In my junior year of high school in New York in 1972, The Autobiography of Malcolm X was required reading. There was a portion of the book that stood out in my mind for years, and later, when I became a college composition instructor, I found it in several textbooks of essays. In particular, it was used as a sample for a narrative.
What made an impression on me years ago was the way that Malcolm explained his endeavor to be educated. I wasn't interested in his politics and I disagree with his early philosophies, even though he recanted much of it before his death; what stood out to me was the way he described his effort in improving his reading and writing.
Now, I wish for a way that I could bring Malcolm X to life for just one day: to speak to my students and have him critique their work. I want HIM to say, "Is this the best you've learned to do? Is THIS what you have to show with a high school education--AND the ability to enroll in college?!" (For the record, I think Malcolm X wrote better than me when I was in college--at least, until I got to graduate school.)
I want this chance for him to address my students because Malcolm X became an outstanding writer and speaker.
Malcolm X copied the dictionary word-for-word starting with the letter "A" in order to improve his ability to communicate.
I wish I had students with that kind of motivation, not just for my sake as a professor, but for their future.
I look back at Malcolm's words in this essay--and I wonder how his attitude would be toward their effort while knowing how much time he had lost. I wonder how he would tell them how precious it was when he found the courage and conviction in his own life to undertake the effort he did to learn to read and write. My students wouldn't even begin to understand that in the years when Malcolm was a young man, he wasn't allowed to attend a school where fellow students were not the same race.
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What made an impression on me years ago was the way that Malcolm explained his endeavor to be educated. I wasn't interested in his politics and I disagree with his early philosophies, even though he recanted much of it before his death; what stood out to me was the way he described his effort in improving his reading and writing.
Now, I wish for a way that I could bring Malcolm X to life for just one day: to speak to my students and have him critique their work. I want HIM to say, "Is this the best you've learned to do? Is THIS what you have to show with a high school education--AND the ability to enroll in college?!" (For the record, I think Malcolm X wrote better than me when I was in college--at least, until I got to graduate school.)
I want this chance for him to address my students because Malcolm X became an outstanding writer and speaker.
Malcolm X copied the dictionary word-for-word starting with the letter "A" in order to improve his ability to communicate.
I wish I had students with that kind of motivation, not just for my sake as a professor, but for their future.
I look back at Malcolm's words in this essay--and I wonder how his attitude would be toward their effort while knowing how much time he had lost. I wonder how he would tell them how precious it was when he found the courage and conviction in his own life to undertake the effort he did to learn to read and write. My students wouldn't even begin to understand that in the years when Malcolm was a young man, he wasn't allowed to attend a school where fellow students were not the same race.
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"Coming to
an Awareness of Language"
Malcolm X
I've
never been one for inaction. Everything I've ever felt strongly about, I've
done something about. I guess that's why, unable to do anything else, I soon
began writing to people I had known in the
hustling world, such as Sammy the Pimp, John Hughes, the gambling house owner,
the thief Jumpsteady, and several dope peddlers. I wrote them all about Allah
and Islam and Mr. Elijah
Muhammad. I had no idea where most of them lived. I addressed their letters in
care of the Harlem or Roxbury bars and clubs where I'd known them.
I never
got a single reply. The average hustler and criminal was too uneducated to
write a letter. I have known many slick, sharp-looking
hustlers, who would have you think they had an interest
in Wall Street; privately, they would get someone else to read a letter if they
received one. Besides, neither would I have replied to anyone writing me
something as wild as “the white man is
the devil.”
What
certainly went on the Harlem and Roxbury wires was that Detroit Red was going
crazy in stir, or else he was trying some hype to shake up the warden's office.
During
the years that I stayed in the Norfolk Prison Colony, never did any official
directly say anything to me about those letters, although, of course, they all
passed through the prison censorship. I'm sure, however, they monitored what I
wrote to add to the files which every state and federal prison keeps on the
conversion of Negro inmates by the teachings of Mr. Elijah Muhammad.
But at
that time, I felt that the real reason was that the white man knew that he was
the devil.
