When Idris and I were over, around the beginning of my freshman year, I met a guy whose initials I share - so I'll refer to him as EC. We had been chatting online for a while (this was, like, back when the internet was kind of still new and online chatting was all the rage) on irc and, while we'd flirted back and forth in that "kindergarten - I like you so I will make fun of you" kind of way, we'd never seen each other face to face. And, you know, pictures back then were all grainy and inaccurate so while we'd seen each other's photos, he still could have looked like Chewbacca. Well, because God views my life as a colossal sitcom, complete with bad Superbowl commercials and infomercials for P90X, EC did not look like Chewbacca and was, perhaps, about as far away from Chewy as an attractive human being could possibly be.
He probably wasn't all that cute BUT, let us remember. I was 18 and not too bright :)
On irc there was a channel (#black, #blackhouse, #blaklife, etc.) where a bunch of us undergrads used to just hang out and talk all kinds of ridiculous shit. My nickname was (and, actually, still is) Cocoa and his nick? Well, that's not critical to this tale. But, if anybody from irc reads this, they also will know exactly who I'm talking about. It would actually kind of suck if he read this but, then again, maybe it wouldn't.
....anyway.
So, our channel had planned what we called a "reunion" at The Gallery Mall in Philadelphia. Folks would come from as far as they could to these reunions and they were fantastically underplanned affairs that ended up with people sleeping on dorm room or apartment floors or spare futons or sofas wherever possible. I remember one year, one of these mini-reunions was held at my college over our Spring Break and what I can vaguely recall is having so many people asleep on my and my roomie's floor that you could barely walk to the door. Once you DID walk out the door and down the hall to the common room, there were people sprawled over the floors and couches there as well. Nobody showered; it was like Woodstock, but without the music, the drugs, the sex, and the historic significance.
At the mall, EC and I finally connected; I cannot speak for him, obviously, but *I* was speechless (in my mind, only - by now I'd gotten sort of good at hiding my nerves behind wit and sarcasm...or maybe that was my "tell"?). I was SO taken by him and I said to myself, "Wow! He's hot!" But even then I knew it was something more than that. I wouldn't say it was love at first sight as I knew the chances of that happening were impossible because I didn't believe in it. Further, I was 18 and he was 26 so part of me was like, dude, you're almost 30; why are you trying to holler at me? The other part of me, that remembered our conversations up to that point, knew that he had a wandering eye and an even more wandering, ummm, sense of commitment? LOL He just wasn't one to be tied down at that point in his life, least of all to an 18 year old college freshman. So, I played coy without even being able to articulate what coy was. I knew, though, that I was smiling a lot and batting my short but ultra curled eyelashes whenever possible and he seemed to go for it.
And I loved the way he smelled. He didn't wear cologne but, instead, used baby oil - and not, like, in the weird way LOL! Johnson & Johnson baby oil is an EXCELLENT moisturizer LOL! You know, saying this out loud REALLY is sounding creepy, but I swear it wasn't! While I don't remember the brand of baby oil it was (after our situation, I successfully forced myself to forget it), I remember exactly what it smelled like. When I smell it today, I immediately think of him. Seriously. Immediately. I stop whatever it is I'm doing and I allow myself a few moments to remember the good times...
.....but I'm getting ahead of myself.
So I was digging his aroma, his body was amazing, and the slight, but noticeable, gap between his two front teeth was so awkwardly appealing, I found myself smitten. The sexual energy and tension was equally as immediate. We clicked right away and told ourselves we would hang out but, at first, I really didn't think it would happen. While I was smitten and totally head over heels in lust with this beautiful man, I was still holding onto the reasons why any continued interaction with him would be a catastrophically bad idea. See, I was at a point in my life where I could clearly recognize the bad things for me but I wasn't quite smart enough to stay all the way away from them. So he and I did spend time together; a lot of time together. I found myself taking the train into Philly after class and on weekends - likely when I should have been studying - and he found himself on campus far more than I'm sure he'd originally intended when we first met. We spent the remainder of my freshman year involved and, when summer came, my departure from school spelled the beginning of our end. He helped me move out of my room and our goodbyes were filled with promises to email and call and all those other lies you tell yourself and each other when an otherwise informed silence doesn't seem like enough. By this point, I had fallen in total and complete love with this guy, in spite of every reason I should not have, and the entire process was heartbreaking for me.
And that was only the beginning.
Due to my inability to focus, I took (was asked to take.....) a semester off to get my shit together which meant that my return to campus would not be until January. That meant that for seven months, EC and I would be separated by multiple states. While my childlike devotion to him would have withstood any time frame, his devotion to me was transient, at best. If I'm generous with my guess about how long it was before his eye began to wander, I'd wager that he made it through the middle of July. We spoke everyday at first, but then not so much. I had a job and was in school (proving to my undergrad institution that, in fact, I was not an unfocused simp LOL) and did all that I could to keep busy and keep my mind off of the relationship I had that was fading before my eyes. By the end of the summer, though, I suffered no illusions about whether or not we were still together and, perhaps even without making any significant announcement on either side, the relationship was over.
Around October/November, I called my friend (my freshman year roomie) and we were having our usual chat and she was catching me up on campus gossip so I wouldn't feel out of the loop when I returned. In this particular phone call she said, "Ummm, you know EC and his boys have been on campus, right?" *pause*rewind* I said, "What?" and she said, "Yeah, he's actually been spotted a few times. I haven't seen him, myself, because you KNOW I'd have some shit to say to him before and after I cussed his ass out, cuz that ain't right! Everybody knows he was with you and that Diane, cuz I think that's who he's here to see, that Diane knew it and she acts like she don't even care!" I'm sure the rage in my voice was audible. It had to be. I felt it in the back of my throat, like when you know you're about to say something to hurt somebody's feelings and you're doing it intentionally so that they cry for a long time. It's that same knot that rises up and causes you to sound like you're stammering when, in reality, you're fighting the keep the adrenalin out of your vocal chords. I know she had to hear it. But, if she did, she didn't let on.
I thank her for that; in doing so she allowed me to indulge in the illusion that I wasn't hurt, that I didn't care, and that I wasn't going to cry for hours as soon as we got off the phone. It's amazing what your friends do for you when they don't even know they're doing it.
We finished our conversation talking about crazy professors and tap class and she agreed to stand in my stead of the housing lottery that was coming up. It was all I could do to keep from falling apart. As soon as we hung up, though, I walked to my room, closed the door, and cried as quietly as I could so my mother wouldn't ask, in her less than compassionate way, "What you cryin' about?" My mother never asked, in that sensitive, maternal way, "What's wrong?" or "Are you ok?" I think, to her, crying was a sign of weakness that was not to be tolerated or indulged so I cried and cried for at least 2 hours, wiped my tears on my bedspread, sweatshirt sleeve, and pillow case, waited about an hour so my red eyes appeared normal, and then I emerged from my room citing a marathon study session for a phantom exam I had coming up.
Maybe my mother noticed I didn't have any books. Maybe she didn't. At that point, I didn't care.
