GROWING UP X(ISBN=9780345444967)pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

“Ilyasah Shabazz has written a compelling and lyricalcoming-of-age story as well as a candid and heart-warming tributeto her parents. Growing Up X is destined to become aclassic.”
–SPIKE LEE

February 21, 1965: Malcolm X is assassinated inHarlem’s Audubon Ballroom. June 23, 1997: After surviving for aremarkable twenty-two days, his widow, Betty Shabazz, dies of burnssuffered in a fire. In the years between, their six daughters reachadulthood, forged by the memory of their parents’ love, the meaningof their cause, and the power of their faith. Now, at long last,one of them has recorded that tumultuous journey in anunforgettable memoir: Growing Up X.

“Ilyasah Shabazz has written a compelling and lyrical
coming-of-age story as well as a candid and heart-warming tribute
to her parents. Growing Up X is destined to become a
classic.” 
–SPIKE LEE 
 February 21, 1965: Malcolm X is assassinated in
Harlem’s Audubon Ballroom. June 23, 1997: After surviving for a
remarkable twenty-two days, his widow, Betty Shabazz, dies of burns
suffered in a fire. In the years between, their six daughters reach
adulthood, forged by the memory of their parents’ love, the meaning
of their cause, and the power of their faith. Now, at long last,
one of them has recorded that tumultuous journey in an
unforgettable memoir: Growing Up X. 
 
Born in 1962, Ilyasah was the middle child, a rambunctious livewire
who fought for–and won–attention in an all-female household. She
carried on the legacy of a renowned father and indomitable mother
while navigating childhood and, along the way, learning to do the
hustle. She was a different color from other kids at camp and yet,
years later as a young woman, was not radical enough for her
college classmates. Her story is, sbove all else, a tribute to a
mother of almost unimaginable forbearance, a woman who, “from that
day at the Audubon when she heard the shots and threw her body on
[ours, never] stopped shielding her children.”

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作者简介

Ilyasah Shabazz holds a Master of Science degree in Education and Human Resource Development from Fordham University. She is the Director of Public Affairs and Special Events for the City of Mount Vernon, New York.

Kim McLarin is the author of the novels Taming It Down and Meeting of the Waters. She formerly worked as a journalist for The New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and the Associated Press. She lives with her family outside of Boston, Mass.

From the Hardcover edition.

目　　录

Acknowledgments
Author's Note
Prologue
1. Aftermath
2. Alone
3. Lessons
4. Camp Betsey Cox
5. Mommy's Home
6. Played
7. Hustle Queer
8. Roots
9. Boys
10. Collcve
11. Daddy's Home

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媒体评论

　　Only Ilyasah Shabazz could have told this story. . . . I congratulate her on the courage to remember, the courage to see, and the courage to say what she saw.　　
　　MAYA ANGELOU

　　AN INTIMATE LOOK AT THE MAN WHO BOTH REVOLUTIONIZED AND NATIONALIZED THE COLLECTIVE BLACK PSYCHE. A cultural deity is rendered by his daughter　　s clear-sighted portrait.　　
　　BEBE MOORE CAMPBELL
Author of Your Blues Ain　　t Like Mine and What You Owe Me

　　IT OFFERS CANDID INSIGHTS INTO THE LIVES OF ILYASAH AND HER SISTERS.　　
　　Ebony

　　-- Review

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Aftermath

I was there that day. We all were, all except baby Gamilah who, inthe last-minute rush to go hear Daddy speak, got left behind withfriends because her little snowsuit was too damp to wear out intothe cold. But the rest of us were there, sitting stage right on acurved and cushioned bench: Mommy, Attallah, Qubilah, myself. Eventhe twins, Malikah and Malaak, were present to bear witness,carried not in Mommy?s arms but inside her womb, deep beneath herheart.

It was February 21, 1965. My father, El-Hajj MalikEl-Shabazz?Malcolm X?telephoned my mother at the Wallace home thatmorning with a surprising request. He wanted Mommy to bring usgirls and come to the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem to hear him speak.My mother was elated; just the day before he had warned her not tocome, saying it was too dangerous.

We were staying with the Wallace family because eight days beforeour house in Elmhurst, Queens, had been firebombed. It was earlySunday morning and cold outside. Mommy and Daddy were asleep intheir bedroom, Attallah, Qubilah, and I were in our room, andGamilah was in the nursery when a blast awakened us all. Barkingorders and grabbing terrified children, my father got us all up andout the back door into the yard. It took the fire department anhour to extinguish the flames. Mommy telephoned the Wallaces,saying, ?The house is on fire.? The Wallaces put theirtwelve-year-old daughter Gail?our baby-sitter and play ?bigsister??in the car and drove to our house. Gail told me sheremembers walking into the house and being almost overwhelmed bythe smell of smoke.

