Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 10

  My mother had serious concerns about my involvement with the Party. She would catch me when no one else was around. “Wayne, think about what direction you are heading with your life. Think about your future.”

  “Yeah, Mom, I hear you. But somebody has to stop those in power, who are destroying our communities and our people.”

  She would shake her head and walk away. Then she would come back with more ammunition. “There are a lot of different characters up in there,” she’d scold. “All of them are not the same, and all of them don’t have the same intentions in mind. You don’t want to have to suffer because of somebody else’s mess.”

  As for Nanny, she wouldn’t say much while others were around. But when we were alone she’d make sure to give me her words of wisdom, too. “Listen, Wayne, good people always start off doing right, or wanting to do right, but somewhere along the way they sometimes get turned around. Before you know it, they’re crossing lines they had no intention of ever crossing. They’ll bring other people down when they fall.”

  “I know, Nanny,” I’d insist reassuringly. “I can tell the difference.”

  “Good people,” she’d emphasize, peering at me with a hinting expression in her eyes.

  Nanny was always on my side, though. She had faith and confidence in me and never directly questioned my decisions.

  I told my mother and Nanny not to worry. I knew what I was doing.

  8

  LEADING PANTHERS

  “Free Huey Newton!”

  It was the battle cry of the Black Panther Party. In September 1968, about a month before I joined, minister of defense and Party cofounder Huey P. Newton began serving a two-to-fifteen-year sentence for allegedly killing a police officer. He pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder and told his side of the story in court. From what I understood, two Oakland officers had stopped Huey without cause as he and a friend, Gene McKinney, were driving to a Party fund-raiser. Recognizing that he was a Black Panther, they called him a bunch of racist names, pulled out their weapons, and began shooting. Huey defended himself, and when the battle ended, one of the officers was dead, the other seriously wounded, and Huey had been shot in the stomach. Based on some of the stuff that had already gone down with the pigs throughout the United States, I had no trouble believing Huey’s version of events. Now he was in jail—a political prisoner, convicted for defending himself and his political beliefs. As comrades, it was our job to set him free.

  Raising money for Huey’s appeal and legal defense had been an important part of Party work. As a matter of fact, soon after his indictment, comrades from the national office such as Chairman Bobby Seale and Chief of Staff David Hilliard had traveled throughout the country organizing with local chapters and speaking at Free Huey events. A rally and fund-raiser had been scheduled at the Los Angeles Sports Arena on February 18, 1968, just one day after an Oakland celebration of Huey’s twenty-sixth birthday.

  I remember being excited about going; I believed I would learn a lot more about the Party and its philosophy, helping me to decide whether it really was an organization I should join. There was a lot of buzz about it in the community. I made arrangements with Louis, my BSU partner, to ride with me. I got up that morning full of anticipation. When it was time to go, I pulled on my Levi’s and a dark blue T-shirt, grabbed my ski jacket, and was out the door. I stopped and picked up Louis, and we cruised in my low-rider over to the Los Angeles Sports Arena.

  Walking into the Sports Arena that day, I was not disappointed: we witnessed an inspiring demonstration of black unity, and the energy was palpable. I remember what a dazzling sight it was: thousands of beautiful black people, a sea of Afros and bright colors. Members of the Black Panther Party were conspicuous, standing proud and dressed in black leather coats, light blue shirts, and berets. Pictures of Huey Newton were everywhere. Posters, buttons, and T-shirts were being sold, and Panthers were collecting donations. Right in the mix was a heavy presence of guns, signifying the Party’s open commitment to self-defense. It was a definitive day for me, pushing me another step closer toward becoming a Panther.

  During the event, an exceptional group of black power leaders spoke to the importance of Huey Newton and the Black Panther Party. Even from far away, Eldridge Cleaver was an imposing sight, standing about six foot five and broad-shouldered. He electrified the crowd as he discussed the system that oppressed all of us and then called on us to defend ourselves. SNCC activists H. Rap Brown and Stokely Carmichael had recently joined the Black Panther Party, and they spoke to the issue of solidarity among movement activists. The crowd was pulsating, as people were taking everything in and cheering on the speakers. Other speakers included Ron Karenga and James Forman, both of whom had helped to organize the event, along with members of the Black Congress. It was a great coming together of revolutionary organizations, and I was glad to be in the room with all of them. It was a moving day, and I left the rally believing we were ready for freedom!

  The Free Huey Newton Rally that day also signified the “coming-out” of the Southern California chapter. Now the local group could move from being underground to being a recognizable organization, in full operation and ready to challenge the power structure. It was officially live and would be the first fully organized chapter of the Party outside of Northern California.

  The great success of the rally also led to substantially increased membership in the chapter. Soon college students, former gang members, and all levels of the working classes—people who were fed up with police brutality and oppression—became members. The Southern California chapter consisted first of Los Angeles and then spread all the way south to San Diego, north to Fresno, west to Riverside, and beyond. Several of my friends from the Slausons even joined; they were already rooted in the neighborhood and ready to be recruited. At that point, however, I had been impressed but not ready to make the commitment. I was going to school and leading the BSU at Harbor. And I was still trying to hit every party I could in the Los Angeles basin.