When I finally returned to school, I had been given a dorm room, a single, in Mary Lyons (ML) which was the dorm FARTHEST from campus LOL! So, to get to class, I had to either walk the mile or call the campus shuttle. I couldn't skip any class, ever, because I was on academic probation, so I spent a LOT of time calculating how much sleep I could get before I absolutely had to get up and run to class to be on time! While I was settling back into my routine, the EC situation continued to plague me because, of course, I was now hearing from MULTIPLE sources that he was STILL visiting campus. So now? Now I was pissed. Now, he was just being disrespectful and so was the bitch he was there to see. Whether it was Diane or anybody else, whoever she was, she knew I was back, she knew EC and I had history, and as far as I was concerned, she was just as culpable as he was.
That's when I became KIND of a stalker LOL! I called his house - a lot. I sent passive aggressive and snarky emails, to which he rarely, if ever, responded. When I would see him online, I would barrage him with private messages that he effortlessly ignored. There are few things worse for me than when communication breaks down and, in this case, it had broken down in an irreparable way. Even more critically, I needed to know why he was doing this to me. Why was he embarrassing me in front of my peers, my friends? Didn't he know how much I cared? Was he sorry about any of this? Did he even care? I would end up going to sleep with a dull pain in the pit of my stomach every night thinking and figuring that he was doing all of this on purpose. I would cry myself to sleep many nights, not understanding what I'd done to him, to God, to anyone to deserve this type of treatment.
And then I thought of Idris and it all made sense. OK, so I'm not some holy roller who necessarily believes in the vengeful hand of God, but I do believe that karma is one, bad, Queen Raja fierce type bitch. And in that moment, when Idris popped into my head, I knew karma had made her way around to me and was tapping me on the shoulder like, "Yeah, I'm actually here for you." I didn't like it at all, but when I'd finally taken responsibility for my behavior with Idris (who had, by this time, already graduated), the nagging pain of the situation with EC dissipated. It was not overnight, but it was relatively quick and, when I got to a good place in my spirit, I stopped calling, stopped emailing, and stopped initiating contact online. With the cessation of my communication came the temporary end of my stress about him. I still stopped dead in my tracks if I smelled baby oil in a store, but I was finally in a place where if I saw him on campus (and I never did), I knew I'd no longer have the urge to bludgeon him with a heavy object.
It's funny how when you finally make peace with yourself over a situation, God comes around with His jacked up sense of humor to test your resolve.
About a year later EC and I found ourselves in a conversation that ended up with him coming to campus to, actually, see me. I had this whole, elaborate, "You ain't shit" speech planned and, after its rehearsed delivery, I would send him on his way. I also had this mix of, like, anti-men songs that would be "haphazardly" playing in the background. My favorite song out of this mix was "Too Gone, Too Long" by En Vogue and it was my favorite because I'd successfully fooled myself into believing EC was coming to visit in order to beg for my forgiveness or, at least, try and reconcile for some benefits.
Yeah, basically I thought pretty highly of myself and my elaborate plan and the scripted conversation I was prepared to have. In my mind, I was prepared for anything he could possibly say, any question he could possibly ask me, I knew what questions I would ask him, and when I'd ask them, and I was ready! I saw him walking toward the dorm and coming and I was so psyched to have had this plan all laid out.
And then he hugged me, and I smelled him, and at once it was so familiar and safe. (sidenote: it was also, at this point, that I recognized I either needed to cut my nose off or figure out a better way to deal with my intimacy issues LOL). I did remember one question, though, because it was the most important one to me. Yeah, I'd had this whole Socratic line of questioning that was supposed to make him realize he was an asshole, but none of that shit mattered because, in the 45 seconds it took for him to hug me and for my nose to recognize what he smelled like, I was immediately back to the hurt and desperate girl wanting to know why he had been so mean. So I asked him. "EC, why did you do it?"
His response? "I don't know, I wasn't thinking"
I'm sorry, what? Because, ummm, you're like 28 now and I will need you to know why you do certain things?
I remember being so hurt because I took his answer, or lack of answer, extraordinarily personally. I felt like he knew why I'd agreed to have him come over. He knew I would ask this question; he knew I'd obviously wanted to know the answer but he was too selfish, too self-absorbed to give it to me. That's really how I processed that interaction: he was being deliberately obtuse in order to not provide me with the closure my soul so desperately needed. That night I knew, in my heart, I'd never get it. I'd never get the apology. I'd never get an explanation.
And that's probably why the wound has never completely healed. Someone mentioned his name to me a few weeks ago and I froze. She said he'd asked about me. At first I was like, "Why the fuck is this dude still even saying my name?" but then I was like, hmmm this is kind of nice. I talk to some of his friends on a regular basis and never ask about him - mostly because I assume he's fine and don't really want to know if everything is going well. In fact, because the wound has not healed, I am actually still in the space where I hope something is grotesquely wrong in his life. I know it's juvenile to think that, but I accept it. I did find it flattering, though, that over a decade later he's still asking about me. This shallow and indirect appeal to my ego encouraged me to reach out to him (we're connected on LinkedIn) and say hello. I did, we exchanged emails and texts, but even those ceased pretty quickly.
I realized that even now, despite tons of emotional growth, metacognitive analysis, and simple maturation, EC can bring me to a point where I'm that same hurt little girl (ok, ok teenager LOL) who either wants an apology or some sort of Divine retribution. Actually, perhaps on a more basic level, I want him to want me again so that I can reject him; THAT way, he can begin to feel the pain that I felt. When I think of the emotional wound that this situation continues to be, I think of it as something that, long ago, should have been stitched. Instead, I kept replacing bloody emotional bandaids until it scabbed over. But it seems like whenever I'm not looking, the scab comes off before its time and the process begins again.
Wiser today than I was yesterday, and even the day before, I am now fully aware that EC cannot be in my life until I've healed. He's unhealthy for me because he brings out an Erin that feels defenseless, vulnerable, and open and while those traits help make a person stronger, you have to be surrounded by folks who care enough about you to see you through your vulnerability, help you build your defenses, and help close you off to those things that would hurt you. I am determined for this wound to heal on its own. I have no choice. The stitches I thought I wanted are tainted with his betrayal; the scab I need is formed from the ashes of my own anguish and self-love - I am my own phoenix :). When I've finally become the person I'm intended to be, the scab will fall off naturally and I'll be better for it - with or without EC's apology.
And, knowing him, it'll be without :)
Thanks for reading :) By the way, I haven't proofed this. It's, like, 5am and insomnia is slowly giving way to the need for sleep (FINALLY) so please excuse any typos or significant plot gaps. If you find any, let me know and I'll try to fill them in LOL
Good night!!!
Monday, April 25, 2011
A Story of Forgiveness Pt. 1
There were many thoughts in my head this morning when this entry began forming. The theme of it all was forgiveness and trying to figure out what it, actually, is and how you go about forgiving and being forgiven. I guess you really only have control over the former, but so often the latter is equally as important - especially if you've led your life as an asshole. Thankfully, that is not my experience.
Ssshhh, no comments from the Peanut Gallery! :)
I've also tried, in my thoughts both this morning and now, to figure out if the need to be forgiven is purely selfish and, if so, is that selfishness ok?
Eh. I dunno. I'll just dive right in and maybe this will make sense in the end.
Initially, as I took stock of my life (yes, all 33 years and 8 months), I thought about the wacktacular things I've done. Most of them have simply affected me, but there was one incident that affected another person. Those of you who have known me since Swat days will recall this situation (especially as one of you figures quite prominently) as one of the times when you had to say, "Damn, E, that wasn't even right." At the time, my metacognitive skills were not developed enough to appropriately reflect upon and agree with your sentiments. It took some time but, eventually, I had to agree. I had to recognize that my behavior was not what it should have been, given the circumstances. Time changes a lot, I guess.
