I began to conceive things I’d never thought of before. Like what it really meant to be black—not just look black. I discovered I hadn’t loved being black; I had accepted it because I couldn’t change it. I had not embraced it as a gift, had not seen it as divine. Neither had Malcolm at first. But as he read and studied black history, his self-love sprouted and became the basis of a new, affirming self. Now, I wanted to know what he knew.
