Becoming Muhammad Ali Read online

  Me, I loved soda—especially ice-cold in frosty bottles on those hot Louisville summer nights. So did most kids. It tasted soooo good! But Cassius never touched it. Not a single sip. “Sugar and acid ain’t good for you, Lucky,” he said. And that was that.

  Focus.

  For Cassius, there was no smoking either (“Ain’t gonna put that stuff in my lungs!”). And he always went to bed at ten o’clock, even on Saturday nights. Like he wanted to grow in his sleep.

  Focus.

  After school, we went everywhere together, the two of us. And whenever we headed downtown, we stuck together tight. Tight like glue. And we kept our eyes wide open. Because going downtown meant crossing over into the white world. And in that world, four eyes were definitely better than two.

  All over Louisville, we saw signs that Cassius’s daddy had painted. But the white people who owned the stores under those signs stared at us when we passed by—like they were just waiting for us to do something wrong, or say something fresh, or take something we didn’t pay for.

  One day, we passed a bicycle store. There was a line of bikes out front, with bright chrome fenders and front wheels all turned to one side. At the end, one bike stood out past the others. It was a brand-new Schwinn Black Phantom, with white sidewall tires, pinstripes, and sparkly paint. It was the coolest bike either of us had ever seen.

  Cassius gave out a low whistle when he saw it.

  “Look at that bike, Lucky!” he said. “That’s the kind of bike I should be riding!”

  Cassius reached out and stroked the handlebars like he was petting a cat. The chrome gleamed between his fingers.

  Then we heard the bike-shop door open. The owner and his wife stood in the doorway, halfway out, at the top of the cement steps. We froze.

  “You boys don’t want nothin’ with that bike,” said the man, his face all red and puffy. He started to come down the steps at us, but his wife put a hand on his arm. She seemed a little softer, but still strong enough to stop him. She had reddish-blond hair and a green dress.

  “Scoot, now,” she said. “You boys get on home.”

  She knew exactly where home was.

  Home meant the West End—mostly black Louisville. It was one of the few parts of the city where the Clays and my folks could buy a house. In most parts of town, they couldn’t get a loan to buy a house, couldn’t even walk into most hotels or diners. Whites Only, the signs said. When Mrs. Clay took Cassius downtown as a kid, he got confused because nobody there looked like him.

  “Momma Bird,” Cassius would ask, “what did they do with all the colored people?”

  One day when Cassius was little, he stood outside the five-and-dime store crying because he was thirsty. When Mrs. Clay went inside to ask for a drink of water, the store guard made her leave.

  “If we serve Negroes in here, we lose our jobs,” the guard told her. So Cassius went home thirsty, mad the whole way. Cassius was so young, his momma thought he wouldn’t remember that day.

  But he did.

  Granddaddy Herman’s Living Room

  was always like church

  to me.

  I was the congregation.

  His couch, my pew.

  The rhythm and blues on his radio

  was the choir, and

  Ebony magazine

  was his bible.

  His sermons were sometimes poems,

  other times stories

  from history—his and America’s.

  But my granddaddy’s sermons always ended

  the same way:

  Know who you are, Cassius.

  And whose you are.

  Know where you going

  and where you from.

  Amen. Amen. Amen.

  Where I’m From

  I am from black Cadillacs,

  from plastic-covered sofas

  in tiny pink houses.

  I am from the one bathroom

  we all shared

  and the living room

  you stayed out of.

  I am from Friday fried fish

  and chocolate birthday cakes,

  from Levy Brothers’ slacks

  and shiny white shoes,

  from Cash and Bird,

  from storytellers

  and good looks,

  from don’t say you can’t

  till you try.

  I’m from the Kentucky Derby

  and the land of baseball bats,

  from the two Cassius Clays before me—one

  black, one white.

  I am from slavery

  to freedom,

  from the West End

  to Smoketown,

  from the unfulfilled dreams

  of my father

  to the hallelujah hopes

  of my momma.

  My Momma

  smells like vanilla,

  is always smiling,

  loves cooking,

  and I bet could make

  a whole Sunday outfit

  outta needle and thread.

  Odessa “Bird” Clay may be

  the smallest

  of the Clays,

  but her heart is the biggest,

  wide as the sea.

  And when she sings

  at Mount Zion Baptist,

  her voice is like water,

  soft and sweet

  as a hummingbird.