I was a freshman and he was a senior. He was tall and chocolatey, we sang in the same a cappella group and he was, quite honestly, the sweetest guy I've met to this day. He was my first real "boyfriend" after having graduated from a fairly conservative, rigid boarding school which was a natural segue that followed being raised in very conservative, rigid household and church. I could smell freedom in the air and it smelled like, ummm, like fried chicken!
.....anyway. Sorry, I just worked out so there may be many irrelevant food references embedded in my saga.
Idris (no, this is not his name - names have been changed to protect the innocent LOL) and I met through a mutual friend in one of the campus dining halls and, while I don't remember the exact details of our relationship union, I do remember spending a good amount of time on Parrish Beach in the fall, watching him smile and thinking life was just grand. He sang to me, made me laugh, and was always supportive when I most needed it but somewhere, and I don't know where or why, it all went sideways and things changed. Well, let me take some accountability and responsibility and say that *I* changed. I think I was starting to feel a little bit more confident in myself as a woman and I began understanding the effect that my feminine wiles had on the opposite sex. In any event, I became a bit distant and I'm sure I picked a fight or two. Through it all, though, he remained unchanged. He never openly questioned my abrupt changes in mood and disposition, though I'm sure he did so with his friends, and he never once accused me of anything.
Though, he rightfully should have. And, eventually, he did when I gave him no other option.
I had gone home for the Thanksgiving holiday - no, wait, maybe it was Christmas? Doesn't matter :). I was home for a holiday and this other guy I'd had a crush on before I left for college, who had subsequently become a Marine (Lawd, maybe this is where my armed forces situations began LOL), was in the neighborhood. We hung out and definitely got inappropriately close, considering my relationship status at the time. Idris was the farthest thing from my mind in that moment and all I cared about was enjoying my holiday in all the ways that presented themselves.
When I got back to campus, Idris and I were hanging out in my room and he fell asleep on those ever so comfortable XL twin beds that dominate college culture. I took this time to get on the phone with my roommate (who was still at her parents' house) to share the events of my holiday because, of course, when you're young and stupid, these sorts of stories cannot wait until more appropriate times. So she and I spoke and I told her everything that had happened, thinking Idris was asleep or, maybe, secretly hoping he wasn't. After the conversation and the laughter, Idris "woke up", bid me adieu, and went back to his room across campus. The storm was a-brewing AND it was my fault. Pride comes before the fall right? Yeah, well, hubris is just so ugly and it clouds your rational and logical vision in such a way as to make you think you're infallibly amazing. Man. 18 just seems so long ago.
I digress.......
Later that night Idris called and asked me to come to his room so I threw on my shoes and a jacket and made the journey across campus. As soon as I opened the door, I knew this was the moment I'd been both avoiding and praying for, simultaneously. And it wasn't that me and this other dude were even going to be kicking it; I just didn't want to be in the relationship with Idris anymore and I didn't know why and, thus, I didn't know how to tell him. My communicative skills were late bloomers and instead of owning up to my infidelities, I turned the situation around with such ridiculous logic that I laugh about its absurdity. Idris confronted me with everything I'd said on the phone and my response was, "You totally misunderstood what I was saying. I can't believe you think I'd cheat on you. I didn't do anything but now, with all this going on, I wish I had." I backed out of the room, closed (slammed?) the door behind me, and walked back to my room.
And it was over just that quickly.
We never spoke after that until about 5 years ago. I had moved to Philadelphia for a new job and actively sought him out - on Facebook (or MySpace???) of all places LOL! My behavior back in 1995 had so plagued my conscience that I felt it absolutely necessary to see him and say, earnestly, that I was sorry. I told my friends about this plan and they all thought it was a good idea. I mean, since when is apologizing for being a bitch NOT a good idea?
So I found him on FB and invited him to my housewarming/birthday celebration that year. Quite a few friends from college were there and they knew the situation and helped me plan on finding a way to get Idris alone so that I wasn't terribly embarrassed. It didn't work. He showed up to the party looking tasty and delicious and it was in that moment - and it has not happened since, actually - that I thought to myself, "Damn, E, you REALLY fucked up" LOL! I guess the confidence that took all of 3 months to grow and blossom in me when I was 18 had taken him a few years to gain. But, my God today, he was wearing it extraordinarily well! His music had taken off, he was prepping for a tour, and he was just happy with life. I kicked myself for being an asswipe and knew that it was even more important for me to make some sort of amends so when he decided to head back to his place, I volunteered to walk to the train station and wait with him. This would have been a perfect moment to begin the dialogue but I chickened out.
Fear of rejection is not just reserved for when you want to express interest in someone, apparently. I was deathly afraid that his response to my apology and request for forgiveness wouldn't be positive. The part of me, now, that is older and more mature recognizes that, perhaps, his very presence at my event was evident of his forgiveness and having moved forward. But back then that wasn't enough so, with this failed attempt behind me, I devised another way to be in his presence to have this long overdue conversation.
I have a really bad habit of constructing these elaborate scenarios when all I need to do is speak up. But whatevs :)
I managed to get back in touch with him and we planned to meet up so I could go hear him play at some pub. At the pub, I was so nervous that I kept drinking. Yeah, I drink when I'm nervous. Big revelation LOL! By the time he was done playing and it was time to leave, the speech I had prepared to give had been forgotten - and I couldn't drive. Idris had to drive us back to his place where, true to form, he kindly let me sleep my intoxication off in his bed while he stayed in his living room working on his latest musical composition. When I woke up, it was morning, he was still awake, and I STILL hadn't done what I'd planned to do so, in consistent Erin fashion, I engaged in random conversation that seemed germane to the environmental circumstances and suggested we grab some breakfast before I went home. He agreed and we ended up at a diner that, ironically, was down the street and around the corner from another ex (gotta leave Philly alone). It was as we ate that I finally conceded my ulterior motive. I really think I was in the middle of sprinkling salt on my scrambled eggs when I said, "Umm, so there's actually a reason I've wanted to catch up with you as of late." Once that was out, I couldn't turn back so I sheepishly spoke directly into my food just in case he was giving me the side eye. I apologized, owned up to everything that had happened, and partially explained why it was so important that we had this conversation. His response? "Thank you". (he likely said other things, but that's all I heard)
And, with that, a decade of guilt was gone and I knew that he had deserved better than what I gave him. Would his life have continued without my inserting myself as a result of a personal need to clear my own conscience? Obviously. Has my apology changed his life in any way? Likely not. But I'd like to think that absolute closure in this regard was a nice thing to have. It was so overdue and I knew that there was an area in my life, equally 10 years in the making, that needed closure and I figured since I'd likely never get it there, the least I could do was give it to Idris, whether he needed it or not. He deserved it.
Ssshhh, no comments from the Peanut Gallery! :)
I've also tried, in my thoughts both this morning and now, to figure out if the need to be forgiven is purely selfish and, if so, is that selfishness ok?
Eh. I dunno. I'll just dive right in and maybe this will make sense in the end.
