No solid food, only juice and coffee, was taken for our breakfasts. Wilfred and I went off to work.
There, at noon and again at around three in the afternoon, unnoticed by others in the furniture
store, we would rinse our hands, faces and mouths, and softly meditate.
Muslim children did likewise at school, and Muslim wives and mothers interrupted their chores to
join the world's 725 million Muslims in communicating with God.
Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays were the meeting days of the relatively small Detroit Temple
Number One. Near the temple, which actually was a storefront, were three hog-slaughtering
pens. The squealing of hogs being slaughtered filtered into our Wednesday and Friday meetings.
I'm describing the condition that we Muslims were in back in the early 1950's.
The address of Temple Number One was 1470 Frederick Street, I think. The first Temple to be
formed, back in 1931, by Master W. D. Fard, was formed in Detroit, Michigan. I never had seen
any Christian-believing Negroes conduct themselves like the Muslims, the individuals and the
families alike. The men were quietly, tastefully dressed. The women wore ankle-length gowns, no
makeup, and scarves covered their heads. The neat children were mannerly not only to adults but
to other children as well.
I had never dreamed of anything like that atmosphere among black people who had learned to
be proud they were black, who had learned to love other black people instead of being jealous
and suspicious. I thrilled to how we Muslim men used both hands to grasp a black brother's both
hands, voicing and smiling our happiness to meet him again. The Muslim sisters, both married
and single, were given an honor and respect that I'd never seen black men give to their women,
and it felt wonderful to me. The salutations which we all exchanged were warm, filled with mutual
respect and dignity: "Brother"... "Sister"... "Ma'am"... "Sir." Even children speaking to other
children used these terms. Beautiful!
Lemuel Hassan then was the Minister at Temple Number One. "As-Salaikum," he greeted us.
"Wa-Salaikum," we returned. Minister Lemuel stood before us, near a blackboard. The
blackboard had fixed upon it in permanent paint, on one side, the United States flag and under it
the words "Slavery, Suffering and Death," then the word "Christianity" alongside the sign of the
Cross. Beneath the Cross was a painting of a black man hanged from a tree. On the other side
was painted what we were taught was the Muslim flag, the crescent and star on a red background
with the words "Islam: Freedom, Justice, Equality," and beneath that "Which One Will Survive the
War of Armageddon?"
For more than an hour, Minister Lemuel lectured about Elijah Muhammad's teachings. I sat raptly
absorbing Minister Lemuel's every syllable and gesture. Frequently, he graphically illustrated
points by chalking key words or phrases on the blackboard.
I thought it was outrageous that our small temple still had some empty seats. I complained to my
brother Wilfred that there should be no empty seats, with the surrounding streets full of our
brainwashed black brothers and sisters, drinking, cursing, fighting, dancing, carousing, and using
dope-the very thingsthat Mr. Muhammad taught were helping the black man to stay under the
heel of the white man here in America.
From what I could gather, the recruitment attitude at the temple seemed to me to amount to a
self-defeating waiting view... an assumption that Allah would bring us more Muslims. I felt that
Allah would be more inclined to help those who helped themselves. I had lived for years in ghetto
streets; I knew the Negroes in those streets. Harlem or Detroit were no different. I said I
disagreed, that I thought we should go out into the streets and get more Muslims into the fold. All
of my life, as you know, I had been an activist, I had been impatient. My brother Wilfred
counseled me to keep patience. And for me to be patient was made easier by the fact that I could
anticipate soon seeing and perhaps meeting the man who was called "The Messenger," Elijah