve a legal victory through the civil rights movement, portrayed in the new film "Selma." But he failed to bring about economic justice and thwart the rapacious appetite of the war machine that he was acutely aware was responsible for empire's abuse of the oppressed at home and abroad. And 50 years after Malcolm X was assassinated in the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem by hit men from the Nation of Islam, it is clear that he, not King, was right. We are the nation Malcolm knew us to be. Human beings can be redeemed. Empires cannot. Our refusal to face the truth about empire, our refusal to defy the multitudinous crimes and atrocities of empire, has brought about the nightmare Malcolm predicted. And as the Digital Age and our post-literate society implant a terrifying historical amnesia, these crimes are erased as swiftly as they are committed.
"We are the nation Malcolm knew us to be. Human beings can be redeemed. Empires cannot."
"Sometimes, I have dared to dream ... that one day, history may even say that my voice--which disturbed the white man's smugness, and his arrogance, and his complacency--that my voice helped to save America from a grave, possibly even fatal catastrophe," Malcolm wrote.
The integration of elites of color, including Barack Obama, into the upper echelons of institutional and political structures has done nothing to blunt the predatory nature of empire. Identity and gender politics--we are about to be sold a woman president in the form of Hillary Clinton--have fostered, as Malcolm understood, fraud and theft by Wall Street, the evisceration of our civil liberties, the misery of an underclass in which half of all public school children live in poverty, the expansion of our imperial wars and the deep and perhaps fatal exploitation of the ecosystem. And until we heed Malcolm X, until we grapple with the truth about the self-destruction that lies at the heart of empire, the victims, at home and abroad, will mount. Malcolm, like James Baldwin, understood that only by facing the truth about who we are as members of an imperial power can people of color, along with whites, be liberated. This truth is bitter and painful. It requires an acknowledgment of our capacity for evil, injustice and exploitation, and it demands repentance. But we cling like giddy children to the lies we tell ourselves about ourselves. We refuse to grow up. And because of these lies, perpetrated across the cultural and political spectrum, liberation has not taken place. Empire devours us all.
"We're anti-evil, anti-oppression, anti-lynching," Malcolm said. "You can't be anti- those things unless you're also anti- the oppressor and the lyncher. You can't be anti-slavery and pro-slavemaster; you can't be anti-crime and pro-criminal. In fact, Mr. Muhammad teaches that if the present generation of whites would study their own race in the light of true history, they would be anti-white themselves."
Malcolm once said that, had he been a middle-class black who was encouraged to go to law school, rather than a poor child in a detention home who dropped out of school at 15, "I would today probably be among some city's professional black bourgeoisie, sipping cocktails and palming myself off as a community spokesman for and leader of the suffering black masses, while my primary concern would be to grab a few more crumbs from the groaning board of the two-faced whites with whom they're begging to 'integrate.' "
Malcolm's family, struggling and poor, was callously ripped apart by state agencies in a pattern that remains unchanged. The courts, substandard schooling, roach-filled apartments, fear, humiliation, despair, poverty, greedy bankers, abusive employers, police, jails and probation officers did their work then as they do it now. Malcolm saw racial integration as a politically sterile game, one played by a black middle class anxious to sell its soul as an enabler of empire and capitalism. "The man who tosses worms in the river," Malcolm said, "isn't necessarily a friend of the fish. All the fish who take him for a friend, who think the worm's got no hook on it, usually end up in the frying pan." He related to the apocalyptic battles in the Book of Revelation where the persecuted rise up in revolt against the wicked.
"Martin [Luther King Jr.] doesn't have the revolutionary fire that Malcolm had until the very end of his life," Cornel West says in his book with Christa Buschendorf, "Black Prophetic Fire." "And by revolutionary fire I mean understanding the system under which we live, the capitalist system, the imperial tentacles, the American empire, the disregard for life, the willingness to violate law, be it international law or domestic law. Malcolm understood that from very early on, and it hit Martin so hard that he does become a revolutionary in his own moral way later in his short life, whereas Malcolm had the revolutionary fire so early in his life."
There are three great books on Malcolm X: "The Autobiography of Malcolm X: As Told to Alex Haley," "The Death and Life of Malcolm X" by Peter Goldman and "Martin & Malcolm & America: A Dream or a Nightmare" by James H. Cone.
On Friday I met Goldman--who as a reporter for a St. Louis newspaper and later for Newsweek knew and covered Malcolm--in a New York City cafe. Goldman was part of a tiny circle of white reporters Malcolm respected, including Charles Silberman of Fortune and M.S. "Mike" Handler of The New York Times, who Malcolm once said had "none of the usual prejudices or sentimentalities about black people."
Goldman and his wife, Helen Dudar, who also was a reporter, first met Malcolm in 1962 at the Shabazz Frosti Kreem, a Black Muslim luncheonette in St. Louis' north-side ghetto. At that meeting Malcolm poured some cream into his coffee. "Coffee is the only thing I liked integrated," he commented. He went on: "The average Negro doesn't even let another Negro know what he thinks, he's so mistrusting. He's an acrobat. He had to be to survive in this civilization. But by me being a Muslim, I'm black first--my sympathies are black, my allegiance is black, my whole objectives are black. By me being a Muslim, I'm not interested in being American, because America has never been interested in me."