Initially, as I took stock of my life (yes, all 33 years and 8 months), I thought about the wacktacular things I've done. Most of them have simply affected me, but there was one incident that affected another person. Those of you who have known me since Swat days will recall this situation (especially as one of you figures quite prominently) as one of the times when you had to say, "Damn, E, that wasn't even right." At the time, my metacognitive skills were not developed enough to appropriately reflect upon and agree with your sentiments. It took some time but, eventually, I had to agree. I had to recognize that my behavior was not what it should have been, given the circumstances. Time changes a lot, I guess.
I was a freshman and he was a senior. He was tall and chocolatey, we sang in the same a cappella group and he was, quite honestly, the sweetest guy I've met to this day. He was my first real "boyfriend" after having graduated from a fairly conservative, rigid boarding school which was a natural segue that followed being raised in very conservative, rigid household and church. I could smell freedom in the air and it smelled like, ummm, like fried chicken!
.....anyway. Sorry, I just worked out so there may be many irrelevant food references embedded in my saga.
Idris (no, this is not his name - names have been changed to protect the innocent LOL) and I met through a mutual friend in one of the campus dining halls and, while I don't remember the exact details of our relationship union, I do remember spending a good amount of time on Parrish Beach in the fall, watching him smile and thinking life was just grand. He sang to me, made me laugh, and was always supportive when I most needed it but somewhere, and I don't know where or why, it all went sideways and things changed. Well, let me take some accountability and responsibility and say that *I* changed. I think I was starting to feel a little bit more confident in myself as a woman and I began understanding the effect that my feminine wiles had on the opposite sex. In any event, I became a bit distant and I'm sure I picked a fight or two. Through it all, though, he remained unchanged. He never openly questioned my abrupt changes in mood and disposition, though I'm sure he did so with his friends, and he never once accused me of anything.
Though, he rightfully should have. And, eventually, he did when I gave him no other option.
I had gone home for the Thanksgiving holiday - no, wait, maybe it was Christmas? Doesn't matter :). I was home for a holiday and this other guy I'd had a crush on before I left for college, who had subsequently become a Marine (Lawd, maybe this is where my armed forces situations began LOL), was in the neighborhood. We hung out and definitely got inappropriately close, considering my relationship status at the time. Idris was the farthest thing from my mind in that moment and all I cared about was enjoying my holiday in all the ways that presented themselves.
When I got back to campus, Idris and I were hanging out in my room and he fell asleep on those ever so comfortable XL twin beds that dominate college culture. I took this time to get on the phone with my roommate (who was still at her parents' house) to share the events of my holiday because, of course, when you're young and stupid, these sorts of stories cannot wait until more appropriate times. So she and I spoke and I told her everything that had happened, thinking Idris was asleep or, maybe, secretly hoping he wasn't. After the conversation and the laughter, Idris "woke up", bid me adieu, and went back to his room across campus. The storm was a-brewing AND it was my fault. Pride comes before the fall right? Yeah, well, hubris is just so ugly and it clouds your rational and logical vision in such a way as to make you think you're infallibly amazing. Man. 18 just seems so long ago.
I digress.......
Later that night Idris called and asked me to come to his room so I threw on my shoes and a jacket and made the journey across campus. As soon as I opened the door, I knew this was the moment I'd been both avoiding and praying for, simultaneously. And it wasn't that me and this other dude were even going to be kicking it; I just didn't want to be in the relationship with Idris anymore and I didn't know why and, thus, I didn't know how to tell him. My communicative skills were late bloomers and instead of owning up to my infidelities, I turned the situation around with such ridiculous logic that I laugh about its absurdity. Idris confronted me with everything I'd said on the phone and my response was, "You totally misunderstood what I was saying. I can't believe you think I'd cheat on you. I didn't do anything but now, with all this going on, I wish I had." I backed out of the room, closed (slammed?) the door behind me, and walked back to my room.
And it was over just that quickly.
We never spoke after that until about 5 years ago. I had moved to Philadelphia for a new job and actively sought him out - on Facebook (or MySpace???) of all places LOL! My behavior back in 1995 had so plagued my conscience that I felt it absolutely necessary to see him and say, earnestly, that I was sorry. I told my friends about this plan and they all thought it was a good idea. I mean, since when is apologizing for being a bitch NOT a good idea?
So I found him on FB and invited him to my housewarming/birthday celebration that year. Quite a few friends from college were there and they knew the situation and helped me plan on finding a way to get Idris alone so that I wasn't terribly embarrassed. It didn't work. He showed up to the party looking tasty and delicious and it was in that moment - and it has not happened since, actually - that I thought to myself, "Damn, E, you REALLY fucked up" LOL! I guess the confidence that took all of 3 months to grow and blossom in me when I was 18 had taken him a few years to gain. But, my God today, he was wearing it extraordinarily well! His music had taken off, he was prepping for a tour, and he was just happy with life. I kicked myself for being an asswipe and knew that it was even more important for me to make some sort of amends so when he decided to head back to his place, I volunteered to walk to the train station and wait with him. This would have been a perfect moment to begin the dialogue but I chickened out.
Fear of rejection is not just reserved for when you want to express interest in someone, apparently. I was deathly afraid that his response to my apology and request for forgiveness wouldn't be positive. The part of me, now, that is older and more mature recognizes that, perhaps, his very presence at my event was evident of his forgiveness and having moved forward. But back then that wasn't enough so, with this failed attempt behind me, I devised another way to be in his presence to have this long overdue conversation.
I have a really bad habit of constructing these elaborate scenarios when all I need to do is speak up. But whatevs :)
I managed to get back in touch with him and we planned to meet up so I could go hear him play at some pub. At the pub, I was so nervous that I kept drinking. Yeah, I drink when I'm nervous. Big revelation LOL! By the time he was done playing and it was time to leave, the speech I had prepared to give had been forgotten - and I couldn't drive. Idris had to drive us back to his place where, true to form, he kindly let me sleep my intoxication off in his bed while he stayed in his living room working on his latest musical composition. When I woke up, it was morning, he was still awake, and I STILL hadn't done what I'd planned to do so, in consistent Erin fashion, I engaged in random conversation that seemed germane to the environmental circumstances and suggested we grab some breakfast before I went home. He agreed and we ended up at a diner that, ironically, was down the street and around the corner from another ex (gotta leave Philly alone). It was as we ate that I finally conceded my ulterior motive. I really think I was in the middle of sprinkling salt on my scrambled eggs when I said, "Umm, so there's actually a reason I've wanted to catch up with you as of late." Once that was out, I couldn't turn back so I sheepishly spoke directly into my food just in case he was giving me the side eye. I apologized, owned up to everything that had happened, and partially explained why it was so important that we had this conversation. His response? "Thank you". (he likely said other things, but that's all I heard)
And, with that, a decade of guilt was gone and I knew that he had deserved better than what I gave him. Would his life have continued without my inserting myself as a result of a personal need to clear my own conscience? Obviously. Has my apology changed his life in any way? Likely not. But I'd like to think that absolute closure in this regard was a nice thing to have. It was so overdue and I knew that there was an area in my life, equally 10 years in the making, that needed closure and I figured since I'd likely never get it there, the least I could do was give it to Idris, whether he needed it or not. He deserved it.
Friday, April 8, 2011
A Layman's Review of Marable's "Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention"
I want to begin this review by saying that there surely is not enough literature devoted to a man who, to this day, remains an enigmatic icon. Malcolm X, even in death, continues to ignite flames of passionate rhetoric from all sides of the globe due to the extraordinary transformations throughout his life. For anyone to assert that a single piece is the pivotal literary analysis of his life is to liken Malcolm's existence and legacy to something that, in fact, can actually be totally comprehended. On the contrary, it is because of his multitudinous transformations that one can never completely understand this man, his life, and his legacy; it is possible, however, to BETTER understand him, and the parts of Marable and his team's research that are scholarly give the reader an opportunity to view Malcolm with fresh eyes.
