A young woman reflects on the troubles of Betty Shabazz's 12-year-old grandson Malcolm. Like Malcolm Shabazz, the author grew up filled with anger and only began to learn how to control it at the age of 22, when she went to the Nation of Islam. Ladie Terry, now 23, attends City College of San Francisco and works as the office manager at Pacific News Service.

News about the troubles of Betty Shabazz's grandson brought me back to a time when I didn't know how, or where, to begin to learn how to rise above my emotions into the thinking of God.

I was about the same age as Malcolm Shabazz, and the daughter of a single mom. I didn't like a lot of things, including myself. I expressed my dislike by abusing my sisters, in emulation of my mom. We were in the Army every day -- shirts had to be folded like the department stores would fold theirs, the tub had to be cleaned, floors swept and mopped, dishes washed. Sometimes, dinner had to be prepared. Being that I was the eldest, I had to steward the chores and my sisters while my mom was at work.

Chores had to be done, or you would pay. I would push my sisters into the bath tub. I would scream at them at the top of my lungs, making veins pop out of my neck and forehead. Throw things at them. I didn't like being the bad guy, but if it wasn't done we'd all regret it when mom came home.

My mom died when I was 14 and I was placed in a foster home. By then, I had mastered my uncontrolled behavior: If things weren't going my way, I would scream and act a fool. One day, my foster mom confined me to the house for talking back so I screamed at her, stormed off to my room and slammed the door. I knew she wanted to strangle me, but all she did was open the door and ground me for two more weeks.

She told me if I kept acting like I was crazy, people would think I was crazy. And she told me I would not get too far in life with an ugly attitude.

Of course I ignored her. For years I dragged that attitude to my jobs, it was there with friends and with people I did not know, and it was with me, finally, when I went to the Nation of Islam.

You couldn't calm me down when I began crying, nor could you change my mind. I would keep repeating in my head what was said to me, and how it hurt my feelings. Wipe my tears away and they'd start back up. I was such a sad person that crying was easy. I could turn tears on like a water faucet.

I did not like the way my life was fashioned. I was brought into the world with my mommy thinking that a man should be judged by how good he is in bed and how much money he had. Later in her life, out of her frustration at being alone with four children, she began beating us like drums. It felt like she was playing her favorite song.

Twenty-two years into my life, the Nation of Islam became a hospital for my mind. I decided that I wanted to be in control of my anger, sensitivity, frustrations, disappointments. It was like riding a horse for the first time.

In the Nation of Islam you are taught never to be the aggressor. I should never do anything to anyone I wouldn't do to myself. I should want for others what I would want for myself. When I think bad things about other people, I have already committed a wrong.

A wrong way of thinking can be a god for people, and I do not want to set up a god next to God. I have to struggle with learning God's mind and not go against the grain of my brain. It will take years.

I cannot judge the grandson of Betty Shabazz, because I have not heard him speak. But I do know he has reasons for showing anger. Others hide anger in their hearts or show it differently. I had realized my anger at the age of 22 and I am still struggling with it. He is only twelve.