My brief encounter with Tito from a distance, and with his cheering citizens nearby, once more accentuates the many enigmas of the Yugoslav society I cannot fathom. Concurrently, I sense there is much the Yugoslavs themselves do not understand about their own society. The phrase “make society understandable to people,” the mission of John Grierson, rings in my ears.
Also still ringing is the impassioned fervor of the runaway Czech students crying out for their country’s democracy and freedom. I mull over the emotional theatrical production that dramatized Czechoslovakia’s political predicament. Singing the “Internationale,” the Czech and Yugoslav students had joined forces in an East European version of “We Shall Overcome,” the protest song of the American Civil Rights Movement. Overt racism in America is now unacceptable, but discrimination based on skin color continues. Having suffered my own experiences of prejudicial narrow-mindedness, I share Martin Luther King’s dream of a nation where people will be judged by the content of their character. That dream symbolizes the dream of all minority peoples. Despite our skin tint, religion, gender, or any other distinguishing feature, we all dream of enjoying equal human rights and freedoms.
During one of my Zagrebian reflections, I recall a day that brought me closer to American black activism.
I am strolling on Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, admiring items for sale in the various clothing stores. Deciding to shut my window-shopping eyes for the day, impulsively I turn to walk along West 55th Street. I pass an art gallery packed with chattering people holding drinks. My curiosity piques. I stop to read a press release taped to the gallery window.
The Van Bovenkamp Gallerie is presenting, on this very date, the fifth of March, and at this very hour, a bronze sculpture titled “Ode to Cassius Clay.” The gallery owner, the Dutch sculptor Hans van de Bovenkamp, created the artwork to portray “the supreme confidence which has always been an asset of the new champion.”30
A week earlier, at age twenty-two, Cassius Clay stunned the sports world by defeating Sonny Liston, the reigning heavyweight-boxing champion. During the highly promoted TV buildup to the fight, I watched the boastful Clay proclaim his greatness. Endless times he repeated his self-promotional mantra: “I was born to be great. I am great and I will be greater—the greatest.” His insults, rants, and snotty poems taunted his opponent. The chest-thumping attitude annoyed me.
I reread the press release. The hyperbole I dismiss as Clay’s egoistic swaggering, the Van Bovenkamp Gallerie interprets as his “supreme confidence.” Hmm, yes, certainly it can be said that Cassius Clay epitomizes the fullest state of certainty in one’s own abilities. To my surprise, as abruptly as I turned onto West 55th Street, I find myself open to revise my opinion about the champ and his claim of greatness.
The door is ajar; no one checks for invitations; I enter. Once inside the gallery, I do not have to settle for merely viewing a sculpted depiction of the boxing champ. There, in all his self-assured glory, looms the flesh-and-blood Cassius Clay himself. I recognize him from his TV appearances, but I do not see the media clown. Also absent is the irritating loudmouth braggart who broadcast, “When you’re as great as I am, it’s hard to be humble.”
The champ stands in modest demeanor speaking in normal conversational tones with the people gathered around him. A friendly atmosphere prevails. Perhaps the positive thought of Clay’s supreme self-confidence strengthens my own self-confidence. I walk over, extend my hand, and congratulate Cassius Clay on his world title. He returns a warm response. We exchange simple and polite pleasantries. Aware he hails from Kentucky, I ask how he likes my hometown. He mentions he will take a guided tour of the United Nations the next day with the man at his side. So focused am I on the champ that I do not even glance at the black man next to him until Clay introduces me to—Malcolm X!
I shudder. The controversial black nationalist is all too well known for his militant stance. He says aloud what black people say only among each other. The surname “X” he adopted after rejecting his family name of “Little” because it was “a slave name.” The “X” refers to his lost tribal name derived from his African roots. He vilifies all whites for racial discrimination; all whites are devils. He accepts the “eye for an eye” principle.