In this manner, and if your view of Malcolm was dictated solely by his autobiography, Marable's piece is a success. The best parts of this book come from places of fact; the research done into criminal records (of Malcolm and known associates, many of whom joined the Nation of Islam - NOI), trial transcripts, recorded eye witness accounts, FBI surveillance, and various other primary sources is superb. When you are able to remove yourself from the subjectivity of one of the most passionate autobiographies written, you are able to appreciate and respect the herculean research efforts of Marable and his team. Gaining unprecedented access to the NOI archives (via Farrakhan), the FBI, and the NYPD (everyone's favorite police force!) truly helped underscore Malcolm's nuanced life of reinvention in a way that was objective, even handed, and, ultimately, far more accurate than his autobiography could allow.
If, however, your understanding of Malcolm was not based solely upon a single, subjective, Haley crafted literary piece, then this book could leave you with more questions than answers.
This is my experience.
While I, in no way, claim to be a Malcolm X scholar, my understanding of the basic chronology of his existence was as follows (pardon the simplicity, but here it is necessary):
He had a hard childhood.
He was a criminal.
He went to jail.
He was introduced to the NOI.
He got out of jail.
He became a prominent NOI minister teaching Black nationalism.
He got married.
White people were afraid of him.
He began to feel constrained by the NOI.
He found out Elijah Muhammad was spreading his seed.
He painfully broke from the NOI.
He took trips to Africa.
He became enlightened.
He was assassinated.
It's quick and dirty, I know, but it still encompasses the major points of his life that were of importance in my recollection of him. In a more fleshed out fashion, I knew that there was far more than the autobiography let on. While I am no historian or African-American studies scholar (despite my undeclared Swarthmore Concentration), I am smart enough to know that "the quick and dirty" is not the complete encompassing of a man who spent the balance of his life fighting for a people with as divided a loyalty as you can imagine. Any leader fighting for the rights of a large group is bound to have supporters as well as detractors; I think that observation is less a revelation and more an indicator of common sense. Nonetheless, what I appreciate about Marable's work is his attempt to flesh out the accuracy of the aforementioned chronology. You learn more about Malcolm's parents and his siblings and the necessary tale of his family's experience unfolds with such breathtaking detail and weaves seamlessly into the cautionary tale of his criminal life. But this quite natural segue, and some of the pieces that follow, are what give me pause and lead me to ask, veritably, “What is the point of this?”
Relatively early on, Marable kind of drops the bomb that most Blackademics had heard before the book’s release: Malcolm has a gay relationship with a White man.
I’m sorry, what?
Yes, I said it. Malcolm X. Gay relationship. White man.
However, unlike the scholarly parts of research that immediately precede this “revelation”, this salacious piece of information is corroborated by hearsay from Rodnell Collins, son of Ella Collins (Malcolm’s sister), and, later on, Shorty Jarvis, Malcolm’s right hand man who harbored tremendous resentment against Malcolm because Malcolm snitched on him.
This sounds like gossip to me, not research. And it is here that my disappointment began.
Marable points to the part in Malcolm’s autobiography that describes the tale of a “friend” or “fellow hustler” named Rudy who engaged in some role play with a rich man from Boston. Marable, himself, admits the evidence suggesting that “Rudy” is Malcolm is circumstantial, at best, but indicates it is “strong” as well. Where is the strength of this evidence? Rodnell’s “insight” is not proof of anything. In fact, there is no evidence at all to support the assertion that Malcolm engaged in homosexual encounters, gay for pay or otherwise. In examining prison visit records, any concrete information about non-family visitors (labeled “Friends” in the visitor log) has been redacted by the feds so the air of mystery surrounding who these friends were seems to be sufficient, for Marable, to posit that Paul Lennon was this role playing, rich, gay White man with an affinity for Malcolm.
What is clear, though, is the fact that Malcolm did work for Lennon as a butler and occasional houseworker and listed him as a former employer when transitioning into prison life (Marable, p. 66). That is all. That is all the evidence we have. No cum stained blue dress a-la Monica Lewinsky; no semen stained underwear a-la Kobe Bryant and his later dismissed rape charges; no dazed and confused strippers crying rape a-la Duke lacrosse players.
What contributes to my feeling as if this nugget of unsubstantiated information was added for purely tabloid reasons is the fact that there is no further explanation of the effect Malcolm’s alleged homosexuality would have had on his prison life, his prison transformation, and eventually his emergence as one of the greatest leaders of our time. I think it logical to assert that closeted homosexuality would have done excessive psychological damage to Malcolm, such that his ideological development would have been severely stunted. But even if I am wrong, Marable pays little attention to the effect such a secret would have on Malcolm, overall, and, instead, chooses to superficially and flippantly remind you of the fact that he tipped his gossip hand far earlier than he should by referring to these episodes as “paid homosexual encounters” and, at one point, outright labeling Malcolm “a homosexual lover”.
I cannot touch and agree with you, Prof. Marable. I simply cannot.
The next kernel of information that motivated me to comb the book’s index, source citations, notes, and bibliography was the foray into the misery that was Malcolm’s marriage to Betty. Anyone with half of a brain can infer that, in their marriage, the two likely spent more time apart than they did together but, if you lend credence to Spike Lee’s cinematic interpretation of their courtship and relationship, you would think that everything kind of worked out. Well, not so much! Admittedly it was difficult to read that Malcolm had proposed to two other women and then pulled the old “SIKE!” as he recanted both proposals for various reasons. It was also difficult to read that Malcolm’s choice of Betty included a heavy consideration of how she, thankfully, was darker than the other two women. This, right here, would have been a perfect time to offer a critique of Malcolm’s extreme color consciousness, particularly as he, a very light complected male who had gotten by on his looks, red hair, and charm, deliberately stayed away from women who looked like he and his mother. Was Malcolm saying “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice” or was he indicating a deeper potential sense of self-hatred that facilitated his venom and vigor within the NOI? I’m glad you asked; too bad Marable does not have the answer because, well, Marable does not ask the question.
What Marable does, however, is identify Betty’s independent streak, born of a strong Christian upbringing (please note, I assign neither praise nor criticism of said upbringing), as part of the root of the problem. Citing “girlfriend to girlfriend” gossip in Rickford’s piece entitled Betty Shabazz and interviews with James 67X, Malcolm’s most trusted employee and confidant after his NOI split, Marable shares that while Betty allowed Malcolm to have free reign and rule in the public sphere, she was not to be toyed with inside the house and the docile and obedient wife expectation Malcolm may have had was surely mistaken. Initially, I took this second bit of information, this pure matrimonial mismatch, as yet another attempt to throw salt on the wound of superfluous revelation. However, having the full text of the letter (thanks to some Googling by Dr. Kristine Lewis out of Drexel University in Philadelphia) gave a wider, and more thorough, perspective.
