A History of Learning History
A Reflection on the Auto-biography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley
A History of Learning History
My high school history teacher generally ran out of time towards the end of the semester and had to hurry through the most recent period of American history. The school year began in grand fashion: George Washington and Paul Revere, vague nostalgia and faint French Horn music playing in the background. The great climax of high school history class was World War II, our nation’s proudest moment when we heroically defeated one of the most cut and dried examples of evil in Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich.
By that point in the year, the weather was getting warm. Teachers and students alike were beginning to lose focus and turn towards their respective plans for summer vacation. What was there to left say about American history after 1945? Apparently not a whole lot: Martin Luther King Jr., yaddda yadda, JFK’s noggin being split like a watermelon, yadda yadda. We watched Forest Gump over the course of 4 days. Yadda Yadda. And…. school’s out. Have a great summer kids!
We may have briefly touched on the 1950s and 60s. God forbid we go anywhere near the 80s or 90s! Some of our teachers were functioning adults by that time! Heaven forbid….
And of course, there was Black History Month. It was in February, which in Michigan makes a strong case for being the worst month of the year (tied with March) and is objectively the shortest month of the year. I do not remember much about Black History Month other than there was a poster in my classroom that said, “If you believe in liberty, then prejudice is foul play.” The words were printed over the image of Hakeem Olajuwon dunking a basketball. To this day I cannot adequately explain what that poster is supposed to mean. Feel free to chime in the comments section if you do know…
As far as I can recall, in high school the main classes were: American history, European history (France, Germany, Spain), British history, and Ancient history – Greeks and Romans. We even studied Scottish history, for TWO WHOLE DAYS! (because Braveheart is kind of a long movie and we had to finish it on the second day).
Despite the lack of exposure, I’ve always been drawn to other places and cultures, so I began to branch out. I attended college in Arkansas and majored in Spanish. I lived in South America for a time and studied Latin American history. Mostly on my own, I had to seek out books and resources to learn about the complicated and rich history of Chile (where I lived), and about America’s sordid involvement with the Pinochet regime and the overthrow of Salvador Allende’s popularly elected government. I had to see Ayacucho with my own eyes before ever hearing about the Sendero Luminoso, the Maoist guerilla group in Peru. No one ever mentioned that Che Guevara was gunned down in Bolivia by a CIA trained death squad – I thought he was just Fidel’s cigar dealer!
One of my favorite college classes was The History of Arkansas featuring stories about knife fights on the floor of the state legislature and the New Madrid fault line’s last great earthquake. I learned definitively from my southern professors that the Civil War was over STATE’S RIGHTS and most certainly not because of slavery! I even had one history professor who, in a show of incredible self-awareness, acknowledged that his lectures were boring and would allow students to openly sleep in class, the only requirement was that they brought a sleeping bag and laid down in the front of the room.
After college, I moved to China and lived there for 11 years. I began to interact with that culture, which was a whole other world unto itself. I can assure you that in my first few years I was completely obnoxious, a true jackass abroad. I was about as ignorant of their culture, language and history as was humanly possible – many of my ill-formed notions coming from YouTube videos, the Tom Cruise movie “The Last Samurai”, and a short book entitled “Encountering the Chinese”. I was woefully unprepared.
When I did begin to read and dig into Chinese history and culture, there was too much to take in. I was inhaling books at a rapid rate and all the information was new to me. There was no “Chinese History” class in high school or college. I knew a little bit about Marco Polo – a blind Jesuit priest who would feel his way around people’s swimming pools and later ended up starting a cologne company.
So, I settled in, read books, talked to people, and lived life for a decade. It still wasn’t enough, but I had adequate information to at least be proficient in that culture. I was able to dialogue and deeply understand the thought patterns and beliefs of people in that culture – beliefs that were wildly divergent from those of the culture I came from.
I have always thrived in the tension of being in a culture not my own. First it was Latin America (which is a collection of cultures), then it was China (a far more homogeneous culture). Returning to the US in 2018, I felt a strong draw to Detroit – a place my family comes from but has not lived in for over 50 years.
Though we’re in the same country, my experience of learning black history has been reminiscent of those early days of digging into Chinese history. My education didn’t prepare me to interact with this foreign culture. Notable names are folks I’ve never heard of – people like Marcus Garvey, Fredrick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, W.E.B. Dubois, and Nat Turner. I’m still learning and I’m still very early in the process.
