Mutawaf Shaheed

C. E. Shy has been writing since the seventh grade. He continued writing through high school, until he became more involved in sports. After his graduation, he worked at the White Motors Company where he wrote for the company’s newspaper. He started a column called: “The Poet’s Corner.” That was his first published work.

With a one-way ticket, he moved to Sweden. He met a Swedish photographer and started writing narratives for some of the photographs which were sold to newspapers and magazines.

After returning to the US, he joined a poetry workshop that was run by Russell Atkins and Norman Jordan from 1966 to 1968. He stopped writing for years, then started to write again in the late 90s, crafting novellas, flash fiction and poetry. He joined a writing workshop in Cleveland, Ohio in 2011 to hone his writing skills.

LIFE IN HIS OWN WORDS

This is as much of my life it’s as safe to remember, I think?

My life probably began not unlike many black people in America. It wasn’t until my last years in high school I began to see some of the many, many disparities that we were confronted with as black people. There were brothers and sisters who went through school getting good grades with expectations to land jobs and careers that would make life easier for them than their parents had. I had been writing since the seventh grade.

When I looked back over the years, I found what I wrote about was about separating myself from others. I was too young and unexposed to really understand how or when that would happen. In the meantime, I dealt with many things, kids did. Always being athletic―track and field, baseball, football were my past times. That in itself, limited my exposure to many other kids, I found myself drawn to older girls and boys. At fifteen I had girlfriends 18 and 19 years old. Most of them were in some way creative people.

I was never a good student and had poor grades throughout school. To the chagrin of my parents. I think geography was my favorite subject. In fact, reading about all the different places I wanted to travel, came from those courses. All the time I wrote, and my first job was at an assembly plant. I encouraged the editor of the plant ‘s newspaper to add a section called, The Poets Corner. There was only one other person who contributed to the column, she worked in the office. You have to figure that place was not a bastion of intellectual striving. I’ve looked through the archives of the company, trying to locate the poetry from the plant paper, it may have helped to have remembered the name of the publication. It has been to no avail, at this point.

At that point I began to follow my minds quest to travel. Before I started to plan on going to India, I was fortunate to meet a very good friend’s brother. He was one of the Avant-Garde music pioneers, Albert Ayler. He convinced me to go to Sweden. For various reasons. He told me, the white people there were different than the ones here in the states. That was one of the many lessons I was to learn about stereotyping. I purchased a one-way ticket to Stockholm, Sweden. I had no intention of ever coming back to the USA again. We plan and God plans. He is the best of Planners! I’m so thankful and grateful to my wonderful, tolerant parents for being there for me and my brothers. I could never repay them if I had everything in this world to give them, it wouldn’t be enough. After returning to the states, I was able to make comparisons between the place I left to the place I returned to. There was no comparison. I remember being summoned to the draft board office. The person I talked to, looked like a demon. All I could think of was how black people were being treated, no matter if they went to the military or not. They couldn’t even vote on who their tormentor would be. As I sat there, I became outraged that she would talk that bulls… to me.

The issue was resolved. We both agreed I needed stay a civilian. I later understood, she was just doing her job, she wasn’t able to do it on me. I wasn’t the status-quo brother. To this day I remember that event. Eventually I went back to Sweden. I knew a photographer who took pictures and sold them to magazines and other outlets. He lived in the same hotel in was in. I asked him to let me write something along with the photos. I would double as a model in different situations as well.

During that same time, I picked up a bass violin at a place called Nalen. It had very good natural acoustics. It was a place where musicians would gather after hours and jam till the break of dawn. Well known, professionals from all over the world would come after their gigs were done that night. Funny thing was a band leader heard me fooling around on it and asked me if I wanted to play a gig in the north of Sweden. This was an obvious joke. It wasn’t a joke, afterwards he explained to me why he said it. I was amazed, I still turned him down.

On this occasion, on my return to Stockholm I was being hunted by INTERPOL for something that happen back in the states. Joining me in Stockholm, though not being sought by any authorities; was Don Ayler the younger brother to Albert Ayler. He began speaking with Al’s old girlfriend, who at the time had a new boyfriend, a guitar player from the West Indies. After constantly bugging her, she told him, her uncle owned a hotel in a place called Jokkmokk, located in Lapp Land 20 /30 miles above the Arctic Circle.

