Reginald Wilson in "For Our American Cousins" in "For Malcolm",p.36 also in Vicious Modernism, page 153 Then black mothers moaned and wept on the curbs of Harlem as the crepe-draped catafalque that bore his great body grumbled by through the mourning streets. Then our pain was made manifest beyond enduring. Though we could not conceive it, we knew. Tough we could not bear it, we stood.