  She Says the Day I Was Born

  my head

  was too big

  to come out

  on its own,

  so the doctors yanked me

  with some sharp tongs

  that left a small, square bruise

  on my cheek.

  She says I hurt so much

  that I cried

  and hollered

  most of the night

  and into the next day,

  which got the other

  babies in the ward

  screaming too,

  but probably I was

  sounding a rallying cry

  to all my little soldiers

  for all the brown babies

  in the world

  to stand up

  and be counted.

  After That

  I vowed to never

  let anyone put a mark

  on my pretty face

  again.

  Cassius Clay vs. Odessa “Bird” Clay

  MARCH 14, 1943

  My first knockout punch

  came at the age of one, when

  I accidentally

  hit my beautiful

  momma in the mouth and knocked

  her front tooth clean out.

  When Bird Gets Mad

  at me about something

  I done wrong,

  she calls me CASSIUS MARCELLUS CLAY JR.,

  but mostly I’m just Gee-Gee

  ’cause she says

  before I could even crawl

  I was running my mouth,

  and the first sound I made

  was the letter G, twice,

  but probably I was just dreaming

  aloud, foreshadowing

  my fate,

  trying to voice

  my future

  as a Golden Gloves

  champion.

  My Brother, Rudy

  came two years after

  me, and ever since, we’ve been

  like two golden stars

  in the northern skies—

  inseparable—and our

  parents’ brightest hope.

  Now, My Daddy

  Cassius Marcellus Clay Sr.,

  better known

  around Louisville

  as Cash,

  is the opposite

  of Bird.

  He’s six feet

  of bronze

  and brawn, and

  when he isn’t singing

  or scolding

  or dancing

  or joking

  with his Saturday night buddies

  way i
nto Sunday morning,

  he’s painting masterpieces—old Bible scenes

  on church walls,

  new billboards, and signs

  on storefront windows—and happy

  the whole time.

  Signs My Father Painted

  Open Lunch and Dinner

  Dreamland Bar & Soul Food Café

  Our Own Community Delicatessen

  Best Charcoal Ribs in Louisville

  Parking Around Back

  Whiskey by the Drink

  Serving Fresh Ice Cream

  Colored Waiting Room

  This Way for Fun—Fontaine Ferry Park

  Whites Only

  Segregation Is Immoral

  There’s No Way Like the American Way

  Vote for Progress

  We Cut Heads

  Percy’s Barbershop

  Now Buy Victory Bonds

  Rock and Roll Sold Here

  Closed on Sundays

  Some Sundays

  when Papa Cash would stumble in

  after being out

  all night,

  Momma would ask him

  when he was gonna fix

  the wobbly front porch

  or the leak

  in the roof,

  and he’d ignore her

  or start fussin’,

  then leave back

  out the house

  with me and Rudy

  tagging right along,

  over to Granddaddy Herman’s house,

  who would give us

  something sweet,

  like Black Jack Taffy,

  show us magic tricks,

  tell us funny

  and not-so-funny stories

  about famous

  and not-so-famous Negroes,

  bounce us

  on his one good knee,

  all while smoking a cigar

  and arguing

  with my daddy

  till they both fell asleep.

  Growing Up

  When Rudy could walk

  we got a pet chicken,

  a dog named Rusty,

  and a new house

  with a brand-new backyard

  near the size of a basketball court,

  where we would play with Rusty,

  and chase

  the chicken

  and each other

  around.

  We had a goldfish pond

  that I watched Daddy build,

  plus a vegetable garden

  with snap beans

  that I loved

  to peel,

  and onions

  that I loved to eat,

  raw.

  Everything

  was easygoing

  and laid-back

  on our side

  in the West End,

  where we lived,

  so that’s where

  we played

  and prayed

  and went to school

  and grew up

  but every now and then

  we’d cross a line

  and wonder

  why we couldn’t stay

  and play

  on the other side

  of it.

  The Other Side

  When Rudy got old enough

  for Bird to let me

  take him

  out and about,

  we ran,

  jumped, and

  played on every inch

  of Chickasaw Park,

  ’cause it was in our neighborhood

  but we’d never been

  to Fontaine Ferry Park

  even though

  it had

  amusement rides

  and even though

  it was right next to our neighborhood.

  We were gonna go

  to Fontaine

  and dare anybody

  to stop us.

  We told Momma

  we were walking over

  to Granddaddy Herman’s

  to help him

  chop some wood,

  which was true, but first

  we were gonna cross the line

  and go have some fun

  at Fontaine Park.

