Malcolm was free. No one who knew him before and after his trip to Mecca could doubt that he had completely abandoned his shock-effect statements, his bristling agitation for immediate freedom in this country not only for blacks, but for everybody.
I knew the man personally, and however much I disagreed with him, I never doubted that Malcolm X, even when he was wrong, was always that rarest thing in the world among us Negores: a true man.
And if, to protect my relations with the many good white folks who make it possible for me to earn a fairly good living in the entertainment industry, I was too chicken, too cautious, to admit that fact when he was alive, I thought at least that now, when all the white folks are safe from him at least, I could be honest with myself enough to life my hat for one final salute to that brave, black, ironic gallantry, which was his style and hallmark, that shocking zing of fire-and-be-damned-to-you, so absolutely absent in every other Negro man I know, which brought him, too soon, to his death.
Ossie Davis on Malcolm X
