When Muhummad Ali passed away last Friday, I felt a pang that I feel when I realize I should have paid more attention to a person when they were around. I was saddened and guilt ridden. A new void had been excavated, one that I did not know was there. I was born in the 90s, so Ali’s legacy did not make its way into my consciousness the way it had for those who are much older than me. I never bore witness in real time to his unforgettable fights in the ring. I never saw him speak radical truths on talk shows. What I learned about him was through movies, documentaries, my teachers, and my parents.
When I entered college and began to understand my own identities and oppressions more deeply, I started to look into black activists of the twentieth century in order to anchor myself in some sort of precedent. I knew of Ali because of his Islam. I’d been taught to value that this country, despite its rough history with Muslims, had at least valued this one Muslim man. All I knew of Ali was his name: he had chosen the most sacred of names, that of the Prophet Muhummad, and then a surname that means “lofty” or “sublime”— someone who transcends. These two names are two of the most common names in the Muslim community, and a man who possessed them was loved despite and in spite of them.
Growing up, that was all I knew. In many ways, my blind admiration needed unpacking. And when I learned more about Ali, I learned that he was a truly radical revolutionary when it comes to social justice. History has tempered his words and his candor in the name of dulcet storytelling, but the truth is, Ali spoke truths that no one wanted to hear. Perhaps this was his greatest legacy: he took risks much larger than the rings in which he fought.
One of the greatest examples of this is Ali’s refusal to fight in Vietnam, stating, “If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people they wouldn’t have to draft me, I’d join tomorrow. But I either have to obey the laws of the land or the laws of Allah. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I’ll go to jail. We’ve been in jail for 400 years.”
Today, we read such a quote and see his courage as almost expected: we now know the outcome of the war in Vietnam. We know how it was essentially fought to no avail. But to say such words, to state that he has been in jail for four hundred years, is to call into question the mythology of America, the notion that this country is built on freedom and equality. To say what Ali said in this moment is to debunk the presumed history upon which this country has been built. It is to acknowledge that the lives of people of color and white people are inherently different in ways that are unforgivable: no, he will not fight for a country that only sees his humanity when he wins a fight in the ring, and forgets about him otherwise.
Ali knew what mattered at the end of the day, and it wasn’t his boxing skills, his speed, or his grandeur. It was justice, which was largely informed by his faith and his blackness. He never let either fall to the background. He always acknowledged both and spoke with unforgettable eloquence and gusto when doing so. Throughout his life, even when Parkinson’s Disease took over, he still articulated sharp truths that so few wanted to hear, but that needed to be said. His confidence was an acerbic response to those who did not see his humanity. As if to say, You do not like my blackness? Well let me be more black. You do not like my faith? Well let me be more Muslim. He was unafraid in that way, and I think it would be remiss to think that Ali’s lessons are for all of us. No. He possessed something that only the oppressed can latch on to, because his greatness came from his understanding of his own oppression.
My hope is that those who claim that he transcends race, faith, and all other identities come to terms with the fact that he did not transcend any of these things. No, he lived in them, he wallowed in their nuances, their nebulousness. And if we are to remember him properly, then I think it’s imperative to remember that Ali’s greatest legacy is that we must be willing to look inward, to ask ourselves what’s at stake when we refuse to speak up in the face of injustice, or when we refuse to explore the privileges we've been afforded. We must be willing to make room for more truth-speakers and radical thinkers in our society. There cannot be only one Ali; we must find a way to cultivate a society where those who speak such truths are heard and seen and represented accurately, without omitting aspects of their words that call into question deeply held beliefs. Muhummad Ali may be gone, but his legacy lives on in those who are fighting for the equity he dreamed of today.
