In his eulogy for Malcolm X, the actor and activist, Ozzy Davis, described the slain

minister as a prince, our own black shining prince.

Malcolm was our manhood, our living black manhood.

This was his meaning to his people, our own black shining prince, who did not hesitate

to die because he loved us so.

In the decade since his 1965 assassination at New York's Autobahn Ballroom, nearly every

detail of Malcolm X's life and death has been mythologized, poured over and scrutinized.

He's been the subject of documentaries, major feature films, a Who-Dunned Docu series

on Netflix and countless books, including the autobiography of Malcolm X, the seed from

which so much of our understanding and admiration of X grew.

Many of us devoured the autobiography in our teen years, played Spike Lee's masterwork

film about him on repeat.

We even rocked hats with the big ex-embellyzen on them and hung posters of our fiery black

prince on our walls.

He represented a sense of black independence, black self-sufficiency and black pride that

had never before been captured so unflinchingly at a time when being too black and too proud

could be a desens.

Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair?

Who taught you to hate the color of your skin for such extent that you bleach to get

like the white man?

Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose and the shape of your lips?

Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the foes of your feet?

...