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“Ilyasah Shabazz has written a compelling and lyrical

coming-of-age story as well as a candid and heart-warming tribute

to her parents. Growing Up X is destined to become a

classic.”

–SPIKE LEE

February 21, 1965: Malcolm X is assassinated in

Harlem’s Audubon Ballroom. June 23, 1997: After surviving for a

remarkable twenty-two days, his widow, Betty Shabazz, dies of burns

suffered in a fire. In the years between, their six daughters reach

***hood, f***ed by the memory of their parents’ love, the meaning

of their cause, and the power of their faith. Now, at long last,

one of them has recorded that tumultuous journey in an

unf***ettable memoir: Growing Up X.

Born in 1962, Ilyasah was the middle child, a rambunctious livewire

who fought for–and won–attention in an all-female household. She

carried on the legacy of a renowned father and indomitable mother

while navigating childhood and, along the way, learning to do the

hustle. She was a different color from other kids at camp and yet,

years later as a young woman, was not radical enough for her

college classmates. Her story is, sbove all else, a tribute to a

mother of almost unimaginable forbearance, a woman who, “from that

day at the Audubon when she heard the s***s and threw her body on

[ours, never] stopped shielding her children.”

Acknowledgments

Author's Note

Prologue

1. Aftermath

2. Alone

3. Less***

4. Camp Betsey Cox

5. Mommy's Home

6. Played

7. Hustle Queer

8. Roots

9. Boys

10. Collcve

11. Daddy's Home

12. Growinne Up X

13. Recover),

14. Reunited

Ilyasah Shabazz holds a Master of Science

degree in Education and Human Resource Development from Fordham

University. She is the Director of Public Affairs and Special

Events for the City of Mount Vernon, New York.

Kim McLarin is the author of the novels Taming It

Down and Meeting of the Waters. She formerly worked as a

journalist for The New York Times, The Philadelphia

Inquirer, and the Associated Press. She lives with her family

outside of Boston, Mass.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Aftermath

I was there that day. We all were, all except baby Gamilah who, in

the last-minute rush to go hear Daddy speak, got left behind with

friends because her little snowsuit was too damp to wear out into

the cold. But the rest of us were there, sitting stage right on a

curved and cushioned bench: Mommy, Attallah, Qubilah, myself. Even

the twins, Malikah and Malaak, were present to bea***itness,

carried not in Mommy?s arms but inside he***omb, deep beneath her

heart.

It was February 21, 1965. My father, El-Hajj Malik

El-Shabazz?Malcolm X?telephoned my mother at the Wallace home that

morning with a surprising request. He wanted Mommy to bring us

girls and come to the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem to hear him speak.

My mothe***as elated; just the day before he had warned her not to

come, saying it was too dangerous.

We were staying with the Wallace family because eight days before

our house in Elmhurst, Queens, had been firebombed. It was early

Sunday morning and cold outside. Mommy and Daddy were asleep in

their bedroom, Attallah, Qubilah, and I were in our room, and

Gamilah was in the nursery when a blast awakened us all. Barking

orders and grabbing terrified children, my father got us all up and

out the back door into the yard. It took the fire department an

hour to extinguish the flames. Mommy telephoned the Wallaces,

saying, ?The house is on fire.? The Wallaces put their

twelve-year-old daughter Gail?our baby-sitter and play ?big

sister??in the car and drove to our house. Gail told me she

remembers walking into the house and being almost overwhelmed by

the smell of smoke.

?Everyone was in the kitchen,? Gail said, ?and to get to the

kitchen you had to walk through the foyer, the living room, a long

hallway, and your room, the room you girls slept in. That room was

a mess, burned and wet and scattered, because that?s where the bomb

had been thrown. I saw all these people standing in the kitchen. I

remember crawling through men and women, Muslim men, to get to your

mother. She was sitting at the kitchen table talking and when she

saw me she said, ?Oh, dear heart, they?re trying to burn me out of

my house.? She was happy to see me because she knew once I was

there I would take over the girls enough so she could get the

situation under control. She had a little grin on her face but it

wasn?t one of pleasure.?

