The tragic death of Dr. Betty Shabazz cut to the heart of many in Black America and far beyond. 

The detention of her grandson in connection with her fiery death pile tragedy upon tragedy, and piled loss upon loss. 

The subdued figure of a silent boy named Malcolm Shabazz for his illustrious grandfather, one he had never seen, was but a latter-day echo of the loss that haunted the family since the martyrdom of one of Black America's most outspoken militant leaders. 

Tears ran like Spring rains for a noble, courageous Black matriarch as she ended her dizzying battle with psychical and physical pain, and entered the realm of Death. 

What of this boy – this man-child who bears the name and lifeblood of Malcolm? 

For him, too, tears – for our loss will not be as keen as his. 

In the mind of a child the kind of causation that adults know is woefully absent.  In them, now is forever, and a thrill, no matter how silly, tickles the soul. 

The very concept of tomorrow is chimerical.  When tomorrow comes, how can this boy stand it? 

I thought of him as I reread from the African American literary classic, Richard Wright's Black Boy (1945/Restored 1993), the autobiography that tells of a young boy who, bored with the silences ruled by his mother and grandmother, played with fire by setting lacy curtains alight: 

....I had not really intended to set the house afire.  I had just wanted to see how the curtains would look when they burned.  And neither did it occur to me that I was hiding under a burning house. 

Presently footsteps pounded on the floor above me.  Then I heard screams …The screams came louder.  I saw the image of my grandmother lying helplessly upon her bed and there were yellow flames in her black hair.  Was my mother afire?  Would my brother burn?  Perhaps everybody in the house would burn!  Why had I not thought of those things before I fired the curtains?  I yearned to become invisible, to stop living. (pp. 5,6) 

Fortunately, none of Richard's family were hurt.  The same could not be said for another young Black boy named Malcolm. 

What of this boy? 

That is a question the Black and Islamic communities will answer in the years to come.  What if young Richard Wright's childish thrill had gone fatally awry?  (In a way, it almost did, as Wright recounts it, his mother almost beat him to death!)  Had his family suffered any losses, the world would've probably never have read Black Boy (American Hunger), nor Native Son, for the boy, left to the 'tender mercies' of Mississippi jails, would almost certainly never have written them. 

Adults often forget what it meant for one to be a child; the terrors, the chasmic lows, the alpine highs, and the yawning ignorances of youth. 

One's emotions rush through with the force of tidal waves.  

It is fashionable in this age of 'the graying of America' for adults to loudly proclaim that kids charged with committing serious offenses should be "treated as adults!" 

The obvious problem with such a witless sentiment is that children aren't adults.  It's nice for politicians to bellow about "shoulds", and cows "should" give yogurt instead of milk; and cats "should" have wings (to better protect them from dogs). 

And children are children. 

This 12 year boy, who is, by all accounts brilliant, is still a boy. 

One hopes he can be made whole, so that he may one day contribute to his community from his deep well of potentiality. 

© 1997 Mumia Abu-Jamal 
All Rights Reserved 
©MAJ