I met Malcolm yesterday.

I'm sort of at a loss for what to say.

He's charming, sweet, intelligent, and well read. He's also a bit shy. It seems to me that he is media-savvy enough to know that he probably shouldn't be talking to me.

I flew to Buffalo on a 7AM flight. Just an hour or so to Buffalo. Landed in the middle of a frigging blizzard. Got a car rental and braved the roads out to Attica, a tiny village about 35 miles from Buffalo.

Attica is full of a different sort of white folks. Felt like I was in the deep south. In the country. Near the Mississippi. Walked into a convenience store near a gas station and you could have heard a pin drop. The woman who sold me a pack of gum was missing both her top two teeth and the bottom two.

When I pulled up to the prison, my mouth dropped and something in my stomach gave way. The place looked like something from medieval times. Turrets and castle-looking structures tucked away in the mountains.

I went in the front entrance and looked in the waiting room. About fifteen women all waiting to see their husbands, fathers and boyfriends.

"Who you hear to see?"

"Malcolm Shabazz."

The guard looked up at me for a half-second. I couldn't read his face. I filled my paperwork out and then joined the crew of women waiting. There were (approximately) 12 Black women, one or two Latinas and one white couple. One woman had a young girl with her, about nine or ten years old, with fresh, shiny twists pulled close from her scalp.
Several of the women seemed familiar with each other. They weren't there to see the same people. But they'd obviously made the trek before.

As soon as I walked into the prison, there were two guards sitting on a large dais. One of them looked down at my hand and then at my paper, stating who I was there to see.
"Take the fourth table in the third row."

When Malcolm came through that door, I knew it was him right away. Although I purposely haven't looked at many pictures of him.

He's taller than I thought he would be. Not quite six feet. But tall and slender. He seemed to be swimming in the grey sweater he was wearing. I'm not sure if he saw me. But he didn't look in my direction as he walked right past me and to the guard's table. They pointed out the table where I sat. He turned around, looked at me, and smiled.

As soon as he smiled at me, my heart flipped over and my stomach dropped. His smile, a cavern between his pointy ears, makes him look like a dead ringer for his famous grandfather. There is a famous picture of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. In the picture,  Malcolm X’s grin is wide and his teeth are bright white. It's the exact same smile that young Malcolm gives me. And I am completely unnerved by it. As he gets closer, I wonder what to do in greeting. Shake hands? He sticks his out and I shake it. Then he takes the seat facing the guards and looks away from me nervously.

"So, you made it?"

"I made it," I say. "Weather's really bad."

"You drove?"

"Nah. Flew to Buffalo. Drove from there."

He nodded. And we were both quiet for a while.

---

"I read the stories you sent me. The stuff you wrote..." he said.

"Well? What did you think. You can be honest."

"The first story you wrote? On Redman? I didn't think it was that good."

I laugh out loud. It was a pretty boring story.

"I almost didn't want to meet with you after I read that."

I laugh out loud again.

"But I did like the Mariah joint you wrote. That was pretty good."

I just nod.

And then it's quiet for a while. Malcolm turns around to look at the clock on the back wall. He turns back to face me and begins to speak.

The next three and a half hours are a whirlwind.

We talk about everything and nothing. It's hard for me to focus because I want to just relax and talk. But at the same time, I am so nervous because I have no recorder, no paper or pen. So I feel like I'm interviewing him and yet have no record of it. Which is like a reporter's worst nightmare. So half of me is listening to him. And the other half is trying to remember everything he says.

Here's the important stuff:

1. He feels like he's gotten a very bad break in the media. And that most of the stuff printed about him is untrue. Particularly a story in FEDS a few years ago.

2. I asked him how he felt about David Dinkins and Percy Sutton, two men who knew his grandfather well and bent over backwards to help him out. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to struggle to speak. He said something like, "I'm not sure if they really look out for my best interests."

3. He feels like he's been used by a lot of people, including people close to him. When people have lectures and events, it means something to say Malcolm X's Grandson is in the house. And he's over it. When Al Sharpton renewed his vows with then-wife Kathy, he announced to the crowd, "Malcolm X's Grandson is here tonight" and he was very annoyed by it.

