Malcolm X Was My Heartbeat, My Metronome : My father, by his life’s end, had embraced all people of the world in his quest for brotherhood.

What a heart-stirring experience it has been to witness the unveiling of truth and clarity about a man I’ve known so well in spite of the distortions. I’ve observed many who have felt renewed or inspired by the long-existing philosophies of this man, nearly 28 years gone, yet ever present for me.

My father, a Caribbean-American who was a descendant of Marcus Garvey’s Universal Negro Improvement Assn., a loyal spokesman for the Nation of Islam and a man spiritually emancipated as per his pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca and his travels abroad. Malcolm X Shabazz, by his life’s end, embraced all people of the world in his quest for human appreciation, human rights and brotherhood.

Thus, my childhood menu consisted of the social concept of camaraderie. Although my parents were dedicated participants in the Nation of Islam, I, as their daughter, was not indoctrinated in its principles. I was not fed the examples of whoever the enemy was or haunted by the ill-doings of the so-called devil. Nor was I told that the devil was a representation of any one particular human classification. “Judge man by his deeds, his conscious behavior,” I was taught. By junior high school, it was clear to me, as a resultof my family’s tragedies that, indeed, immorality existed in a ray of hues. Hence, when my father was excommunicated from the NOI, it was no adjustment or loss for me. And . . . the beat went on.

Born and raised in a family that was culturally varied, I innately gravitated to the rhythms of the world. (Even still.) My father, as a Dad, was so unlike the descriptions I hear so often. In addition to being determined, focused, honest . . . he was, all in a day, greatly humorous, enchanting and boy-like, while very much a strong, firm male presence in a house filled with little women. His. My sisters and my mother. A collaboration of qualities that enamors me even now.

As the “X” interest was brewing, people would regularly say, “You must be really proud, now.” Touched by the intention, I’ve often expressed in exchange that I have always been proud of my father. For if I had waited for the unleashing of the commercial acceptance and explosion to be proud, self-pride and comfort would’ve been long overdue. And now that it’s all cooling down . . . leveling off, proud I still am, of a man, a cause, a heartbeat and an origin that offered me a metronome long before the crossover considered it worthy.

Now that many are experiencing an “X” overload or hangover, we, my family, will be forever nurtured by the endowment of our legacy.

I’m encouraged by the recent years of restlessness in our climate for social change that has induced a Niagara of questions and interest in clarifying our history. Films on the lives of John F. Kennedy and my father are just the beginning. We, as Americans, are very much entitled to know the details. The out-takes. The edits. The deal.

Amid a patchwork of commentaries, numerous judgments and endless character assessments from a spectrum of self-appointed experts . . . in and out of the woodwork, exhausting themselves, they’re caught up in the mania. In spite of the psychoanalysis, Malcolm X will always be exactly who he is, whether we, as a society, ever succeed in figuring him out. Truth does not change, only our awareness of it does. Complex, intricate, complicated . . . adjectives I’ve heard describing him often. Interestingly, I don’t agree. “Complex” is relative, I suppose. With all of his life’s transitions, to me, he was clear in each phase or period. Regardless of the stage, his agenda, as per his perspective, was clear. That’s enough!

Perhaps he wasn’t agreed with by all, but he always had a focus, a commitment and a program. When his views expanded, he took sole responsibility for yesterday, today and tomorrow. Because the observer doesn’t have a clue, it doesn’t necessarily render the subject “complex.”

“Ahead of his time,” another phrase echoed over and over. My view is: Perhaps he was “on time” and we’re late! What haughty positions we allow ourselves to proclaim while feeling or believing it’s our place to categorize or simplify a human being. It’s the unrealistic mold we unduly use to attempt to gauge people, their manner and choices to determine whether or not they’re right, wrong or just a wee bit left of center. How unfortunate.