Well, apparently not all white people represent the evil white oppressors. Malcolm smiles graciously at me. I peer critically at the tall, handsome, well-dressed man. Conversing with me in a charming manner, he gives me all his attention. Nonetheless, I cannot forget his reputation as a dangerous hater of white people. He is a disciple of Elijah Muhammad, a black supremacist leader. Followers regard Elijah Muhammad to be a modern-day prophet, as the double whammy of his prophetic name suggests. The son of former slaves, Elijah Muhammad is head of the Nation of Islam, a black American spiritual and political organization based loosely on orthodox Islam. Instead of Islam’s principle of unity, Elijah Muhammad preaches separation of blacks from white society. He teaches that white society actively works to prevent black people from empowering themselves and achieving political, economic, and social success.
The longer I stand there, the larger beams Malcolm’s smile, truly a winning smile. A gentle, good feeling passes between us. As much as I want to resist, I like him! This response, so baffling, overpowers my negative preconceptions. Malcolm’s presence touches me more than his words.
Before leaving the reception, I ask Malcolm X and Cassius Clay to autograph the gallery’s handout sheet. The boxing champion writes my name and signs his. He adds the message: “Good luck, 1964.” I hand the paper to Malcolm X. We are side to side as he writes, in red ballpoint: “Bro Malcolm X.” At this moment, Malcolm X does seem a Bro, and I a Sis. He makes a scribble in what appears to be Arabic writing.
“Peace, that means peace,” he translates.
The following week, I read that Cassius Marcellus Clay has changed his name to Muhammad Ali-Haj. “Clay was my slave name,” he explains.
Muhammad Ali will need all his self-confidence to overcome the public challenges of his new Islamic faith and his new identity. I admire his courage to change so publicly. My negative judgment of Clay in tatters, I reconsider, in a positive light, his flamboyant self-boastfulness. Clay-Ali cannot express himself through his cocky poetry or immodest declarations if he does not truly believe in himself. The absolute self-confidence that he personifies is his greatness itself.
Trust in his own greatness or, at least, in his potential for greatness, enabled Clay to rise above the discouraging circumstances into which he was born. Using all of his natural gifts, he transformed himself from a poverty-stricken boy who was an indifferent student into a top boxer. At the age of twelve, Clay devoted himself to mastering the principles of boxing. At eighteen, he won the Olympic gold medal for light heavyweight boxing at the Rome Summer Olympics. At twenty-two, he secured the boxing world’s professional title. Ali’s exceptional boxing skills, and his tremendous conviction in those skills, helped him reach the greatness he felt in himself from a young age. Without unquestioned self-assurance, he never could roar convincingly, and perpetually, with TV cameras rolling: “I am the greatest!”
In 1967, Ali refuses induction into the US Army based on his religious faith and his conscientious objections to the war. He declares he will not go to Vietnam to kill. His status as a Black Muslim minister, he contends, makes him draft exempt. Not even the powerful American nation can shake his confidence in his own right actions. Arrested in 1967 and found guilty for violating the United States Selective Service laws, Ali receives a five-year prison sentence, a ten thousand dollar fine, and loses all his boxing titles. His firm belief in his own powers helps Muhammad Ali hold tightly to his truth and his principles, going on to fight successfully no lesser opponent than the US government.31
Observing the career of Malcolm X, I note that he constantly transforms himself too. One week after meeting Malcolm X, I read he has left the Nation of Islam and formed his own Muslim organization. A few months later, he makes a pilgrimage to the heart of orthodox Islam in Saudi Arabia. He undergoes spiritually deepening experiences in the holy city of Mecca. He embraces orthodox Islam and takes again a new name: El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz. In a huge turnaround, he says publicly that he no longer believes all white people are evil; he abandons racism and violence. Brother Malcolm asserts his willingness to cooperate with both blacks and progressive whites to secure social, civil, and political rights for black Americans. He announces his intention to bring to the United Nations the complaints of the black people against the United States.
Before Bro Malcolm can fulfill his humanitarian goals, three men angered at his break with the Nation of Islam pump sixteen bullets into his body.32 Ironically, he is gunned down on the twenty-first of February, the first day of New York’s National Brotherhood Week in 1965. Hearing of Malcolm X’s violent passing, I sob as if he were indeed my bro.