  About a week after the rally, Baba and I were hanging out at Jerry’s house after school. The establishment of the Southern California chapter had created a lot of excitement in the community, and we were still talking about the rally and the energy and the possibilities that we had seen from that experience.

  Jerry lit a joint, took a big toke, and passed it to Baba.

  Leaning back in my chair, I pondered out loud, “All of us know that the community desperately needs a force to take it forward.”

  “Mm—yeah?” Baba squeaked out as he inhaled.

  “We need someone who can educate but also inspire people to get involved,” I continued. “There’s not a single person on the scene right now who does that better than Huey Newton, and his ass is in jail. That’s a bad mother right there,” I finished, taking the joint from Baba.

  Jerry had gotten up and gone into the kitchen, where he was busy pulling food from the fridge so we could make some sandwiches. “Yeah, I hear what you’re saying,” he hollered out. “Anybody who rolls around with law books in his car, pulling them out to school some damn pig, is definitely on another level.”

  I handed the joint back to Baba.

  “That’s all well and good,” Baba countered, “but how is that different from what the Community Alert Patrol has been doing here for years? That ain’t nothing new.”

  “CAP is doing good work,” I answered. “But nobody outside of L.A. knows they exist. Huey is a national and even international symbol of defiance against the entire system. Did you see all those people at the rally? Multiply that by some more, because that same excitement is bubbling up in other places right now as our black asses speak.”

  Jerry walked back into the room with all the fixings for sandwiches: bread, bologna, salami, mustard, mayo, and sliced cheese. “Huey seems to be the right man for the right time,” he said, “but I don’t want us to turn this into some kind of hero-worshipping cult. We’ve been down that fucked-up road before.” He put the plate d
own. Baba and I both dove in. “This is about organization,” Jerry continued thoughtfully. “This is about the blueprint for revolution that must be accepted by all the people, not just a few.”

  “I think the pattern of this being bigger than one person is already in place,” I observed. “You’ve got Chairman Bobby Seale giving a good balance to Huey. He speaks to the issues on a grassroots level where people can understand it. Seale also got some guts too. Seale led the move against Ronald Reagan and the Mulford Act [a 1967 law prohibiting the public carrying of firearms] by walking into the capitol in Sacramento armed to the teeth. Somebody needed to confront those lawmakers, or let me change that to law breakers, who were trying to stop us from being able to defend ourselves against the pigs.”

  “How did those two meet anyway, Bobby and Huey?” asked Baba with a mouthful of food.

  “They met at school,” I answered, “on the campus of Merritt College in Oakland. They were both student organizers.”

  “People are getting fixated on Bobby and Huey, but it’s actually Eldridge who’s the baddest of ’em all,” Jerry offered. “He’s an elder in a way and has lived through a lot more than the other two. He knows, firsthand, what it is to live at the bottom. A decade spent in Folsom ain’t no joke. I imagine one learns some serious shit from doing that kind of time. Probably more than you two jokers are learning at Harbor and Southwest,” he chuckled sarcastically.

  Baba and I both laughed.

  “He ain’t the minister of information for no reason,” Jerry continued. “He’s the real deal. Let’s not forget that Eldridge is from L.A., and he’s the one who schooled Bunchy on the Party.”

  Jerry went on to explain that Bunchy and Eldridge met when they were both doing time at Soledad State Prison, when Bunchy was in for bank robbery. At first Bunchy had rejected the Party. But after visiting Eldridge in Oakland and learning more about the Party’s program, Bunchy changed his mind.

  Baba looked at Jerry. “I don’t know what kind of ‘good’ balance Eldridge is,” he argued. “The word on the vine is that fool be actually raping sisters. What kind of example is that for a revolutionary?”

  “No shit?” I said, surprised.

  Baba frowned. “That’s the stuff we’re trying to stop in our community, committing crimes against our own people. How is anyone going to call himself a revolutionary but then commit rape? What kind of shit is that?” he asked incredulously.

  The three of us fell silent, not knowing what on earth to say or think about the charge that Baba had just leveled against the minister of information.

  Finally, Jerry broke the silence. “Well, maybe he’s a wiser man now. Perhaps all that time in prison changed him. I know we can’t justify his shit, but hell, life is tough. We all carry some demons, and at some point hopefully we get the upper hand on them.”

  Inside the Party, Eldridge was known as Papa because of his age. When I joined at the age of nineteen, Eldridge was thirty-three, almost twice my age. We considered him an elder who had more experience than almost everybody in the Party when dealing with “the man.” As a member of the rank and file, I never got the chance to sit down and talk with Eldridge, but I admired him nonetheless. He could speak well, write well, hold it down with the ladies, and he didn’t take no shit off of whitey and the pigs.