  The Whites Only sign

  met us at the fence

  outside the park

  and the two police officers

  with Colt 45 pistols

  made sure

  we stayed there.

  Later That Day

  we chopped wood

  in silence

  and when we were done

  Granddaddy Herman preached

  a sermon

  that I’ll never forget.

  Two Louisvilles

  For a Negro boy

  in the West End,

  you know you can

  play tag

  in Chickasaw Park

  but you better not be caught dead

  in Shawnee Park

  or Boone Square.

  And, no matter how many times

  you hear the crackle

  of wooden roller-coasters,

  smell the hot buttered popcorn,

  and watch thousands

  of happy white kids

  eat cotton candy,

  you know you’re not allowed

  in Fontaine.

  Boys, there’s two Louisvilles:

  One where you go school shopping

  for clothes

  and one where you can’t

  try on the clothes

  beforehand

  or bring ’em back

  if they don’t fit.

  One where you roller-skate

  outside your house

  and one where you’re not allowed

  inside the local rink.

  One where you can go

  to some movie theaters

  and one where you have to

  sit in the balcony

  and barely hear

  the movie.

  One where you got a decent job

  with decent pay

  and one where you get a raise

  but your house payment goes up.

  One where you can go

  to the amusement park

  with your friends

  and one where you stand

  outside the fence

  like a caged bird

  singing the summertime blues,

  because your skin

  is like a crow—black

  and unwelcome.

  One for whites

  and one for blacks.

  Know who you are, boys.

  And whose you are.

  Know where you going

  and where you from.

  Amen. Amen. Amen.

  I Want to Be Rich

  I said to

  Rudy as we lay

  in the backyard

  under the stars

  talking to the chicken

  and each other

  about being famous

  one day like

  Chuck Berry,

  that way they’d have to

  let us in

  their amusement park.

  But, since neither one of us

  could sing or dance,

  and we both loved

  to slap-box,

  we figured maybe we could

  be rich like

  Joe Louis instead,

  buy the darn park,

  and build

  the first American Cadillac roller coaster,

  candy-apple red,

  so that any kid

  could get into Clay Park

  and ride the rides.

  Momma Hollered

  from the kitchen,

  interrupting

  our moonlit dreams and

  big ideas.

  Gee-Gee, time for you

  and Rudy

  to wash up,

  say your prayers,

  and go to bed.

  I liked pranks,

  so I stood up,


  told Rudy,

  DON’T MOVE!

  There’s a great

  big ol’ copperhead snake

  in the grass

  next to your head,

  and he jumped up,

  screaming

  all the way into next week,

  forgetting all about

  Fontaine Ferry Park.

  But I never did.

  ROUND THREE

  Did I mention I always wanted to be a writer? Maybe you guessed, since you’re reading this. Written by Lucky. Or I guess I should say, by Lucius Wakely. Sounds more writerly. But luck definitely played a part in me becoming a writer.

  Because I was lucky enough to know Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr.

  Cassius would be the first to admit that he didn’t like to write—or study. He showed me his report card once. His average grade was 72, which was just about passing. He got a 93 in metalwork, though. I guess you could say he was good with his hands.

  I was different. I liked school. In fact, I bawled like a baby if I didn’t get 100 on a test. But Cassius wouldn’t let me cry about stuff like that.

  “Dry it up, Lucky!” he said. “School ain’t life.”

  Once I got a B on an English essay, and I knew it wasn’t fair. Cassius made me walk right up to the teacher after class and argue with him. I went back and forth with that teacher for a half-hour—but in the end, I got my A.

  “You got it ’cause you deserved it,” said Cassius, “and ’cause you didn’t back down.”

  Cassius didn’t like to read much either, but he really liked being read to. Sometimes we’d sit together in his front yard with his little brother, Rudy, and I’d read from newspapers or magazines or comic books. Especially Superman comics. Cassius loved Superman. Loved him! He loved that Superman was stronger than everybody else. He loved that he was world-famous. He loved that he defeated villains and that people called him a hero. “Truth, justice, and the American way.” That was Superman’s motto. Cassius loved that part the most!

  There were times, growing up in Louisville, when Cassius was my own personal superman. One day, the three of us—me, Rudy, and Cassius—were walking down the street when a car rolled right up next to us. It was so close, I could hear the radio and smell the cigarette smoke inside. The car was filled with young men. White men. And I guess they thought we were on a street we shouldn’t be on.