Later on,
I even wrote to the Mayor of Boston, to the Governor of Massachusetts, and to
Harry S. Truman. They never answered; they probably never even saw my letters.
I handscratched to them how the white man's society was responsible for the
black man's condition in this wilderness of North America.
It was
because of my letters that I happened to stumble upon starting to acquire some
kind of a homemade education.
I became
increasingly frustrated at not being able to express what I wanted to convey in
letters that I wrote, especially those to Mr. Elijah Muhammad. In the street, I
had been the most articulate hustler out there—I had commanded attention when I
said something. But now, trying to write simple English, I not only wasn't
articulate, I wasn't even functional. How would I sound writing in slang, the
way I would say it, something such as, “Look, daddy, let me pull your coat about
a cat. Elijah Muhammad—”.
Many who
today hear me somewhere in person, or on television, or those who read
something I've said, will think I went to school far beyond the eighth grade.
This impression is due entirely to my prison studies.
It had
really begun back in the Charlestown Prison, when Bimbi first made me feel envy
of his stock of knowledge. Bimbi had always taken charge of any conversation he
was in, and I had tried to emulate him. But every book I picked up had few
sentences which didn't contain anywhere from one to nearly all of the words
that might as
well have been in Chinese. When I just skipped those words, of course, I really
ended up with little idea of what the book said. So I had come to the Norfolk
Prison Colony still going through only book-reading motions. Pretty soon, I
would have quit even these motions, unless I had received the motivation that I
did.
I saw
that the best thing I could do was get hold of a dictionary—to study,
to learn some words. I was lucky enough to reason also that I should try to
improve my penmanship. It was sad. I
couldn't even write in a straight line. It was both ideas together that moved
me to request a dictionary along with some tablets and pencils from the Norfolk
Prison Colony school.
I spent
two days just riffling uncertainly through the dictionary's pages. I'd never
realized so many words existed! I didn't know which words I needed
to learn. Finally, just to start some kind of action, I began copying.
In my
slow, painstaking, ragged handwriting, I copied into my tablet everything
printed on that first page, down to the punctuation marks.
I believe
it took me a day. Then, aloud, I read back, to myself, everything I'd written
on the tablet. Over and over, aloud, to myself, I read my own handwriting.
I woke up
the next morning, thinking about those words—immensely proud to realize that
not only had I written so much at one time, but I'd written words that I never
knew were in the world.
Moreover,
with a little effort, I also could remember what many of these words meant. I reviewed
the words whose meanings I didn't remember. Funny thing, from the dictionary
first page right now, that “aardvark” springs to my mind. The dictionary had a
picture of it, a long-tailed, long-eared, burrowing African mammal, which lives
off termites caught by sticking out its tongue as an anteater does for ants.
I was so
fascinated that I went on—I copied the dictionary's next page. And the same experience
came when I studied that. With every succeeding page, I also learned of people
and places and events from history. Actually the dictionary is like a miniature
encyclopedia. Finally the dictionary's A section had filled a whole tablet—and
I went on into the B's. That was the way I started copying what eventually
became the entire dictionary. It went a lot faster after so much practice
helped me to pick up handwriting speed. Between what I wrote in my tablet, and writing
letters, during the rest of my time in prison I would guess I wrote a million
words.
I suppose
it was inevitable that as my word-base broadened, I could for the first time
pick up a book and read and now begin to understand what the book was saying.
Anyone who has read a great
deal can imagine the new world that opened. Let me tell you something: from
then until I left that prison, in every free moment I had, if I was not reading
in the library, I was reading on my bunk. You couldn't have gotten me out of
books with a wedge. Between Mr. Muhammad's teachings, my correspondence, my
visitors...and my
reading of books, months passed without my even thinking
about being imprisoned. In fact, up to then, I never had been so truly free in my
life.
1 comment:
Thanks for the information on Malcolm X. I read the Autobiography as a Freshman in college. I also saw the movie(you have to go behind the words, so you can use them). I've thought about writing the dictionary
out myself.
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