In learning about China’s culture there was zero pressure, as most Chinese folks assumed you would be completely ignorant of their history and were delightfully surprised when you knew even a little bit. But there is a shame attached to not knowing black history. How can you not know the story of your own nation!? You’ve only heard half the tale of America!
However, shame is the enemy of curiosity, and curiosity is the most important ingredient for knowledge. Curiosity can change the world. So once again I find myself an idiot living abroad, though this time not 6000 miles away in Asia, but a few miles south of 8 Mile Road in Detroit.
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
More than any time I can remember in my life, there is an interest among white people about all things African American. Ibram Kendi’s book How to be an Antiracist is flying off the shelves with a speed that all but assures he’ll get that luxury condo in South Florida after this year’s book sales are done. White folks are so interested right now in how to “not be a part of the problem”, we are practically falling all over ourselves to make a good effort. But I don’t believe it’s possible to “not be a part of the problem”, the idea that it is possible grinds against my Christian convictions. Let me be explicit: if it were within me to not be a part of the problem, there’d be no need for the crucifixion. There do not exist “good people” out there and in fact we are all implicated in the deep brokenness of this world. A brokenness from which only Jesus, not wokeness, political correctness, or the perfect ideology can save us from. You may disagree with the idea, but it is the core of Christian belief.
Therefore, this post is written not for good people, but for curious people. Curious people know we cannot change the whole world, but we’re looking to take a concrete step forward, into a fuller humanity. In this particular case it will involve studying and interacting with a culture not our own.
That’s why I hope that the way we teach grade school history can change and that every student has the opportunity to read The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley before they graduate high school. This is a great book, that belongs alongside all of the other High School staples – Catcher in the Rye, Great Gatsby, Scarlet Letter (which can also be used as a sleep aid), and Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
As a serious reader, I will slog my way through bad writing if the topic is interesting. As a comic, I appreciate entertainment value and the ability to hold my attention. Pleasantly, the Autobiography is both a serious read and wildly entertaining. It is earthy and completely unexpected. Here is Malcolm X telling you the hilarious and heartbreaking details of the first time he got his kinky hair straightened out. Or going into details about the daily grind of a full-time hustler in Harlem. He was also a wonderful dancer. Malcolm was for a period of time a professional house burglar and gives out tips for a low-cost home security system. (Thanks Malcolm, I couldn’t afford Brinks Security anyhow!) And, did you know that according to the honorable Elijah Mohammed the ideal age for your wife is half your age plus seven years? (Do the math, you’ll love it).
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Malcolm was a traumatized child, his father murdered by white vigilantes and his mother driven to madness by the stress of raising a family on her own, whilst being constantly hounded by social services who were trying to break up the family. She was later placed in a psychiatric facility in Kalamazoo, Michigan.
Malcolm took on the religion of Elijah Mohammed – the Nation of Islam – after a period of intense evangelism from his family members. Though having very little schooling, he was consumed by a burning desire to learn. He was rabidly curious. The years of honing his mind in prison, through reading and writing, enabled him to go toe to toe in debates with some of the greatest minds of his time. He also brought all the tremendous energy of a street hustler into his efforts to expand the flock of the Nation of Islam. In time, he rose to become its most visible minister.
As high school students, we knew almost nothing about Malcolm. We heard people’s attitudes in the 1960s were “play nice with Martin or you’re gonna get Malcolm.” He was barely talked about, and the only pictures we saw of him filled us with a strange uneasiness.
Discerning eyes can see that he carried his traumatized inner child inside of himself. He was orphan to a murdered father. That childhood wound was so deep and was not to be even partially healed until near the end of his life.
That healing happened on his once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Mecca.
During his trip to the Middle East, Malcolm had an experience which most Americans in their lifetime never will: the complete helplessness that goes along with entering into a culture and language not your own. There is an almost infant-like reliance on the kindness of others when you cannot speak the language and are all alone. In the loneliness and despair of his trip abroad Malcolm was shown overwhelming kindness and hospitality by a group of white men. Many white men cursed Malcolm, but these white men blessed him. Their blessing of love caused a change in his heart. He returned from the Middle East walking in his full humanity.
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Shortly after that he was gone…
….shot to death during a public speaking engagement, his wife and daughters in the audience that day watching. He was telling his story to the author Alex Haley, and you can sense in the final chapter of the book that Malcolm knows he will be dead soon. He was a man of deep integrity and courage. He was never afraid to change course if he saw the light and never shied away from telling white society the truth about itself. His story is beautiful and full of hope – no matter who you are.