Out of the Madness (22 page)

He was serious. I wondered, as I looked at him, who was the “us” he was talking about? Was he describing a bunch of white
people storming black neighborhoods with guns? I was confused by his comments because Alex wasn’t some Klan member or skinhead.
Alex was a respected member of his community who taught little white kids in Sunday school each week. He was a man with strong
influence.

Also, I remembered when he visited my house in south Dallas, after I joined the firm. It was a day when automatic gunfire
exploded in the near distance. When he heard the shots, Alex took one look at me and scrambled to get inside his BMW. Guns
and death clearly terrified him.

In addition, Alex had been inquiring about my activities at the firm as though he were a dedicated scientist conducting an
experiment, always dead serious. I felt obligated to answer his questions since he had found the job for me, but it made me
uneasy. And during one of his inquiries, a paralegal told him I was on probation. When he mentioned it to me, I told him I
thought that the whites there were being very unfair with me, and that I was thinking about resigning. Alex said not to worry
about it, that he had figured the job would be too tough for somebody like me.

I continued going to work, even though I had just about given up. At the new apartment in Pleasant Grove, I spent my time
just sitting around or staying up all night. Sometimes I caught the bus over to Vernon’s to keep him company. He was encouraging
me to keep the job, to hold on as long as I could.

I tried to visit my little girl as often as possible, but that meant putting up with Tammie. She was now an eighteen-year-old
who wanted to ponder the secrets of men, clubs, parties, and excitement. Several friends had told me that Tammie was going
with a dope dealer. She later admitted that she had allowed one to have a private phone installed in her house, so she could
make phone calls for him and receive his messages. As a consequence of Tammie’s activities, Vanessa was mostly left with Tammie’s
grandmother, who ensured her good health.

As another consequence, I didn’t see Vanessa too often—only when Tammie was in a good mood or didn’t have male company, or
when I would bring money or gifts over. But my determination to love and support Vanessa would remain intact, even though
I often left there more miserable than when I arrived, because of Tammie.

On one of these lost evenings, when I was at the lowest stage of my life, when I had nobody to instill confidence in me with
proof and not the empty statements I had heard all my life, I sat at my apartment. I had the window in my small bedroom open,
and the hot night air was blowing through. Even though it wasn’t that hot and I had taken off my shirt, I was still sweating
in my small bed as I lay there. There was no future for me at this point. Some of my essays and poems, which I kept in a box,
were scattered on the room floor. So were my once revered dress clothes. I sifted through some of the writing, reminiscing
on old times. I was sweating so hard that the sweat was dripping on the papers. Heat had always come at a time of crisis in
my life.

From childhood, I had been a curious person, had bugged everyone I thought had an answer or a clue, and later had delved into
books to gain understanding. But nothing could answer why I felt like something was internally wrong, why black life was a
paradox. The reality before me, as it was, showed in all its aspects that I and everybody I knew were limited individuals,
innate failures, black nobodies. I understood then how people became dope dealers, how women and men could abandon their children,
their race, pride, manhood, and womanhood. It was clear now, easy to see why blacks had become parasites on each other.

I still kept my boxes of books with me. Reading was second nature by now. So I turned to the only escape I had ever known,
which could easily have been drugs but, for me, was books. I picked up the one Fahim had given me, the weathered book with
the black man on the cover. It was the
Autobiography of Malcolm X
, written with the assistance of Alex Haley. Though it was painstaking reading at first, I kept at it all evening and into
the night. At last! Here was one, an example, though dead. A black man who was purely himself. I was so overwhelmed, I stayed
up the entire night pondering the black hero. Malcolm said get off your knees and fight your own battle. That’s the way to
win back your self-respect. That’s the way to make the white man respect you. And if he won’t let you live like a man, he
certainly can’t keep you from dying like one!

The next day I shared the book with Vernon. It had the same effect, simply overwhelmed him.