Marable cites the 4 paged letter, written by Malcolm to Elijah Muhammad in March of 1959, where Malcolm painfully details the domestic discord. It is truly one of the most powerful, emotional, and touching pieces I have read. The crux of the matter, as outlined by Malcolm himself, was that he and Betty were not on the same page...sexually. Malcolm highlights other pieces as contributing factors (Betty throwing tantrums, Betty being in debt before they married) but writes the following:
“But the main source of our trouble was based upon SEX. She placed a great deal more stress upon it than I was physically capable of doing. Please forgive me for this topic, but I feel compelled to tell you of it, and would tell it to no one else but you. At a time when I was going all out to try and keep her satisfied (sexually), one day she told me that we were incompatible sexually because I had never given her any real satisfaction.
From then on, try as I may I began to become very cool toward her. I didn’t ever again feel right (free) with her in that same sense, for no matter how happy she would act I’d see it only as a pretense...
I had stopped all sexual relations with her. shortly after her return from Chicago, she said to me that if I didn’t watch out she was going to embarrass me and herself (which under questioning she later said she was going to seek satisfaction elsewhere). So I renewed relations with here (sic) (after six months of abstinence). Again she this time outright told me that I was impotent...and even tho I could father a child I was like an old man (not able to engage in the act long enough to satisfy her).
I had a frank discussion with her, and told her for the first time that this was the source of all our troubles. Her remarks like this were very heart breaking to me (and would be to any other man). I explained that even if a woman thinks a man is not a man sexually, she should never tell him that, especially her husband, because from then on he will always this she is pretending no matter how she acts...and will take the whole act as just another waste of time. No matter what she says after that the words have such a strong psychological effect that it stays on my mind as a man.”
Let that marinate.
No, seriously.
To add to what appears to be a miserable living situation, one must remember that Malcolm, after the birth of each of his daughters, would disappear on yet another trip for either the NOI or, later, himself, the MMI, or the OAAU. Malcolm’s post partum departures, from a family perspective, are deplorable. Leaving your wife after she has carried your child for 9-10 months and then given birth, I’m sure, for multitudinous hours is simply awful and irresponsible and demonstrates that your priorities are misplaced. I simply cannot abide by or support this behavior.
However, my God today it has got to be awful to have your wife call you impotent - on multiple occasions - and feel like you, as a healthy male, do not have the physical wherewithal or stamina to satisfy her sexual needs particularly when there are droves of women who would, at a moment’s notice, toss Betty aside to take her spot in your life. The exploration of the pain this had to have caused within Malcolm’s psyche is absent, in my opinion. Marable cites the juiciest tidbits of the letter (he only openly quotes the first two paragraphs) but does not attempt to highlight what Malcolm had to be feeling and how those feelings directly affected his work. This man, who the world saw as invincible, unbreakable, and unmovable was crying out for help to his mentor in a way that only a son can do with his father or other important male role model. He was heart broken, by his own admission, and if we take him at his word, never truly enjoyed sex with his wife again. He was the voice of a nation, yet was silenced in his own home and appeared to enjoy neither the act of physical intimacy with his wife nor emotional intimacy post childbirth with his family. A man that preached about the necessity for unity and solidarity and harmony in the Black home had none in his own. This is huge! While, of course, not surprising in today’s society due to the craziness of religious officials and their sexually explicit lives, to think of the fact that Malcolm stayed true to his wife (well, at least until the last few years of his life, according to Marable) amid his contemporaries who made other decisions and in a hostile home is amazing.
And worthy of deeper analysis.
By the time I finished this section of the book (Marable, p. 147), I held out little hope for the remainder. It took me a full day to truly process the complete text of the letter (http://nathanielturner.com/malcolmxletter.htm) and once I picked up the book again, I had a fresh perspective on Malcolm, his behaviors, particularly as they related to family, and his motivations. I read Marable’s thoughts and speculations about Malcolm’s intentions in different situations and would say, “Hmm, interesting” and then move on. No more was I taken aback by anything he said because, well, I knew if it was something worth exploring, he likely wouldn’t and if it was something not worth exploring, he would likely beat it like a dead horse.
The end of the book includes, necessarily, the “where are they now” section that is always my favorite part of a non-fiction piece. Essentially, everybody is dead. Farrakhan - well, we all know his story (I chose not to include my thoughts on Marable’s analysis of Malcolm and Farrakhan’s relationship, as told by Farrakhan, obviously LOL). This review is already long enough so I shall not bore you with the sundry details. Moreover, there is no new light shed on Farrakhan, his involvement in Malcolm’s assassination, or his thoughts about how Malcolm failed the “test” Elijah Muhammad giving him by silencing him. Yes, Farrakhan benefited most from Malcolm’s assassination, we all know that.
But, let us turn our gaze to Willie Bradley, the man who - according to Marable’s sources - was actually the gunman who delivered the kill shot with the sawed off shot gun at, essentially, point blank range. Due to incompetent and lazy police work, and the fact that the ballroom was thoroughly scoured for a dance held four hours after the assassination, evidence of Willie’s involvement was washed away - literally. Two men who hated Malcolm, but were still innocent, were sent to prison because nobody wanted to believe the crowd captured assailant who admitted, in open court, that Johnson and Butler were not even in the ballroom at the time of the shooting. Thomas Hayer identified his criminal counterparts but the police were like, nah that’s cool. We have who we want, thanks.
No surprise there. Good job, NYPD.
But I was surprised at the fact that Mr. Bradley, after getting away with murdering Malcolm X, has been able to live a life of luxury that culminated with him stumping with and for Newark’s mayor, Cory Booker, during his initial election. Really? You can kill Civil Rights leaders and just get away with it? I thought there was no statute of limitations on murder; shouldn’t there be a re-opening, then, of the case with this new evidence presented by Marable’s definitive work? Or, are we to believe that Bradley was a government information, permanently protected for life for doing the government a favor? Again, far more of an opportunity to explore the rationale behind and expose the illegitimacy of the police investigation and potential government involvement but, hey, we’re not really into that at this point, right?
To summarize, I think this book, ambitious and necessary, takes on a lot (maybe my review did too?) and answers very few of my questions. Yes, it was nice to read the day by day account of Malcom’s trips to Africa and hear, over and over again, how strategic it was for him to build global Islamic alliances to force the NOI out of any chance of legitimizing their existence in the eyes of orthodox Muslims worldwide. It was slightly enjoyable to hear, over and over again, how Malcolm railed against the apolitical restraints of the NOI and saw Civil Rights and the everyday, civic struggles of Black people as a way to introduce Islam as a religious solution to a practical problem. And we all enjoyed it when Denzel gave the little hand signal and the FOI did all their cool formation stuff. Yeah, yeah that was all well and good but I had hoped that this book would be able to provide more personal and legitimate insight into who Malcolm was, as a person. I had hoped his diary was cited more (or, actually, at all) or that more of his correspondence between he and his family would be presented. What better way to gain insight into a man’s life and thoughts than through his own words?
Oh wait. We already read that. It’s called his autobiography and Marable said Malcolm exaggerated. Well, he might have. In fact, I’m sure he did and (and I’m sure Haley took some creative license), as a piece of objective literature, it fails! But it’s the spirit behind the hyperbole, the picture painted by the broad strokes that engages the heart and echoes the spirit of this great man. That heart and spirit were missing in this piece and I don’t think objectivity and heart should be mutually exclusive; in fact, for a piece to be successful, I believe it has to be both, simultaneously. While the framework of this piece was solid, being built around Malcolm’s timeline, and the aspirations noble, I think it falls short of capturing the true essence of a man whose letter we sport with pride in February and May.