He would be hiring there, she would call him and let him know he was on his way. I was on the run anyway, so off we went, hitchhiking after we ran out of money for transportation. It was in the dead of winter. It was on the E4 or European Highway. We spent the nights in different places, heated barns, in a dorm at Uppsala University, jail. Some people allowed us to stay overnight in their homes. I remember on one occasion, we sat at the dinner table, a small child sat next to me, he stared for a while, then took his finger to see if he could remove the color off my skin. It was hilarious! The north of Sweden was very remote and there probably no black people to be seen. His parents were embarrassed. We weren’t in the least bit offended, it was funny. I remember we had to sign a guest book. I wonder at times about that kid and his family.

By the time we arrived in Jokkmokk we were exhausted. The guy was her uncle and owned the hotel, but she had called him. He was not hiring. He was nice enough to allow us to spend the night in very comfortable beds, nice breakfast the next morning, then said he was sorry and have a safe journey. He gave us some money to get back to Stockholm. He may have felt some responsibility, because of his niece?

Upon our arrival to Stockholm, INTRPOL was there to welcome me to jail and await extradition to the USA. I was transferred to the local prison Longholman was its name. I happen to see some people I knew from the streets, well sort of. I was going with a gypsy woman, whose grandfather left her a large house located not too far from a police station. She would harbor criminals on the run in the basement, which was not in bad condition. I would meet some of them, get high and talk about different things, I spoke the language.

She sold them weed and provided two meals a day at a huge cost. If and when they decided to move on or refuse to pay more money. She would turn them in to the police for a reward. So, when they saw me there in the same prison with them, they burst out laughing, and say, “she turned you in too!” There was a strange set up at the prison, right next to the men’s part of the facility, was the women’s prison the two buildings were connected, only separated by one door, as I remember.

Every day that you could go out on what was called the guard would say in a loud voice, (promenade!). The women would be in the windows showing themselves and screaming things at the men. The walking area was fenced off in 12 sections, shaped in wedge, with the guard tower in the middle. Of course, you couldn’t say anything to any of the women, just subtle gestures. Now that I think about it, they were pointing who they wanted to get with.

One day the guy across the way from me called me over to his room, he asked me if had seen the women next door? He said for a certain amount of money he could fix it for me to have anyone of them. He was in there for robbing a post office and getting away with several hundred thousand Crowns, they never got the money, so he had a lot of influence in there. My question was how can I make money in there? He said he would talk to somebody and get me hooked up to fold envelopes and get paid.

When I saved enough money, I would be able have one of the women of my choice. I’m drawing a blank on the rest of the details. The cost of living, didn’t seem to be that much; as I recall what I can recall! After months of fighting extradition, I was escorted back to the US by two detectives from the CPD. The times I spent in Sweden I wrote many poems and other articles.

While locked up, I was able to get a lot of things written, especially with all the new experiences I gained. I ghost wrote for two different writers and got paid, I made ends meet.

I stayed in the county jail until my hearing. I was granted probation for three years. That’s when I got really serious with the music, I practiced sometimes all day and would travel by bus to play at different places, at the time my bass didn’t have a cover. It must have been a strange sight. I started going to NYC to play with Albert and Don Sunny Murry and others in that genre. After the clubs would close, we go to Leroi Jones loft in the village, everybody was there.

The next thing I knew the sun was up and it was time to figure how we’d eat. I wasn’t with that. I wasn’t prepared to be a slave for the music and the puppet masters, who would wait until you’d die, then get rich off your efforts. when you were alive, they wouldn’t give a dime. You got nothing while you were alive. The people who made those sacrifices deserved the credit.

The music the emotions it garnered is still with me, I write it, so its clearer most of the time. when I say it. It can still be left up to limited interpretation. It wasn’t long after I decided to back down from playing, for the afore stated purpose. I began to concentrate more on my writing. The time we were in, was a very turbulent period, a time when young people were no longer buying into the Status Quo. It was a time for the various art form to challenge the accepted norms. People were standing up against the things they felt was wrong within society. Whites as well as black people expressed a desire for change, civil rights movements, ant-war protests. In the opinion of many, the country was moving in the right direction. The writer’s workshop I joined was headed by Avant-Garde poet, Russell Atkins, for me it was a perfect match. The black nationalist movement was the hard liners of the rights struggle. There was Martin L King and Malcomb X. also, you had blacks that were involved with communist / socialist groups. I chose to be associated with the hard liners and much of my poetry reflected it then and now.