He told Goldman and Dudar: "We don't hate. The white man has a guilt complex--he knows he's done wrong. He knows that if he had undergone at our hands what we have undergone at his, he would hate us." When Goldman told Malcolm he believed in a single society in which race did not matter Malcolm said sharply: "You're dealing in fantasy. You've got to deal in facts."
Goldman remembered, "He was the messenger who brought us the bad news, and nobody wanted to hear it." Despite the "bad news" at that first meeting, Goldman would go on to have several more interviews with him, interviews that often lasted two or three hours. The writer now credits Malcolm for his "re-education."
Goldman was struck from the beginning by Malcolm's unfailing courtesy, his dazzling smile, his moral probity, his courage and, surprisingly, his gentleness. Goldman mentions the day that psychologist and writer Kenneth B. Clark and his wife escorted a group of high school students, most of them white, to meet Malcolm. They arrived to find him surrounded by reporters. Mrs. Clark, feeling that meeting with reporters was probably more important, told Malcolm the teenagers would wait. "The important thing is these kids," Malcolm said to the Clarks as he called the students forward. "He didn't see a difference between white kids and kids," Kenneth Clark is quoted as saying in Goldman's book.
James Baldwin too wrote of Malcolm's deep sensitivity. He and Malcolm were on a radio program in 1961 with a young civil rights activist who had just returned from the South. "If you are an American citizen," Baldwin remembered Malcolm asking the young man, "why have you got to fight for your rights as a citizen? To be a citizen means that you have the rights of a citizen. If you haven't got the rights of a citizen, then you're not a citizen." "It's not as simple as that," the young man answered. "Why not?" Malcolm asked.
During the exchange, Baldwin wrote, "Malcolm understood that child and talked to him as though he was talking to a younger brother, and with that same watchful attention. What most struck me was that he was not at all trying to proselytize the child: he was trying to make him think. ... I will never forget Malcolm and that child facing each other, and Malcolm's extraordinary gentleness. And that's the truth about Malcolm: he was one of the gentlest people I have ever met."
"One of Malcolm's many lines that I liked was 'I am the man you think you are,' " Goldman said. "What he meant by that was if you hit me I would hit you back. But over the period of my acquaintance with him I came to believe it also meant if you respect me I will respect you back."
Cone amplifies this point in "Martin & Malcolm & America":
Malcolm X is the best medicine against genocide. He showed us by example and prophetic preaching that one does not have to stay in the mud. We can wake up; we can stand up; and we can take that long walk toward freedom. Freedom is first and foremost an inner recognition of self-respect, a knowledge that one was not put on this earth to be a nobody. Using drugs and killing each other are the worst forms of nobodyness. Our forefathers fought against great odds (slavery, lynching, and segregation), but they did not self-destruct. Some died fighting, and others, inspired by their example, kept moving toward the promised land of freedom, singing 'we ain't gonna let nobody turn us around.' African-Americans can do the same today. We can fight for our dignity and self-respect. To be proud to be black does not mean being against white people, unless whites are against respecting the humanity of blacks. Malcolm was not against whites; he was for blacks and against their exploitation.
Goldman lamented the loss of voices such as Malcolm's, voices steeped in an understanding of our historical and cultural truths and endowed with the courage to speak these truths in public.
"We don't read anymore," Goldman said. "We don't learn anymore. History is disappearing. People talk about living in the moment as if it is a virtue. It is a horrible vice. Between the twitterverse and the 24-hour cable news cycle our history keeps disappearing. History is something boring that you had to endure in high school and then you are rid of it. Then you go to college and study finance, accounting, business management or computer science. There are damn few liberal arts majors left. And this has erased our history. The larger figure in the '60s was, of course, King. But what the huge majority of Americans know about King is [only] that he made a speech where he said 'I have a dream' and that his name is attached to a day off."
Malcolm, like King, understood the cost of being a prophet. The two men daily faced down this cost.
Malcolm, as Goldman writes, met with the reporter Claude Lewis not long before his Feb. 21, 1965, murder. He had already experienced several attempts on his life.
"This is an era of hypocrisy," he told Lewis. "When white folks pretend that they want Negroes to be free, and Negroes pretend to white folks that they really believe that white folks want 'em to be free, it's an era of hypocrisy, brother. You fool me and I fool you. You pretend that you're my brother, and I pretend that I really believe you believe you're my brother."
He told Lewis he would never reach old age. "If you read, you'll find that very few people who think like I think live long enough to get old. When I say by any means necessary, I mean it with all my heart, my mind and my soul. A black man should give his life to be free, and he should also be able, be willing to take the life of those who want to take his. When you really think like that, you don't live long."
Lewis asked him how he wanted to be remembered. "Sincere," Malcolm said. "In whatever I did or do. Even if I made mistakes, they were made in sincerity. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong in sincerity. I think that the best thing that a person can be is sincere."
"The price of freedom," Malcolm said shortly before he was killed, "is death."