The Wallace family?Antoinette, her husband Thomas, who is Ruby

Dee?s brother and was known then as Thomas 57X, and their four

children?took us in that night. My father made sure we were settled

at the Wallace home, then checked into the Theresa Hotel. He knew

he was a walking target and he didn?t want anyone else to get hit.

He told Mommy he wanted to take the trouble away from us.

Four days later, the Nation of Islam went to court to evict us from

our home.

In the aftermath of the fire, my father never stopped working.

Friends like Ossie Davis begged him to flee. His brother Wilfred

advised him to ?hush and f***et this w*** thing? and go to Africa

until things cooled down. There were any number of African nati***

whose leaders would have been happy to offer him refuge, but Daddy

refused to even discuss the idea. He was not about to run. He took

what security precauti*** he could, but through it all he kept

working, flying to Detroit to speak at an event in honor of Charles

Howard, a renowned journalist who covered the African liberation

movement for Muhammad Speaks and other black newspapers, then

turning around and flying back home to New York for another flurry

of speaking engagements and interviews. In between all this

activity, he worked hard to find new housing for all of us.

He knew the end was coming soon.

Percy Sutton tells a story of sitting in the backseat of a ca***ith

Daddy and two armed guards around this time. Mr. Sutton asked my

father if it bothered him being surrounded by people with

guns.

My father said to him, ?Have I told you the story of Omar the

slave? Omar said to his master, ?Give me your fastest horse, I?m

going to escape the Face of Death.? It being a slave belief that if

you rode by day and got through the day with the swiftness of the

horse, you were safe by night. There were seven paths down which

Omar could go. He started down the center path, pulled the horse

back. Started to the left, and pulled back again. Only a short

distance down the third path stood the Face of Death. Death said to

Omar, ?For three days I?ve waited at this spot for you to come. Why

has it taken you so long?? ? And then Minister Malcolm said, ?So

you see, counselor, you can twist, you can turn, but there?s

destiny.?

Meanwhile we stayed with the Wallaces and waited for Daddy. The

NYPD sat outside the Wallace home and followed us everywhere. They

even followed the Wallace children to school, until Gail Wallace

and her brothers gave them the slip by sneaking out the back

window. They said they were there to help but no one believed it.

What they were really doing was shadowing my father, casing him and

his movements, preparing for February 21.

On February 20 Daddy came by the Wallace house to check on us. As

he was leaving, Brother Thomas asked what he could do to help. Our

exhausted-looking father shook his head. ?It?s something unseen all

around me,? he told Brother Thomas. Then he climbed into his car

and drove away.

?A funny feeling came over me hearing that,? Mrs. Wallace told me

years later. ?I felt like I was seeing this man for the last

time.?

So when Daddy called that morning of February 21 and asked us to

come hear him speak, Mommy was happy. She loved Daddy and missed

him and wanted to be present for ***. She hurried about,

dressing herself and us, then Brother Thomas drove us into

Manhattan and up to Harlem to the Audubon. We arrived just after

noon.

Afte***e left the telephone rang and Mrs. Wallace answered it. It

was Wallace Muhammad, son of Elijah Muhammad. Elijah Muhammad was

the spiritual leader of the Nation of Islam, the man my father had

once credited with saving his life and the man whose followers my

father now suspected wanted to take it. Wallace Muhammad was

agitated. He said he?d been trying to reach my father for days. He

wanted to warn him, to tell him they were going to kill him soon.

He did not say who ?they? were.

Brother Thomas dropped us off at the front door and went to find a

parking space. I cannot begin to imagine my mother?s feelings as

she ushered us into that ballroom to hear her husband speak. My

mother loved my father deeply, and she admired his commitment to

changing the lives of black people in America and throughout the

world. But she also knew the toll that work had taken on him. She

knew how draining was the c***tant traveling, how wearing were the

harassment by the FBI and the intimidation by the members of the

Nation of Islam. She knew how deeply pained he was by the attack on

the house where his wife and daughters lay asleep. She knew how

tired he was, and she knew that as much as she wanted to make it

all better, she couldn?t. No one could.

I imagine my mothe***alked into that ballroom full of joy, pride,

anxiety, love, and not a little fear.