Aftermath 
 
I was there that day. We all were, all except baby Gamilah who, in
the last-minute rush to go hear Daddy speak, got left behind with
friends because her little snowsuit was too damp to wear out into
the cold. But the rest of us were there, sitting stage right on a
curved and cushioned bench: Mommy, Attallah, Qubilah, myself. Even
the twins, Malikah and Malaak, were present to bear witness,
carried not in Mommy?s arms but inside her womb, deep beneath her
heart. 
 
It was February 21, 1965. My father, El-Hajj Malik
El-Shabazz?Malcolm X?telephoned my mother at the Wallace home that
morning with a surprising request. He wanted Mommy to bring us
girls and come to the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem to hear him speak.
My mother was elated; just the day before he had warned her not to
come, saying it was too dangerous. 
 
We were staying with the Wallace family because eight days before
our house in Elmhurst, Queens, had been firebombed. It was early
Sunday morning and cold outside. Mommy and Daddy were asleep in
their bedroom, Attallah, Qubilah, and I were in our room, and
Gamilah was in the nursery when a blast awakened us all. Barking
orders and grabbing terrified children, my father got us all up and
out the back door into the yard. It took the fire department an
hour to extinguish the flames. Mommy telephoned the Wallaces,
saying, ?The house is on fire.? The Wallaces put their
twelve-year-old daughter Gail?our baby-sitter and play ?big
sister??in the car and drove to our house. Gail told me she
remembers walking into the house and being almost overwhelmed by
the smell of smoke. 
 
?Everyone was in the kitchen,? Gail said, ?and to get to the
kitchen you had to walk through the foyer, the living room, a long
hallway, and your room, the room you girls slept in. That room was
a mess, burned and wet and scattered, because that?s where the bomb
had been thrown. I saw all these people standing in the kitchen. I
remember crawling through men and women, Muslim men, to get to your
mother. She was sitting at the kitchen table talking and when she
saw me she said, ?Oh, dear heart, they?re trying to burn me out of
my house.? She was happy to see me because she knew once I was
there I would take over the girls enough so she could get the
situation under control. She had a little grin on her face but it
wasn?t one of pleasure.? 
 
The Wallace family?Antoinette, her husband Thomas, who is Ruby
Dee?s brother and was known then as Thomas 57X, and their four
children?took us in that night. My father made sure we were settled
at the Wallace home, then checked into the Theresa Hotel. He knew
he was a walking target and he didn?t want anyone else to get hit.
He told Mommy he wanted to take the trouble away from us. 
 
Four days later, the Nation of Islam went to court to evict us from
our home. 
 
In the aftermath of the fire, my father never stopped working.
Friends like Ossie Davis begged him to flee. His brother Wilfred
advised him to ?hush and forget this whole thing? and go to Africa
until things cooled down. There were any number of African nations
whose leaders would have been happy to offer him refuge, but Daddy
refused to even discuss the idea. He was not about to run. He took
what security precautions he could, but through it all he kept
working, flying to Detroit to speak at an event in honor of Charles
Howard, a renowned journalist who covered the African liberation
movement for Muhammad Speaks and other black newspapers, then
turning around and flying back home to New York for another flurry
of speaking engagements and interviews. In between all this
activity, he worked hard to find new housing for all of us. 
 
He knew the end was coming soon. 
 
Percy Sutton tells a story of sitting in the backseat of a car with
Daddy and two armed guards around this time. Mr. Sutton asked my
father if it bothered him being surrounded by people with
guns. 
 
My father said to him, ?Have I told you the story of Omar the
slave? Omar said to his master, ?Give me your fastest horse, I?m
going to escape the Face of Death.? It being a slave belief that if
you rode by day and got through the day with the swiftness of the
horse, you were safe by night. There were seven paths down which
Omar could go. He started down the center path, pulled the horse
back. Started to the left, and pulled back again. Only a short
distance down the third path stood the Face of Death. Death said to
Omar, ?For three days I?ve waited at this spot for you to come. Why
has it taken you so long?? ? And then Minister Malcolm said, ?So
you see, counselor, you can twist, you can turn, but there?s
destiny.? 
 