4. When people find out who he is in prison, they try to buy him stuff. He has to refuse because he's well taken care of. A lot of people are seduced by who he is, particularly in prison.

Malcolm is instantly likable. And far more mature than his years. He has an infant daughter, the same age as mine. Her mother is Latina and lives in Albany. He plans to move in with her when he's released so he can be close to his daughter. Doesn't sound like a good idea. And I go against my better judgment and tell him so. He just smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

At 3 PM, the guards announce that visiting hours are over. We both stand up. Malcolm opens his mouth like he's about to say something. I ask him what's up. And he just shakes his head. What is it? I ask him. He just shakes his head and says, "I'll write you soon." And then I put on my coat and leave.

this is a test of a great blog

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Just when I was beginning to worry... I got a letter from Malcolm.

It turns out that he never received my last correspondence. In his latest letter, he says that he's had some conflicts with the guards in charge of the mail and they may have kept the mail from him on purpose.

The idea of being imprisoned simply boggles my mind. I just can't envision it. And the idea that someone could infringe on the few rights I do have would drive me crazy.

Malcolm's most recent letter is a short one. Just one page, written on yellow legal paper with his now-familiar creative slant. He's spelling my name incorrectly now, with a few extra L's. But for the most part, his manner hasn't changed.

In this letter, he has agreed to let him meet with me. As long as I give him at least one week's notice.

This scares the shit out of me. I don't think we'll have to talk through a phone. I think we can sit together, in a room. I don't know what I'll say to him. I've never told him--in detail--why I even want to meet him. He knows I'm a journalist and so I'm sure he's assumed by now that I want to write a story about him. But I don't think I will try to interview him on the spot. He's set to be released from prison on January 23, 2008. I'd rather try to talk to him after he's released--if he doesn't disappear.

I wonder where he will go? I've read that everyone from Russell Simmons to Denzel Washington to David Dinkins has expressed their desire to help young Malcolm. But that was years ago. Does he still have a support system? Is he in contact with his mothers or aunts? Will he be able to get a job? Can he support himself?

Many questions. No answers. Yet.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007
MIA

I haven't heard back from Malcolm. It's been almost two weeks. I sent him a reply and he hasn't written back. I'm not sure what's going on. But in the meantime I've read everything I could get my hands on about his childhood. And it's been more depressing than I could have imagined.

Malcolm was born in Paris, in October of 1984. I've never read his father's name. He is always listed simply as an Algerian man his mother met while living and working in Paris.

At my last count, by the time he set the fire in his grandmother's house, he'd lived in at least five major cities: Paris, New York, Philadelphia, San Antonio and Minneapolis. And he'd moved several times within each city.

His mother, Qubila Bahiyah Shabazz, has had some problems. She attended the UN school, a small, elite private school, and spent two semesters at Princeton. But from there, it seems as if she unraveled. Or was never wrapped completely tight to begin with.

From what I've read, it sounds like paranoid schizophrenia, substance abuse and possibly bipolar disorder.

Malcolm has not had an easy childhood.

What's crazy is that in the Autobiography of Malcolm X, he talks about his mother's fragile mental condition and how she was put into an asylum, which ended up breaking up his entire family. I wonder if Qubilah's mother and sisters didn't take young Malcolm from her because of that. Perhaps they knew how Malcolm X felt about being taken away from his mother, particularly since his father had been killed.

The parallels between Malcolm and his grandfather run deep. Probably deeper than I can imagine right now.

There are many people I want to talk to about Malcolm: Percy Sutton, Malcolm X's lawyer, and former New York mayor David Dinkins, both of whom have been there for young Malcolm for many years; his aunts, all five of them, his school teachers at the many different schools he attended, the 14-year old girlfriend he left behind in San Antonio. I want to see the apartment in Yonkers where the fire was set that killed his grandmother. I want to see the house three miles away in Mount Vernon that he wandered to after the fire. I want to go to Attica.

But before all this, I want to hear back from Malcolm. I want him to agree to talk to me, to help me write this story.

But if he doesn't, I will move on without him, although I don't want to.
-A