My dad had a poster of Malcolm X on the wall of his basement writing room, his basement cell. In the poster (which I can't show here because it's copyright protected) the man stands at a podium with his fist in the air, pointing at some abstracted enemy. His lips make him look like he's about to say the word fuck. You can buy a poster just like it here. 

Malcolm X was an American Spartacus if there ever was one, and it's no surprise that the powers-that-be killed him. He was a hero to my dad, almost certainly for that very reason, and I'm glad that I grew up in a household where a black man could be a hero. Not everybody is so lucky. Some people in my own family weren't so lucky. 

I never forged much of a relationship with Malcolm X myself. Never been much of a revolutionary. Having lived through the 70s, I've always felt that most of the battles waged in the 60s had simply been lost, and that trying to fight them again was a losing, pointless battle.

I did buy one of those posters, though. Haven't put it up on my wall yet, and probably never will. It would be silly. It would be slavish. Plus I've got to let my dad have a few things of his own. I've stolen so much from him, there's no reason to steal his Malcolm, too.