OK. Sooo, sorry this has been so long. For those of you who stuck it out, I would love to hear any feedback.
In this manner, and if your view of Malcolm was dictated solely by his autobiography, Marable's piece is a success. The best parts of this book come from places of fact; the research done into criminal records (of Malcolm and known associates, many of whom joined the Nation of Islam - NOI), trial transcripts, recorded eye witness accounts, FBI surveillance, and various other primary sources is superb. When you are able to remove yourself from the subjectivity of one of the most passionate autobiographies written, you are able to appreciate and respect the herculean research efforts of Marable and his team. Gaining unprecedented access to the NOI archives (via Farrakhan), the FBI, and the NYPD (everyone's favorite police force!) truly helped underscore Malcolm's nuanced life of reinvention in a way that was objective, even handed, and, ultimately, far more accurate than his autobiography could allow.
If, however, your understanding of Malcolm was not based solely upon a single, subjective, Haley crafted literary piece, then this book could leave you with more questions than answers.
This is my experience.
While I, in no way, claim to be a Malcolm X scholar, my understanding of the basic chronology of his existence was as follows (pardon the simplicity, but here it is necessary):
He had a hard childhood.
He was a criminal.
He went to jail.
He was introduced to the NOI.
He got out of jail.
He became a prominent NOI minister teaching Black nationalism.
He got married.
White people were afraid of him.
He began to feel constrained by the NOI.
He found out Elijah Muhammad was spreading his seed.
He painfully broke from the NOI.
He took trips to Africa.
He became enlightened.
He was assassinated.
It's quick and dirty, I know, but it still encompasses the major points of his life that were of importance in my recollection of him. In a more fleshed out fashion, I knew that there was far more than the autobiography let on. While I am no historian or African-American studies scholar (despite my undeclared Swarthmore Concentration), I am smart enough to know that "the quick and dirty" is not the complete encompassing of a man who spent the balance of his life fighting for a people with as divided a loyalty as you can imagine. Any leader fighting for the rights of a large group is bound to have supporters as well as detractors; I think that observation is less a revelation and more an indicator of common sense. Nonetheless, what I appreciate about Marable's work is his attempt to flesh out the accuracy of the aforementioned chronology. You learn more about Malcolm's parents and his siblings and the necessary tale of his family's experience unfolds with such breathtaking detail and weaves seamlessly into the cautionary tale of his criminal life. But this quite natural segue, and some of the pieces that follow, are what give me pause and lead me to ask, veritably, “What is the point of this?”
Relatively early on, Marable kind of drops the bomb that most Blackademics had heard before the book’s release: Malcolm has a gay relationship with a White man.
I’m sorry, what?
Yes, I said it. Malcolm X. Gay relationship. White man.
However, unlike the scholarly parts of research that immediately precede this “revelation”, this salacious piece of information is corroborated by hearsay from Rodnell Collins, son of Ella Collins (Malcolm’s sister), and, later on, Shorty Jarvis, Malcolm’s right hand man who harbored tremendous resentment against Malcolm because Malcolm snitched on him.
This sounds like gossip to me, not research. And it is here that my disappointment began.
Marable points to the part in Malcolm’s autobiography that describes the tale of a “friend” or “fellow hustler” named Rudy who engaged in some role play with a rich man from Boston. Marable, himself, admits the evidence suggesting that “Rudy” is Malcolm is circumstantial, at best, but indicates it is “strong” as well. Where is the strength of this evidence? Rodnell’s “insight” is not proof of anything. In fact, there is no evidence at all to support the assertion that Malcolm engaged in homosexual encounters, gay for pay or otherwise. In examining prison visit records, any concrete information about non-family visitors (labeled “Friends” in the visitor log) has been redacted by the feds so the air of mystery surrounding who these friends were seems to be sufficient, for Marable, to posit that Paul Lennon was this role playing, rich, gay White man with an affinity for Malcolm.
What is clear, though, is the fact that Malcolm did work for Lennon as a butler and occasional houseworker and listed him as a former employer when transitioning into prison life (Marable, p. 66). That is all. That is all the evidence we have. No cum stained blue dress a-la Monica Lewinsky; no semen stained underwear a-la Kobe Bryant and his later dismissed rape charges; no dazed and confused strippers crying rape a-la Duke lacrosse players.
What contributes to my feeling as if this nugget of unsubstantiated information was added for purely tabloid reasons is the fact that there is no further explanation of the effect Malcolm’s alleged homosexuality would have had on his prison life, his prison transformation, and eventually his emergence as one of the greatest leaders of our time. I think it logical to assert that closeted homosexuality would have done excessive psychological damage to Malcolm, such that his ideological development would have been severely stunted. But even if I am wrong, Marable pays little attention to the effect such a secret would have on Malcolm, overall, and, instead, chooses to superficially and flippantly remind you of the fact that he tipped his gossip hand far earlier than he should by referring to these episodes as “paid homosexual encounters” and, at one point, outright labeling Malcolm “a homosexual lover”.
I cannot touch and agree with you, Prof. Marable. I simply cannot.
The next kernel of information that motivated me to comb the book’s index, source citations, notes, and bibliography was the foray into the misery that was Malcolm’s marriage to Betty. Anyone with half of a brain can infer that, in their marriage, the two likely spent more time apart than they did together but, if you lend credence to Spike Lee’s cinematic interpretation of their courtship and relationship, you would think that everything kind of worked out. Well, not so much! Admittedly it was difficult to read that Malcolm had proposed to two other women and then pulled the old “SIKE!” as he recanted both proposals for various reasons. It was also difficult to read that Malcolm’s choice of Betty included a heavy consideration of how she, thankfully, was darker than the other two women. This, right here, would have been a perfect time to offer a critique of Malcolm’s extreme color consciousness, particularly as he, a very light complected male who had gotten by on his looks, red hair, and charm, deliberately stayed away from women who looked like he and his mother. Was Malcolm saying “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice” or was he indicating a deeper potential sense of self-hatred that facilitated his venom and vigor within the NOI? I’m glad you asked; too bad Marable does not have the answer because, well, Marable does not ask the question.
What Marable does, however, is identify Betty’s independent streak, born of a strong Christian upbringing (please note, I assign neither praise nor criticism of said upbringing), as part of the root of the problem. Citing “girlfriend to girlfriend” gossip in Rickford’s piece entitled Betty Shabazz and interviews with James 67X, Malcolm’s most trusted employee and confidant after his NOI split, Marable shares that while Betty allowed Malcolm to have free reign and rule in the public sphere, she was not to be toyed with inside the house and the docile and obedient wife expectation Malcolm may have had was surely mistaken. Initially, I took this second bit of information, this pure matrimonial mismatch, as yet another attempt to throw salt on the wound of superfluous revelation. However, having the full text of the letter (thanks to some Googling by Dr. Kristine Lewis out of Drexel University in Philadelphia) gave a wider, and more thorough, perspective.
Marable cites the 4 paged letter, written by Malcolm to Elijah Muhammad in March of 1959, where Malcolm painfully details the domestic discord. It is truly one of the most powerful, emotional, and touching pieces I have read. The crux of the matter, as outlined by Malcolm himself, was that he and Betty were not on the same page...sexually. Malcolm highlights other pieces as contributing factors (Betty throwing tantrums, Betty being in debt before they married) but writes the following:
“But the main source of our trouble was based upon SEX. She placed a great deal more stress upon it than I was physically capable of doing. Please forgive me for this topic, but I feel compelled to tell you of it, and would tell it to no one else but you. At a time when I was going all out to try and keep her satisfied (sexually), one day she told me that we were incompatible sexually because I had never given her any real satisfaction.