  After I joined, one of my roles as a Panther was to work with the security and advance team at our rallies, festivals, and fund-raisers. Long John Washington trained me on the art of security, which meant I had to check out the locations before the rally, make note of where the lights and exits were, and determine if doors anywhere were locked. I also had to be primed for the possibility of violence. Long John or Ronald Freeman would check my weapons sometimes, making sure they worked. Working so closely with them, I found they became my mentors, and they tried to make sure us new cats weren’t put in dangerous situations. Long John also told me to watch myself, and that I could voice my concerns to him. If I had a beef with other Panthers or outside organizations, I could share that with Long John or Ronald and they would deal with it.

  Because I came into the Party with knowledge of guns, I didn’t receive a lot of weapons training. But we new guys all had to spend time learning about self-defense tactics, which I was always happy to do. At each office, comrades had to take time to break down guns, clean them, and make sure they were in good working order.

  At the Watts office, I mainly worked with Al and Lux on guns. One day while we were cleaning some of our guns, I shared my philosophy on the topic. “You see this piece of iron right here?” I announced to Al, Lux, and James. “This is the real passport to freedom and respect. People got it twisted by thinking that it’s money. Nah, man, nah. It’s actually this steel right here.”

  “I agree,” said Al. “But freedom comes with responsibility,” he continued solemnly. “This freedom right here ain’t no plaything at all. One squeeze means life or death—to one or to many. But I know I’m preaching to the choir. Wayne, I’m glad you’re here to help us build up our strength in this area. It’s critical that we are able to show people how they can stand up.”

  “Wouldn’t have it no other way,” I said.

  Most Panther rallies were on college campuses or at parks, with lots of speakers. We saw rallies as recruiting tools for the party. A lot of white kids came to our rallies too. We saw that as a good thing, because we needed to educate white folks on how and why they needed to engage in revolutionary activity along with us. The police, of course, were always around as well—on foot, in cars, or in helicopters flying over us. They took a lot of pictures. It was at these events that we would likely wear black leather coats and berets. Otherwise, we rarely wore those uniforms, because it almost guaranteed harassment from the police.

  It was because of my role in security and as part of the advance team that I was able to get a glimpse of Eldridge Cleaver up close. One time in particular I got to see a lot of him: when he campaigned for the presidency in late 1968 on the platform of the Peace and Freedom Party. He came to Los Angeles to speak—some white activists whom we partnered with to fight against the Vietnam War led the Peace and Freedom Party—and they kept me busy in my security role as we traveled from location to location campaigning. It was during that campaign that I really understood how effective Eldridge was at articulating the position of the Party. He could masterfully curse in a way that wouldn’t turn people off—now that’s an art form.

  I remember one day when I was on his security detail he took the podium and let loose. There he stood before the packed house of a majority-white audience in his black leather coat. Minister Cleaver didn’t flinch or try to be someone he was not. He just said it as he saw it. “We see the world as being divided into two types,” he exhorted; “there’s the people, and then there’s the pigs. People tell me that Ronald Reagan says the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense is racist.” The crowd literally roared at the notion of Ronald Reagan having the gall to call someone else racist. “The Black Panther Party is not racist,” he continued. “We want all people to be free. It’s just that either we’re going to be free or nobody’s going to be free. Wanting to be free from pigs having their damn foot on your neck is not being racist. It’s being rational. It’s having common sense. It’s wanting the full life that you were put here to live.”

  Deputy Minister of Information John Huggins (far right) leads Los Angeles Black Panthers in a military style drill at a Free Huey Rally at Bobby Hutton Park in Oakland. The shirts were designed by Deputy Minister of Defense Bunchy Carter. COURTESY OF IT’S ABOUT TIME ARCHIVES

  The entire audience stood up and cheered. It was a great speech, and I was lucky enough to be right there. The man knew how to engage a crowd!

  Some of the naysayers in the community couldn’t understand why Eldridge would waste his time running for an office he couldn’t win. In our political education classes, Al Armour addressed that issue directly. “What’s important for you all to understand, and understand clearly, is
that this is one of the most racist elections of recent times,” Al explained. “On one hand, you got this Tricky Dick character running on law and order, scaring white folks into voting for him. On the other hand, you have the door-blocker George Wallace, who actually tried to prevent black students from attending the University of Alabama, a school their families’ tax dollars help to run.”

  “Hubert Humphrey, even though he’s not for the war, don’t stand a chance against them racists,” somebody declared.

  “One of the reasons he doesn’t is because he don’t have enough fire in his torch,” I responded forcefully. “What’s needed in the mix is a voice that’s sharp, powerful, and yet eloquent, like the minister of information for the Black Panther Party, Eldridge Cleaver.”

  “That’s all well and good, but Cleaver definitely don’t stand a chance in a presidential election either,” said a sister as she stood up in the back of the room. “Especially if even a white man who’s been vice president don’t stand a chance.” The conversation was escalating.

  “To win, for our purposes, is to raise the level of consciousness of the people,” I replied, feeling my own adrenaline kicking in.

  A number of people around the room murmured in agreement of my point.