THE CONVERSATION: WHEN HARRY MET MALCOLM

by Auburn Wilson IV & Jay Whittington

She had trudged through bones and blood, whipped and weary, guided only by the madness of the moon.... the whispers of slave cries were the melody of her footsteps. In front of her stood the reason and rhyme to her footsteps through time... Malcolm

He had seen prison, addiction, salvation, the fear and distrust of men. He had spoken into existence the tears of relief that accompany validation and the knowledge that nobody’s alone in their pain. As he turned from the blinds, rifle in hand and ready for the repercussions of speaking truth to power, he saw the creator of the road that had brought him here... Harriet

Shotgun on hip, tattered and torn, weary and worn, she stands unflinching. Her spirit, a relentless indomi- table force strengthened by the prayers of the many and hopes of those gone but not forgotten. Power flowed from her soul, holding back the movement of time. She reaches out to touch his face. “Chile’ how weary be yo’ soul. Talk with me for a spell and tell me your story, for the time has come for your truth to be known, to be heard, to become.”

For what felt like the first time in his life, he laid his AK down, let himself be defenseless as he sat be- fore this vision, a mother to the modern self-emancipating negro, and he let his truth spill forth. Stories of running numbers, zoot suits and his red hair. Tales of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, of brotherhood and organized anger. Describing the beauty of his mecca, how when he touched that great black stone, he understood that he needed allies outside of those who wore his suits and prayed to his God. He needed the dreamer, the politician, every man, woman, and child who would rally and march with him. He needed their help. “But I’m afraid, Auntie, afraid that I may be too late. They want me dead for wanting change, and I feel their bullets coming for me through the blinds—even if they’ve yet to pull the trigger—and when they do, our enemies will rally around the death of another angry negro.”

“Death holds no sway over truth.” She pauses, gathering the voices of the ancestors. The sounds of drums fill the air. “With every lash of the whip, every harvest of strange fruit, every bullet from the blue, we remain strong, we remain true. Through crimson rivers of blood-bought bodies, through the valleys of children slain, from the ma- levolent mountains of misery, we stand strong, and we remain. Chains cannot hold us; Death cannot stop us; Life cannot contain us. We are the very heartbeat of this land. We are the soul of the ground on which we stand. The deaths of our children were not in vain; we struggle, we fight, we stand, and we remain.” She faces me with the eyes of the long gone. “I Am so you Can Be. The blood of the many and the bones of the masses gave birth to the fury of justice that paved my path to you. Do you think that a bullet can silence the cries of million of voices?” She walks towards the window with a boldness unrecognizable to Malcolm. With her back to him, she begins to hum, more to herself, then to him she says, “Anger is a luxury for the young; Wisdom is the reward for the old.” Facing him with a smile that grips his bones and captures his soul, she continues “Your struggle now as a negro, though ugly, lacks the brutality of the slave I was. Worry is an unnecessary burden, and Fear is an architect of destruction. You will be the change needed; you will be the origin of a new movement; you will die, yet you will live on. Your words will plant the seeds of a new revolution that will never be silenced.’’ She walks towards the door and pauses. “When your time comes, I will be by your side and bring you home.” When she opens the door, a train could be heard in the distance. “I have never lost a passenger, and I won’t lose you.”

He sat for a moment after she left, filled with renewed hope. Not hope that he would see the end of this long terrible night for his people but hope that at least he would light a path for them, even if he wasn’t there to walk it with them. That long walk toward freedom had been trekked so many times by her that he knew better now than to doubt the path she’d laid out. She had fought tooth and nail, bled, to bring people out of circumstances far graver than he could ever imagine, and still she smiled, still she sang, and her spirit, her unbreakable spirit made him feel as though, if she could walk, well he could fly. He smiled as he made peace with where he was headed, who he was, and how he would be remembered. He may not be as revered as Brother Martin, he may be vilified by some who feared his truth, but he would be remembered. With Har- riet’s word’s in his heart, he started toward the door. “Okay, Auntie,” he sighed, “I trust you, let’s take a walk.” And opened the door to that crisp February morning, to speak, for the last time, at the Audubon Ballroom.

At Point Bonita
photogravure etching
Barry Ebner