Over the years, I have been able to be more or less, more or less. I had gotten married and had a son, so a real job had to be considered. The movie Uptight was being filmed here in Cleveland at the time. I was one of the local militants chosen to partake in it. I can be seen in the opening of the Cleveland scene at a barbershop. We made some pretty good money, so I quit my job and I was going to HOLLYWOOD! Well that didn’t happen. In 1968, I once again was exposed to the religion of Islam. I guess this time was the charm.

After dropping, the life I led, along with the wife I had, I took my son and moved into the masjid, which was huge, nearly empty building. I found a babysitter for him. I didn’t have any money, I worked for the lady by cutting grass, raking leaves and whatever she needed to be done. She was an older sister and was accustomed to raising other people’s children.

That didn’t last long, I connected with a beautiful sister she took charge of that son and we went on to have two more sons. My first Muslim wife, we had a beautiful son together. Being still young and impetuous, life was changing at time faster than I could keep up with. These two sisters were and still are serving their families and community. Before I went to Scandinavia in the early 60’s I had a daughter, it took a long time to finally get with her. She is a jewel and the very light in my life.

I stopped writing for three and half decades. There was a major readjustment I had to make in order to continue. There was a lot to digest. A realignment of priorities. Cutting loose the ego. Coming to terms with who I am. I had to put first things first. Had to realize who was in charge. Once I did that, then I was able start again. While all that was going on, we established a prison program for Muslim inmates, our primary goal was to keep them from returning to being locked up anymore while attending to their spiritual needs. It was the first one of its kind in the country, recognized via contract, with an African Muslim Organization. We had a very good working relationship with the wardens in all the institutions we worked in. There were people who didn’t like the fact, we were accomplished and went on to destroy it. The history is well documented and can be found in the archives of the Western Reserve Historical Society and the George Mason University records and website called, After Malcomb.

In 2015 I published my first book, it is a novella called, Time Share, then a short story called, Substitutions. Unfortunately, the cost of admission was to run into crooked deviant. I have been published eight times in the county library systems poetry books. In four anthologies. A consultant in two documentaries, one of which was co-dedicated to me. In total, I have 42 books published with three cd’s, two compilation cd’s and one single poetry cd. I’m in the process of having my books reissued through Inner Child Press, who has a sterling record with a wealth of experience to go with it.

If my head stays hot and I don’t have too much control over that. I plan to continue writing what I hear, see, feel, imagine, perceive, and experience. InshALLAH

C. E. Shy, Pen Name for Poet / Verbalist: M A Shaheed

BOOKS by MUTAWAF A. SHAHEED

1 Time Share

2 Substitution

3 The House

4 PTSD poems that say Dream

5 Cyber Man

6 Volumes 1,2,3 of ArmChair chronicles Flash Fiction

7 The Visit

8 More Questions than Answers

9 Five Minutes past Midnight

10 The Muntu Poets after 47 yrs. with Russel Atkins (Anthology)

11 Pens and Needles

12 The muntu poets of Cleveland

13 If I only Could…

14 The glimpse

15 Me and Maysun

16 Balance

17 The door at the end of the Hall

18 Deliver me from Unconsciousness

19 A frayed

20 Pohwhims and Proz

21 Eclections 2,3

22 No Turns One Way

23 Transparent-s

24 Tuned In

25 Point Blank

26 Words in my Window

27 Mixed Emotions

28 Approaching the Ninth Dimension

29 Traveling in the Light

30 Signs and signals

31 Gray Area

36 Zero at the end of the Rainbow

37 Miles to go while I Weep

38 Mr. Gentleman, Nomenclature CD

39 The Pot

40 Sketchings

41 a knock on the Door

42 Ain’ no Change

43 Straight Up

44 Chapter Z

45 Watch Out

46 Compilation books for (ain’t no change) and (straight up).