And she walked out shattered in a way that could never, ever be

repaired.

I write all this as though I remember, which I do not, Allah be

praised. I was two years old, going on three, and though I surely

felt confusion and fear at the time, I have no memory of any of it.

From these experiences I carry only a dislike of endings, a

lingering uneasiness with good-byes. My oldest sister, Attallah,

was six years old when my fathe***as assassinated; Qubilah was

four. How much, exactly, they remember is something we never

discussed while growing up. Somehow Mommy kept us so busy and

fulfilled we never talked about it, or maybe it was just too hard.

It wasn?t until recently, just a few years ago, that I finally

asked Qubilah if she remembered that day. I was in graduate school

working on a paper and she was visiting me. We began discussing the

condition of African people throughout the world, and from there

the conversation turned to Daddy and his work.

Yes, she said. She remembered him and she remembered that day in

all its confusion and terror. She remembered noise and screaming

and confusion and Daddy not coming home.

I didn?t push her on her memories. Really, what more was there to

say?

It was a fairly mild February afternoon. Outside the Audubon,

children played on the street while Christian men and women

strolled home from Sunday church services. My mother took us girls

and went inside the auditorium, which was quickly filling up. More

than four hundred people, many of them non-Muslim, had come to hear

Malcolm X speak. He had promised earlier to present the charter of

his newly formed Organization of Afro-American Unity on that day,

but the drafting committee had fallen behind, the charte***as

unfinished, and he was upset. My father did not like to break his

word.

We sat right up front in a reserved booth near the stage where we

could see our father clearly and be sure he saw us. We settled in;

my mother took off our snowsuits. My fathe***as backstage,

preparing to speak. The ballroom grew full. Time passed. The

program was late getting started because they were waiting for two

invited guests, the Reverend Dr. Milton Galamison, a civil rights

activist, and Ralph Cooper, a popular disk jockey. After awhile my

father?s assistant, Benjamin X, took the stage. He spoke for about

twenty minutes. He talked about a ship crossing the ocean, about

the storms and trade winds and doldrums and other delays that might

keep even a well-captained ship from reaching its destina-tion on

time, alluding to the delayed charter. Then he introduced

Daddy.

From the Hardcover edition.

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媒体评论

　　Only Ilyasah Shabazz could have told this story. . . . I

congratulate her on the courage to remember, the courage to see,

and the courage to say what she saw.　　

　　MAYA ANGELOU

　　AN INTIMATE LOOK AT THE MAN WHO BOTH REVOLUTIONIZED AND

NATIONALIZED THE COLLECTIVE BLACK PSYCHE. A cultural deity is

rendered by his daughter　　s clear-sighted portrait.　　

　　BEBE MOORE CAMPBELL

Author of Your Blues Ain　　t Like Mine and What You Owe Me

　　IT OFFERS CANDID INSIGHTS INTO THE LIVES OF ILYASAH AND HER

SISTERS.　　

　　Ebony

　　-- Review

书籍介绍

“Ilyasah Shabazz has written a compelling and lyrical coming-of-age story as well as a candid and heart-warming tribute to her parents. Growing Up X is destined to become a classic.”

–SPIKE LEE

February 21, 1965: Malcolm X is assassinated in Harlem’s Audubon Ballroom. June 23, 1997: After surviving for a remarkable twenty-two days, his widow, Betty Shabazz, dies of burns suffered in a fire. In the years between, their six daughters reach ***hood, f***ed by the memory of their parents’ love, the meaning of their cause, and the power of their faith. Now, at long last, one of them has recorded that tumultuous journey in an unf***ettable memoir: Growing Up X .

Born in 1962, Ilyasah was the middle child, a rambunctious livewire who fought for–and won–attention in an all-female household. She carried on the legacy of a renowned father and indomitable mothe***hile navigating childhood and, along the way, learning to do the hustle. She was a different color from other kids at camp and yet, years later as a young woman, was not radical enough for her college classmates. Her story is, sbove all else, a tribute to a mother of almost unimaginable forbearance, a woman who, “from that day at the Audubon when she heard the s***s and threw her body on [ours, never] stopped shielding her children.”