Free X by Ilyasah Shabazz Page A

door. I stood on the porch and watched as Ella’s car chugged off down the lane. As she disappeared, I felt a sinking return to everything normal. Everything cold.
    I woke the next morning feeling no warmer. That very day I started setting aside money for the bus fare to Boston. Visiting Ella over summer vacation seemed like it would be the best idea ever.
    Then, barely a month of saving later, Mr. Ostrowski saw fit to enlighten me about the truth of my great potential. The world turned upside down. What was the point in going back to school after that? I didn’t need a high-school diploma to be a nigger.
    I had to second-guess everything. The classmates who had elected me president — did they really think I was the best in the class, or was I just a novelty object they wanted to play with?
He’s just a nigger, but, hey, we’ve never seen a nigger who can do what Malcolm can do.
My stomach ached every day and every night, thinking about it.
    And Papa — all the good warm memories I was holding slowly faded. Moment by moment, I realized how deep into me all his stories had burrowed. His promises. His lies. Pulling them out hurt more than anything, like yanking myself up by the roots.
    No, I couldn’t stay in Lansing. Not after the way things had changed for me. I counted my money first thing when I woke every morning and last thing before I went to bed. The good news was now I only needed to earn half the money I’d been working toward. No round-trip ticket for me. The minute I had enough money saved to go one-way, I’d be out of there.
    Boston, 1940
    To celebrate my first night in Boston, Ella prepares a large dinner of baked chicken. Bowls full of side dishes adorn the table: okra, sweet potatoes, corn on the cob, greens, homemade bread. The food is plentiful and tasty. After the meager meals I managed on the bus ride, I delight in eating my fill.
    “I don’t want you to look for a job just yet,” Ella says over dinner.
    I raise my head in surprise. “You don’t want me to work?”
    “Well, I want you to go to school,” she says pointedly. I can see Papa in her face, the way her cheeks drop sternly as she levels a familiar gaze at me.
    Education is vital, son. Knowledge gives you power.
    I look away. If knowledge is so important, how come Papa didn’t tell me the truth?
    “Naw.” School used to be fun, back when I thought something would come of it. But now I figure I’m better off just getting on with my life. “I’ll get a job. Help pay my way.”
    “Eventually,” she answers. “But first I want you to take some time to experience the city.”
    I step out onto the front porch, looking left, looking right. Which way to go first?
    I want to go everywhere. Walking around Sugar Hill, I do my best to keep hold of the street names, but it’s easier just to remember the landmarks and the turns. I keep the route real smooth in my head. But I don’t want to know just this neighborhood. I want to go everywhere. Yesterday I might have said I’ve had enough of buses for a while, but it’s a brand-new day, and riding the city bus seems more exciting. I buy a handful of tokens and jump on board.
    In downtown Boston, the buildings are tall and stately. A hundred years old or more. With plaques drilled into them, from the days of the American Revolution, the one promising freedom and the right to pursue happiness. No one mentioned that the pursuit would be so long.
    Back near Ella’s house, I get off the bus and just walk. Sugar Hill itself is something of a mixed neighborhood. Black folks and white folks, walking together. Together as in among one another. And together as in holding hands. I see some couples made up of one black, one white. It’s amazing to me. In Lansing things were very separate. Here people of different races pass on the sidewalk without seeming to even notice each other.
    Down the Hill, though, I discover the most exciting things I’ve seen in Boston so far. Walking down from Sugar