As visitors stepped through the entrance, a pair of rusted iron shackles welcomed them into the historic gallery. The shackles looked warped and twisted as though someone had tugged and pulled on them. Once upon a time, they had bound men through the Atlantic Passage and into slavery, today they sit encased in glass under a showcase spotlight.
Mounted on the walls were black and white portraits of slaves that hauntingly stared back at me. Nearby, an old copy of Fredrick Douglass’s autobiography sat on a podium; also encased in glass. The book, pristine and untouched, had biblically thin pages and showed no signs of wear. I wondered if anybody had actually ever read through it.
As I walked through the gallery, I caught glimpse of a framed letter. The letter was written with an old-fashioned typewriter and had a stationary with a crescent moon and star. The stationary had Arabic style letters that spelled the name Al Shabazz. I immediately knew who the letter was from. It was a casual correspondence between Malcolm X and his autobiographer, Alex Haley.
I used to idolize Malcolm X when I was young. His autobiography was a story of transformation and conviction. His book helped change how I valued education. He taught me to love books again; to love the dictionary. Carefully, I read the contents of the letter and there it was; his signature. It was written in blue ink. I pictured myself in his presence as he signed it.
...The year was 1964. Malcolm had signed dozens of papers that day. It was late and he was exhausted – he hadn’t eaten much. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just passed his wristwatch. The same wristwatch he always wore. The other people in the room were having a discussion about President Kennedy when outside in the hallway, the phone began to ring. He looked up and saw me. I was there with him.
The museum employee (probably witnessing my deep gaze into space) asked if I had any questions and in the blink of an eye I returned back to 2013.
______________________________________________
I understand everyone does not attempt to connect with the past as I do. For me, this connection is a chance to travel through time and empathize with the past – I try to imagine what life was like. I try to connect. Without this connection, I fear our past will become nothing more than distant relics of a forgotten history, enshrined and untouched, encased in glass.
