Amilah, arrived.
I guess by now I will say I love Betty. She's the only woman I ever even thought about loving. And
she's one of the very few-four women-whom I have ever trusted. The thing is, Betty's a good
Muslim woman and wife. You see, Islam is the only religion that gives both husband and wife a
true understanding of what love is. The Western "love" concept, you take it apart, it really is lust.
But love transcends just the physical. Love is disposition, behavior, attitude, thoughts, likes,
dislikes-these things make a beautiful woman, a beautiful wife. This is the beauty that never
fades. You find in your Western civilization that when a man's wife's physical beauty fails, she
loses her attraction. But Islam teaches us to look into the woman, and teaches her to look into us.
Betty does this, so she understands me. I would even say I don't imagine many other women
might put up with the way I am. Awakening this brainwashed black man and telling this arrogant,
devilish white man the truth about himself, Betty understands, is a full-time job. If I have work to
do when I am home, the little time I am at home, she lets me have the quiet I need to work in. I'm
rarely at home more than half of any week; I have been away as much as five months. I never get
much chance to take her anywhere, and I know she likes to be with her husband. She is used to
my calling her from airports anywhere from Boston to San Francisco, or Miami to Seattle, or, here
lately, cabling her from Cairo, Accra, or the Holy City of Mecca. Once on the long-distance
telephone, Betty told me in beautiful phrasing the way she thinks. She said, "You are present
when you are away."
Later that year, after Betty and I were married, I exhausted myself trying to be everywhere at
once, trying to help the Nation to keep growing. Guest-teaching at the Temple in Boston, I ended,
as always, "Who among you wish to follow The Honorable Elijah Muhammad?" And then I saw,
in utter astonishment, that among those who were standing was my sister-Ella! We have a
saying that those who are the hardest to convince make the best Muslims. And for Ella it had
taken five years.
I mentioned, you will remember, how in a big city, a sizable organization can remain practically
unknown, unless something happens that brings it to the general public's attention. Well, certainly
no one in the Nation of Islam had any anticipation of the kind of thing that would happen in
Harlem one night.
Two white policemen, breaking up a street scuffle between some Negroes, ordered other Negro
passers-by to "Move on!" Of these bystanders, two happened to be Muslim brother Johnson
Hinton and another brother of Temple Seven. They didn't scatter and run the way the white cops
wanted. Brother Hinton was attacked with nightsticks. His scalp was split open, and a police car
came and he was taken to a nearby precinct.
The second brother telephoned our restaurant. And with some telephone calls,in less than half an
hour about fifty of Temple Seven's men of the Fruit of Islam were standing in ranks-formation
outside the police precinct house.
Other Negroes, curious, came running, and gathered in excitement behind the Muslims. The
police, coming to the station house front door, and looking out of the windows, couldn't believe
what they saw. I went in, as the minister of Temple Seven, and demanded to see our brother. The
police first said he wasn't there. Then they admitted he was, but said I couldn't see him. I said that
until he was seen, and we were sure he received proper medical attention, the Muslims would
remain where they were.
They were nervous and scared of the gathering crowd outside. When I saw our Brother Hinton, it
was all I could do to contain myself. He was only semi-conscious. Blood had bathed his head and
face and shoulders. I hope I never again have to withstand seeing another case of sheer police
brutality like that.