After reading about Malcolm’s life, I realized something. I couldn’t recall one strong black man in my youth. This had been
pervasive in every situation. Most of the women were husbandless, all the children fatherless. Where were the black soothing
hands in our moments of uncertainty? Where was the black man’s wisdom and guidance to lead us around snares and guide us through
tribulation? Where was my father, who resists despair and holds high his torch of hope?

Malcolm’s life story was the first confirmation I was looking for in my quest for understanding. I began to search more than
I ever had before, reading more than I had at the West Dallas Public Library.

From that little apartment, I lived like a hermit for about two months, only going out for work or for food. Inside, I would
sit in the living room or across my bed, reading about all the dead black heroes, philosophers, and thinkers. I learned about
people like Marcus Garvey, who attempted to unite all the black people of the world; Professors Cheikh Anta Diop and Ivan
Van Sertima and their extraordinary research in documenting our accomplishments; McCoy, an inventor whose products were so
good that everyone wanted “the real McCoy”; Garret Morgan, who invented the gas mask and traffic light; Jan Matzeliger, who
invented the first shoe-making machine (lathe) and revolutionized that industry; and hundreds more. What impressed me most
is that they never relinquished their right to equal respect as humans.

More important, I learned about people like Imhotep the Great, the world’s first multigenius, who lived around 2970 B.C. Imhotep
was considered the father of modern medicine, and he built the world’s first hospital, called the Temple of Hotep. He was
a great architect and designed the Step Pyramid. Imhotep was revered as one of the wisest men in the world. He’s responsible
for the famous phrase “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you die.”

And there were black women like Queen Kahina, a woman who rallied forces and fought fiercely against Arabs who invaded and
conquered parts of Africa, such as Egypt, a place they still occupy. Did you know that Greeks learned at the feet of African
men? The philosophies they took back to Greece were foreign in their own country, and they were often persecuted for introducing
such beliefs.

I learned that the Egyptians had the world’s greatest university, the mystery schools, where it took students fifty years
to become masters. In the beginning only Egyptians could study there, but later they also accepted Greeks and Persians, whom
they called babies in knowledge. The Egyptians called themselves the Kemets, which means black people. Their education consisted
of the ten virtues and the seven liberal arts. Grammar, rhetoric, logic, arithmetic, and geometry were studied. And at the
highest levels they taught the supersciences.

All my life I had said “Amen” at the end of prayers, never knowing that it was a word blacks used before the Bible was written,
to give homage to life. Here was the true laying down of the foundation of all knowledge. My founding fathers.

Why wasn’t I told that we came to America before Columbus, carrying gold-tipped spears; or that we were being taught what
we once had taught others? Why wasn’t I told that Africa was here when Europe didn’t exist? Or that the subjects of the original
Madonna and Child
had been black and the work later resculptured to bear the image of white people, and that paintings and icons of the son
of God had been done over for the same purpose? No wonder everyone had felt naturally disturbed at the little west Dallas
church.

My discovery of dead literary role models permanently cured my doubt and made me bind back to the fundamental truth. Knowing
the great accomplishments of my people, when they existed in their own civilizations, started a chain reaction that would
change the foundation of my mind. But this change had nothing to do with my drive and confidence. These had always been there.
Deep inside every person I had met, where it has retreated to its last, safe sanctuary, the spirit lived.

Just as I realized it had with me, the potential of most people I had known, while starving in the west Dallas housing, projects,
while wandering in Oak Cliff, while decaying in Prince Hall, had been subdued by this defect in understanding. Vernon, Jamie,
Shelvin … The greatest loss to all of us was not the loss of our parents, our families, and our education, not the disappointment,
the hunger, and the humiliation. It was the loss of our minds, for the mind is the soul of man.

