The Awakening of Malcolm X: A Novel

By Ilyasah Shabazz and Tiffany D. Jackson

The Awakening of Malcolm X is a powerful narrative account of the activist's adolescent years in jail, written by his daughter Ilyasah Shabazz along with 2019 Coretta Scott King-John Steptoe award-winning author, Tiffany D. Jackson.

No one can be at peace until he has his freedom.

In Charlestown Prison, Malcolm Little struggles with the weight of his past. Plagued by nightmares, Malcolm drifts through days, unsure of his future. Slowly, he befriends other prisoners and writes to his family. He reads all the books in the prison library, joins the debate team and the Nation of Islam. Malcolm grapples with race, politics, religion, and justice in the 1940s. And as his time in jail comes to an end, he begins to awaken -- emerging from prison more than just Malcolm Little: Now, he is Malcolm X.

Here is an intimate look at Malcolm X's young adult years. While this book chronologically follows X: A Novel, it can be read as a stand-alone historical novel that invites larger discussions on black power, prison reform, and civil rights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780374313319

Ilyasah Shabazz

Ilyasah Shabazz, third daughter of Malcolm X and Dr. Betty Shabazz, is an educator, activist, motivational speaker, and author of multiple award-winning publications, including her books, Betty Before X and X: A Novel. She is also an active advocacy worker and an adjunct professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City.

Book preview

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?

No, son. I’ll be back before you know it. You check on them chickens?

Yes, sir.

Good, he mumbled. Finish your studies and watch after your mother, you hear?

Yes, sir.

Papa nodded at the rest of us, put on his round spectacles, and headed down the hall. The front door creaked and slammed shut behind him. Mom stood there, staring at the door as if she hoped he’d change his mind. The door didn’t open. A darkness fell over the house within seconds.

Mommy? Hilda asked gently. Is it … is it one of your premonitions?

Mom glanced down at me, her forehead creased with worry. She slid a hand down my cheek and said, Malcolm. Malcolm? It’s time for you to wake up, sweetheart.

Wake up? But I wasn’t asleep.

Huh, Mom? What are you talking about?

Malcolm, it’s time.

Her voice sounded distant, far away, like an echo underwater. My arms and legs went numb. Felt like I was falling.

Malcolm. Malcolm! It’s time. Wake up! she shrieked, her scream like a stuck piano key thumping through my head. I closed my eyes and pressed my ears into my skull.

Wake up, Malcolm! Wake up! Wake up! Malcolm, wake up!

Wake up, nigger! Move your ass! Now!

The wooden baton clacking against the bars of my prison cell rang like harsh chimes.

My eyes pop open wide at the wrinkled white face screaming inches from mine.

Lazy nigger! Move it!

The guard backs out the cell as a commotion stirs in the hall. I set a palm down on the rough sheets, staring up at the ceiling to ground myself. Every time I open my eyes, I remember where I am. I’m in hell and there’s nowhere to run.

Line up, convicts! Now! Eyes forward. Stand straight!

I splash some cold brown water on my face and slip on my blue uniform.

Out of my cell, I fall into position as the guards take count. My legs are wobbly, eyes still adjusting, heart pounding like a mallet against my rib cage.

I was there. I was home. With my family. I could almost smell the wild honeysuckles outside our window.

I remember the day my mother predicted my father’s death. I remember how he didn’t come home in time for supper like he promised, and we went to bed empty, deprived of his presence. I remember drifting off to sleep next to Reginald and awaking to screams. Mom’s screams. There’s no scream more gutting than your mother’s. It’s the first sound we hear at birth, delivering us into this