| |
“My God will light up my darkness.”
Psalm 18:28b
I had been at Mumford for a month, and I felt like I was schooling on a different planet. My years at junior high seemed like an extended version of elementary school compared to Mumford.
The one week half term break was coming up towards the end of February, but I had agreed with Mom that I would use the opportunity to stay back and catch up on lost ground – and there was a mighty lot to cover! Not only was the school day much longer, but also lessons were double the times of those at Hillary.
Unlike Hillary College, subjects and lessons were lively and relevant. Students felt free to input, research and contribute their own opinions, even on so called ‘forbidden topics’ – like racial issues or government policies – without fear of ridicule, scolding, threats or opposition. Lessons were taught to engage our imagination, challenge us and inspire our intellectual abilities, and independent study was greatly encouraged.
It was here in Mumford, in my very first history lesson, that I reversed my attitude towards the subject. I learned about the activities of Malcolm X, who was popularly known as Detroit Red. We were asked to draw parallels from his life with those of Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King. Malcolm X was an African American whose voice was gaining traction alongside Martin Luther King’s. For this lesson, we were allowed to go to the library – which was far bigger than the biggest bookshop in Detroit!
Armed with newspapers, magazines and bulletins on Mandela and Luther King, I produced a glorious essay, which fascinated me as not only was I learning something new going on in the world around me, but I was also becoming conscious of knowledge that had been denied me at Hillary. I found that I was free to stretch my academic ability and surprise myself with the standard of work I was able to produce. If students are not challenged in their learning, the part of their brain that isn’t used goes into sleep mode. This part of my brain was now awake and surprising me – I was taking in information the way a very dry sponge absorbs water and has more capacity to soak in so much more before it gets saturated.
I felt like an investigator or a scientist on the verge of discovery. I discovered that while Nelson Mandela had abandoned nonviolent resistance in favour of military confrontation, it had cost him three decades of his life. Malcolm X, unlike Mandela, was teaching on the prospects of nonviolence to expose the suppression of Black culture in America. Malcolm was not timid in pointing out the systematic attacks against Black communities nationwide, which affected their welfare in terms of their employment, education, housing, health, and emotional wellbeing. He rejected the current prevalent notion that racism was just a Southern thing and argued that it was common in the North also.
My research into the lives of these heroes led to my finding information on the brutal suppression of racial riots in New York City’s Harlem in 1935, and the aerial bombardment of a very successful Black business district, known as Black Wall Street, in Tulsa in 1921. Reading through all these saddened me in my spirit. I was unearthing just a few of countless attempts by Black heroes to bring freedom and justice.
Another article caught my attention, and as I read on, I was conscious that I had about forty minutes of the lesson left. I scanned the article about how the Black revolt of 1943 in Detroit, which the Great March to Freedom had commemorated, was crushed. It was with joy that I read that Malcolm’s message of liberation by any means necessary found a receptive population in Detroit.
And then I read something that caused me sorrow. Exactly two years ago, on February 12, 1965, Malcolm X was assassinated in New York.
I wondered why I’d never heard on the news, at home, in church, or at Hillary, about this great hero, Malcolm X, and then understood in that moment why my work was always violated at Hillary. I realised it was his assassination that lay behind all this so-called protection.
My essay was rich, factual, and objective with a pragmatic approach to the issue of racism. I wasn’t sure if I was deliberately not taking sides and sitting on the fence to give a more explorative stance. Whatever I had done, I scored an A star. History became my favourite subject, and I looked forward to staying back at school for the half term break to catch up on a lost curriculum, now found.
Mom’s reason for my staying back was not so much my catching up on the wasted years and time that Hillary had denied my education. She’d mentioned in her last letter that she would not be able to pick me up because of the political climate in Detroit, but that she would visit. She said that it would be a good opportunity to see me and the college that was my goal and destiny. As I read her letter, I said an Amen in my spirit.
The college library had surplus newspapers for the benefit of students, and Mom’s letter fired my curiosity. Most weekends and evenings I spent virtually all my time in the library. There was no time for friendship; everyone was very busy.
After breakfast that morning, I followed my usual routine. I went to the library and sat at my favourite table. Somehow it was never crowded, and that table was always vacant. I smiled as I settled down, spreading out the New York Post in front of me. It was part of my routine to scan a newspaper for five minutes before burying myself in my learning and assignments. Most students took part in different programmes and activities that earned them an extra five marks to be added to their overall annual score, and I felt sorry that I could not for now partake in such activities. I’d told Mom that I would start after the half term. For now, I would devote a day to each core subject after school.
The headline caught my attention, and I stared at the date to be sure I was not reading a paper from 1921. No. Saturday 20 February 1967. I was expecting Mom the next weekend at the end of half term. I read the headlines again, my heart pounding: VIOLENT RIOTS IN DETROIT.
I scanned through. I only had five minutes. I learned two things. Firstly, that the riots in Detroit had been ignited by the inferior education of the Black underclass, as in South Africa. Secondly, in the advertisement corner, there were opportunities for volunteers to work in a free breakfast programme for poor children in what was called “Black Bottom”, sponsored by the “Black Panther Party”. What an interesting name, I thought. A clever play on words. These were children of lower-class Black people at the very bottom of society. I mentally pictured the children as almost naked with holes in their pants that revealed their bottoms.
I briefly looked at what the work entailed. It was daunting, but I knew I had to take it – opportunities at a time like this didn’t come along often. I had to grab it! were five to the dozen. It would entail my waking up very early in the morning on specified school days and taking a 45-minute bus ride to the other side of Detroit. I’d be able to continue my studies on the bus when the time came. Every minute of study mattered.
I wrote my application letter for the volunteer role. There were envelopes and stamps for us at the counter, though there was a specified number for each student’s use. I had just learned that I had only one stamp left. I read till lunch time with the plan that I would go out and submit my application after lunch.