After learning the buried truth, that we were the first, the fathers of knowledge, the unhomed children of the sun, I felt
that my entire life had been like that of a certain man who had wings of strength and splendor. From childhood this man had
watched his brethren sweep the heavens and glide gracefully in the sunshine. But because his wings were a different color,
he had been fooled into believing he could not fly. He knew his wings looked the same, were built the same, flapped the same.
But he never had proof. So he never had tried. Then he discovered in a remote cave, a cave that had been kept well hidden,
pictures of men of his color, flying in the clouds. And on this glorious day, in desperation, he jumped off a cliff, was swooped
up in the winds of truth, flapped his damnedest, and found he could fly above them all.

F
ull of new assurance, I eventually returned to my original performance level at the firm. While still there, I worked feverishly,
coordinating several projects at a time, seeking out paralegals to get assignments, and doing clutch work for several attorneys.
I was there to see the cleaning crews leave at nights.

And instead of being docile and content, I became outspoken. I would challenge the whites on the spot whenever they tried
to use their inferiority tactics. I began, for example, to keep time schedules, notes, and dates, and whenever they would
make up a lie about my speed or proficiency, I would whip out those charts and dates and watch them turn red.

Eventually, I was fired because “we just can’t seem to place confidence in you,” said one. “People are uncomfortable. Maybe
it’s better,” said another. However, until I was released, I worked my hardest to break every stereotype they had.

On my last day there in late March 1990, I told them all it had been a pleasure working with them. I calmly walked around
the office and shook the hands of several people I had come to know. I heard later that some attorneys protested my departure.
But I was more than ready to get away from there, a place I felt had only limited me.

I called Alex to let him know I had been fired. He said, “Maybe you just weren’t ready.”

I asked him if he wanted to hear my side of the story. He told me, “It doesn’t matter. I’m still your friend. I believe in
you.”

I wanted Alex to admit it was possible for those whites to be unfair, but this was something I don’t think he could do. I
would call Alex periodically for the next few weeks, to see if he wanted to talk. I still liked him and thought we could be
friends on a different level, without him trying to help me, just plain old friends. But he wouldn’t return my calls. I finally
figured he had given up hope and was trying to let me off easy. So I stopped calling.

Although Alex and I needed time away from each other, we would eventually talk and grow close again, especially after my reputation
as a rising writer began to build in the South. I knew he had felt that no matter how strong and motivated I was, my task
was hopeless. And his presence had represented a life that I could not have. But I knew otherwise.

Knowing harder times were on the horizon, I had paid my rent up for two months. And I had a few hundred dollars of severance
pay. But I ended up giving that money to a friend who was behind on his rent, all except enough to buy a desk, several textbooks,
and a small file cabinet.

With my apartment as a base, I began to sort out a life plan. Even though I should have been worried, even though I knew my
money would run out soon and that I would be back in the middle of the lowest levels of poverty, worry was the farthest thing
from my mind. My findings had stirred something deep in me. And now only time kept me from learning.

I felt I also could invent mathematical formulas to build architecture like the Pyramids, whose formulas still baffle all
of science. If my people had invented surgical instruments and were performing brain surgery when other countries were in
the Dark Ages, if my people had complex forms of governments and systems of religions when other races were primitive, then
I could also accomplish high tasks. If my people knew of the rings of Saturn, the moons of Jupiter, and the interpretations
of the stars before there were telescopes, then these mental aptitudes were also available to me. The same core for this intelligence,
this mass understanding, this interpretation of complexity, flowed in my veins. And I intended to use every drop of it or
die trying.

I would begin each morning at my desk, after a small breakfast, working on strategy and goals. I knew I had no intention of
doing a step-by-step struggle to the top of the success ladder, going through years of toiling with the white business community
and its owners so I could say, “Gee, after twenty years, I am a successful store manager working eighty hours a week, making
pennies and crumbs.” I no longer had the patience for the politics and racism at some rigid white company. So I figured I
would work on projects and ideas that could catapult me over that stage, through those unnecessary setbacks, and into an area
where I had some real financial independence.