Only years later would I realize that the energy I had felt in the presence of Malcolm X had been spiritual potency. This power had kept me in the present moment with the future El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, a place where my mind’s past negative thoughts about Malcolm X had no force over my natural response to the intriguing man’s winning smile. In the Now, I could feel the energy of brotherly love coming from him to me, just as I could feel my sisterly love traveling in his direction. Significant experiences often occur unexpectedly.
Meeting these two outspoken black activists altered my images of them. I ceased identifying Malcolm X as a white-hating, militant extremist. I stopped associating him with bigotry, hatred, and violence. My negative prejudgments withered. I came to respect Malcolm X as a courageous human rights activist. His life narrated the journey of a man never afraid to change, just like Cassius Clay–Muhammad Ali.
My opinion of Clay-Ali also dramatically reversed. He was not the egoistic clown manipulating the media for his own self-glory. I appreciated him as a principled human being and social activist. His freedom from doubt in his own right actions, especially as a black man living in a racially biased country, proved what Eleanor Roosevelt once said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Dismissing other people as inferior to ourselves may swell our self-confidence, but such confidence will be false.
During our brief exchange, I had felt Clay’s very palpable energy radiating his secure trust in his own beautiful self. That powerful energy helped me spot the holes in my own self-belief. Did my original annoyance with the champ’s flamboyantly self-confident behavior derive from my own insufficient self-confidence? Perhaps, unconsciously, I wanted to be as confident in my talents and abilities as the boxing champ demonstrated himself to be, and my former annoyance with him was really with myself?
In Zagreb, recalling Cassius Clay-Muhammad Ali and Malcolm X–El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, I acknowledge afresh the confines of my thought world. I had allowed media reportages to imprison me in narrow and intolerant thinking about the groundbreaking black leaders. In their actual presence, my eyes opened to larger dimensions of their being.
Thinking over my positive reevaluation of the two men, I ask myself: When we judge others, is a false superior attitude at play? In response, I hear inner questions making me ponder: Who are we to pass judgment on someone else’s words or actions? Are we able to assess with godlike all-knowingness if someone else’s character is good or bad? Does finding flaws in other people turn my vision away from seeing my own flaws? What is the state of my own character?
Although aware of the Christ’s noble instruction, “Judge not, that ye be not judged,”33 I tend to fall victim to this human tendency. Not to judge myself too harshly, I picked up the habit of judging others as a child, growing up around people who routinely judged others.
Making negative judgments is common human behavior. We do it all the time. When I reject damaged produce at the outdoor market in Zagreb, I am making a negative judgment. Negative judgments are unavoidable in life. Our decisions to do this or to do that depend on negative as much as on positive judgments. Judgments can help us take actions and move forward.
Remembering my encounter with Muhammad Ali and El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz makes me see how dangerous, faulty, and unfair it is to judge other people. My musings remind me that if we make judgments, our judgments can change, just as people can change. I resolve to stay open to change, and to be willing to release the past, including past judgments. This seems a requirement in the lengthy process of overcoming the habit of judging others.
Gaining delayed insight into the meeting with Muhammad Ali and El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, I grasp another big lesson: It is helpful to reflect on experiences closer to their occurrence. The sooner we detect the lessons offered, the sooner may we learn them. Or, as Stern said, “If you can really take the timely benefit.”
Not yet, however, do I recognize that on arriving in Zagreb I had entered a classroom. Professor Yu-go-slave-ia is offering me initial teachings of an inner education I am not yet conscious I am seeking.
30 Press release of Van Bovenkamp Gallerie, 18 West 55th Street, New York, March 5, 1964.
31 Muhammad Ali took his case all the way to the Supreme Court. In 1971, he won the appeal against his conviction.
32 “Malcolm X killer is freed on parole,” Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia, April 28, 2010.
33 Matthew 7:1–3