Meanwhile we stayed with the Wallaces and waited for Daddy. The
NYPD sat outside the Wallace home and followed us everywhere. They
even followed the Wallace children to school, until Gail Wallace
and her brothers gave them the slip by sneaking out the back
window. They said they were there to help but no one believed it.
What they were really doing was shadowing my father, casing him and
his movements, preparing for February 21. 
 
On February 20 Daddy came by the Wallace house to check on us. As
he was leaving, Brother Thomas asked what he could do to help. Our
exhausted-looking father shook his head. ?It?s something unseen all
around me,? he told Brother Thomas. Then he climbed into his car
and drove away. 
 
?A funny feeling came over me hearing that,? Mrs. Wallace told me
years later. ?I felt like I was seeing this man for the last
time.? 
 
So when Daddy called that morning of February 21 and asked us to
come hear him speak, Mommy was happy. She loved Daddy and missed
him and wanted to be present for support. She hurried about,
dressing herself and us, then Brother Thomas drove us into
Manhattan and up to Harlem to the Audubon. We arrived just after
noon. 
 
After we left the telephone rang and Mrs. Wallace answered it. It
was Wallace Muhammad, son of Elijah Muhammad. Elijah Muhammad was
the spiritual leader of the Nation of Islam, the man my father had
once credited with saving his life and the man whose followers my
father now suspected wanted to take it. Wallace Muhammad was
agitated. He said he?d been trying to reach my father for days. He
wanted to warn him, to tell him they were going to kill him soon.
He did not say who ?they? were. 
 
Brother Thomas dropped us off at the front door and went to find a
parking space. I cannot begin to imagine my mother?s feelings as
she ushered us into that ballroom to hear her husband speak. My
mother loved my father deeply, and she admired his commitment to
changing the lives of black people in America and throughout the
world. But she also knew the toll that work had taken on him. She
knew how draining was the constant traveling, how wearing were the
harassment by the FBI and the intimidation by the members of the
Nation of Islam. She knew how deeply pained he was by the attack on
the house where his wife and daughters lay asleep. She knew how
tired he was, and she knew that as much as she wanted to make it
all better, she couldn?t. No one could. 
 
I imagine my mother walked into that ballroom full of joy, pride,
anxiety, love, and not a little fear. 
 
And she walked out shattered in a way that could never, ever be
repaired. 
 
I write all this as though I remember, which I do not, Allah be
praised. I was two years old, going on three, and though I surely
felt confusion and fear at the time, I have no memory of any of it.
From these experiences I carry only a dislike of endings, a
lingering uneasiness with good-byes. My oldest sister, Attallah,
was six years old when my father was assassinated; Qubilah was
four. How much, exactly, they remember is something we never
discussed while growing up. Somehow Mommy kept us so busy and
fulfilled we never talked about it, or maybe it was just too hard.
It wasn?t until recently, just a few years ago, that I finally
asked Qubilah if she remembered that day. I was in graduate school
working on a paper and she was visiting me. We began discussing the
condition of African people throughout the world, and from there
the conversation turned to Daddy and his work. 
 
Yes, she said. She remembered him and she remembered that day in
all its confusion and terror. She remembered noise and screaming
and confusion and Daddy not coming home. 
 
I didn?t push her on her memories. Really, what more was there to
say? 
 
It was a fairly mild February afternoon. Outside the Audubon,
children played on the street while Christian men and women
strolled home from Sunday church services. My mother took us girls
and went inside the auditorium, which was quickly filling up. More
than four hundred people, many of them non-Muslim, had come to hear
Malcolm X speak. He had promised earlier to present the charter of
his newly formed Organization of Afro-American Unity on that day,
but the drafting committee had fallen behind, the charter was
unfinished, and he was upset. My father did not like to break his
word. 
 
We sat right up front in a reserved booth near the stage where we
could see our father clearly and be sure he saw us. We settled in;
my mother took off our snowsuits. My father was backstage,
preparing to speak. The ballroom grew full. Time passed. The
program was late getting started because they were waiting for two
invited guests, the Reverend Dr. Milton Galamison, a civil rights
activist, and Ralph Cooper, a popular disk jockey. After awhile my
father?s assistant, Benjamin X, took the stage. He spoke for about
twenty minutes. He talked about a ship crossing the ocean, about
the storms and trade winds and doldrums and other delays that might
keep even a well-captained ship from reaching its destina-tion on
time, alluding to the delayed charter. Then he introduced
Daddy. 
 
 
From the Hardcover edition.

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