From then on, try as I may I began to become very cool toward her. I didn’t ever again feel right (free) with her in that same sense, for no matter how happy she would act I’d see it only as a pretense...
I had stopped all sexual relations with her. shortly after her return from Chicago, she said to me that if I didn’t watch out she was going to embarrass me and herself (which under questioning she later said she was going to seek satisfaction elsewhere). So I renewed relations with here (sic) (after six months of abstinence). Again she this time outright told me that I was impotent...and even tho I could father a child I was like an old man (not able to engage in the act long enough to satisfy her).
I had a frank discussion with her, and told her for the first time that this was the source of all our troubles. Her remarks like this were very heart breaking to me (and would be to any other man). I explained that even if a woman thinks a man is not a man sexually, she should never tell him that, especially her husband, because from then on he will always this she is pretending no matter how she acts...and will take the whole act as just another waste of time. No matter what she says after that the words have such a strong psychological effect that it stays on my mind as a man.”
Let that marinate.
No, seriously.
To add to what appears to be a miserable living situation, one must remember that Malcolm, after the birth of each of his daughters, would disappear on yet another trip for either the NOI or, later, himself, the MMI, or the OAAU. Malcolm’s post partum departures, from a family perspective, are deplorable. Leaving your wife after she has carried your child for 9-10 months and then given birth, I’m sure, for multitudinous hours is simply awful and irresponsible and demonstrates that your priorities are misplaced. I simply cannot abide by or support this behavior.
However, my God today it has got to be awful to have your wife call you impotent - on multiple occasions - and feel like you, as a healthy male, do not have the physical wherewithal or stamina to satisfy her sexual needs particularly when there are droves of women who would, at a moment’s notice, toss Betty aside to take her spot in your life. The exploration of the pain this had to have caused within Malcolm’s psyche is absent, in my opinion. Marable cites the juiciest tidbits of the letter (he only openly quotes the first two paragraphs) but does not attempt to highlight what Malcolm had to be feeling and how those feelings directly affected his work. This man, who the world saw as invincible, unbreakable, and unmovable was crying out for help to his mentor in a way that only a son can do with his father or other important male role model. He was heart broken, by his own admission, and if we take him at his word, never truly enjoyed sex with his wife again. He was the voice of a nation, yet was silenced in his own home and appeared to enjoy neither the act of physical intimacy with his wife nor emotional intimacy post childbirth with his family. A man that preached about the necessity for unity and solidarity and harmony in the Black home had none in his own. This is huge! While, of course, not surprising in today’s society due to the craziness of religious officials and their sexually explicit lives, to think of the fact that Malcolm stayed true to his wife (well, at least until the last few years of his life, according to Marable) amid his contemporaries who made other decisions and in a hostile home is amazing.
And worthy of deeper analysis.
By the time I finished this section of the book (Marable, p. 147), I held out little hope for the remainder. It took me a full day to truly process the complete text of the letter (http://nathanielturner.com/malcolmxletter.htm) and once I picked up the book again, I had a fresh perspective on Malcolm, his behaviors, particularly as they related to family, and his motivations. I read Marable’s thoughts and speculations about Malcolm’s intentions in different situations and would say, “Hmm, interesting” and then move on. No more was I taken aback by anything he said because, well, I knew if it was something worth exploring, he likely wouldn’t and if it was something not worth exploring, he would likely beat it like a dead horse.
The end of the book includes, necessarily, the “where are they now” section that is always my favorite part of a non-fiction piece. Essentially, everybody is dead. Farrakhan - well, we all know his story (I chose not to include my thoughts on Marable’s analysis of Malcolm and Farrakhan’s relationship, as told by Farrakhan, obviously LOL). This review is already long enough so I shall not bore you with the sundry details. Moreover, there is no new light shed on Farrakhan, his involvement in Malcolm’s assassination, or his thoughts about how Malcolm failed the “test” Elijah Muhammad giving him by silencing him. Yes, Farrakhan benefited most from Malcolm’s assassination, we all know that.
But, let us turn our gaze to Willie Bradley, the man who - according to Marable’s sources - was actually the gunman who delivered the kill shot with the sawed off shot gun at, essentially, point blank range. Due to incompetent and lazy police work, and the fact that the ballroom was thoroughly scoured for a dance held four hours after the assassination, evidence of Willie’s involvement was washed away - literally. Two men who hated Malcolm, but were still innocent, were sent to prison because nobody wanted to believe the crowd captured assailant who admitted, in open court, that Johnson and Butler were not even in the ballroom at the time of the shooting. Thomas Hayer identified his criminal counterparts but the police were like, nah that’s cool. We have who we want, thanks.
No surprise there. Good job, NYPD.
But I was surprised at the fact that Mr. Bradley, after getting away with murdering Malcolm X, has been able to live a life of luxury that culminated with him stumping with and for Newark’s mayor, Cory Booker, during his initial election. Really? You can kill Civil Rights leaders and just get away with it? I thought there was no statute of limitations on murder; shouldn’t there be a re-opening, then, of the case with this new evidence presented by Marable’s definitive work? Or, are we to believe that Bradley was a government information, permanently protected for life for doing the government a favor? Again, far more of an opportunity to explore the rationale behind and expose the illegitimacy of the police investigation and potential government involvement but, hey, we’re not really into that at this point, right?
To summarize, I think this book, ambitious and necessary, takes on a lot (maybe my review did too?) and answers very few of my questions. Yes, it was nice to read the day by day account of Malcom’s trips to Africa and hear, over and over again, how strategic it was for him to build global Islamic alliances to force the NOI out of any chance of legitimizing their existence in the eyes of orthodox Muslims worldwide. It was slightly enjoyable to hear, over and over again, how Malcolm railed against the apolitical restraints of the NOI and saw Civil Rights and the everyday, civic struggles of Black people as a way to introduce Islam as a religious solution to a practical problem. And we all enjoyed it when Denzel gave the little hand signal and the FOI did all their cool formation stuff. Yeah, yeah that was all well and good but I had hoped that this book would be able to provide more personal and legitimate insight into who Malcolm was, as a person. I had hoped his diary was cited more (or, actually, at all) or that more of his correspondence between he and his family would be presented. What better way to gain insight into a man’s life and thoughts than through his own words?
Oh wait. We already read that. It’s called his autobiography and Marable said Malcolm exaggerated. Well, he might have. In fact, I’m sure he did and (and I’m sure Haley took some creative license), as a piece of objective literature, it fails! But it’s the spirit behind the hyperbole, the picture painted by the broad strokes that engages the heart and echoes the spirit of this great man. That heart and spirit were missing in this piece and I don’t think objectivity and heart should be mutually exclusive; in fact, for a piece to be successful, I believe it has to be both, simultaneously. While the framework of this piece was solid, being built around Malcolm’s timeline, and the aspirations noble, I think it falls short of capturing the true essence of a man whose letter we sport with pride in February and May.
OK. Sooo, sorry this has been so long. For those of you who stuck it out, I would love to hear any feedback.
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