Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 7

  The very next day, Donald and I were getting something to eat. “You know I’m sort of digging the Panthers, because they seem to understand how power goes down for real,” I said to him. “It makes all the sense in the world to me that if your oppressor, the state, the police, or whoever, is going to be strapped with gun power, then you better have some too. Otherwise, how can you ever hope to stop them from running all over you or respecting even your most basic rights?”

  “That’s right,” chimed Donald. “We see every day what they’re capable of. Hell, it could even get crazier than this. What’s stopping them? Thank goodness that enough of them colonial crackers peeped this same thing and were intelligent enough to write that Second Amendment.”

  I agreed. “Yeah, that is some deep shit. By really looking out for their own asses, they built a door for us to walk through as well.”

  Donald couldn’t help but bellow out a loud laugh. “Yeah, what goes around comes around.”

  He then talked about how the Black Panther Party had opened up an office in Oakland. He respected the Panthers, but with all his other responsibilities, including working and school, he couldn’t even think about joining.

  During my bus ride back to South Central, I wrestled with my level of commitment to black people and my willingness to sacrifice to attain black power. Talking with Donald had helped, but I wanted to get some input from someone closer to me. I immediately thought of Sharon. I called her from the Oakland bus station.

  “Are you OK? Is everything all right? You’re not in any danger, are you?” I must have scared her a bit, because she had grave concern in her voice.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind. It’s time for me to make some changes in my life. I need to be more engaged in the solution to the problems facing black people.”

  “What are you talking about?” she responded.

  “Solutions to how black people can bring about a better life for ourselves, for our families, for our communities. I can’t lay it all out now, but as soon as I get back I want to talk this through with you.”

  “All right, that’s fine by me. Call me when you’re back. Be safe.”

  “I will,” I finished, as I hung up the pay phone.

  My mother, of course, had other ideas, which only added to my frustration. It seemed like she didn’t even understand what it was like out there. “This is about your life, Wayne. Your life!” she scolded.

  I just looked at her.

  But she wasn’t done. “Don’t you understand how important education is for giving you the skills you need to make sure you have a decent future? You have had opportunities that most black kids can only dream of. Don’t squander it on low-riding in the streets. This is not at all a game.”

  It was important to my mom that I go to college, but I hadn’t prepared for that path in any great detail, so going to a four-year university would not be an option for me, at least at that time. I could tell that she was getting emotional, so I said to her calmly, like Mr. Morgan had taught me, “Mom, I understand what you’re saying and I do hear you. But nothing has clicked for me yet. I’m not sure what I want to do with my life.”

  “Son, the reason why you can’t see the future is because you are too comfortable with the present. Working that scrubber’s job at the airport is certainly not helping. I knew I should’ve never let you take that job,” she complained.

  “That’s not true. That job gives me a sense of freedom, a feeling of being my own man.” It was like I was getting stifled from both sides: first, there was hardly any place a black man could go in the streets and feel safe, and now my freedom was getting squashed at home, too.

  “A man free to do what?” she yelled back at me. “Sentence himself to the life of a janitor, getting sick from stolen, bad food?”

  She was hitting hard, real hard. I knew school was important to her. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want more for myself. It was just that no fire was burning in me as far as school was concerned. I was much more interested in what was happening to black people and our fight against racism. That was something with a greater purpose! Couldn’t she see that? However, my mother did have a point about preparing for what might come my way. As a compromise, I decided that I would at least attend a community college. But I was feeling restless.

  Harbor Junior College sat wedged right next to the Harbor Freeway in the South Bay area, nestled in lots of wide-open regional park space and farmland. It was a clear contrast to Los Angeles City College (LACC), which was located in the heart of South Central on Vermont Avenue. I ultimately selected Harbor because several people from my neighborhood were going to LACC. I knew that being around them at school would interfere with my ability to focus, and since I had made the decision to attend, I didn’t want to flunk out the first semester.

  While I waited for school to begin in the fall, I worked on my car and continued to low-ride with friends. Then on a balmy August day I ran into this fine sister named Marcia, who was what we called a fox, because she was so good looking. I stepped back to admire her smooth brown skin, straight black hair, and pleasing face. I even loved her bowlegs. But what she said that day changed everything. “Have you heard about Tommy?” she frowned. “He got killed last night.”

  I replied coolly. “That’s not unexpected news. What happened?”

  “Well, he got in a shoot-out with the police. The police killed him,” she said angrily.

  “Tommy was in the Black Panthers, is that right?” Now I was interested.

  “Yeah, he was,” she nodded.

  Marcia was talking about Tommy Lewis, nicknamed “Monkey Man,” who had joined the Black Panther Party. I had known Tommy for years, and even though we weren’t the best of friends, we weren’t enemies either. We both went to Edison Junior High; he was a pretty cool cat, but we bumped heads from time to time. A lot of it related to turf and personalities. I grew up near Broadway and Avalon on Manchester, and he grew up at Compton Avenue and Florence. We were both in Slauson territory but at different ends. I was affiliated with Broadway, and Tommy was with the Flips. Tommy tried to jack one of my cousins at the skating rink, and we got into it over that. And one day when I was at Edison, he sent one of his friends to try to jack me and take my money—but I tossed his friend up before the rest of his gang could come help him. So they didn’t like me too much.

  Later that day I investigated what happened, and I found out that Tommy, Steve Bartholomew, and Robert Lawrence were blown away by the LAPD at Adams Boulevard and Montclair near Crenshaw. It was August 25, 1968, and four guys from the Party had stopped at the gas station and were approached by several policemen. At some point during the questioning, Steve Bartholomew and Robert Lawrence had been shot in the back of the head and killed. Tommy, who was only eighteen at the time, was also killed. At least before he died Tommy got off some shots and wounded two of the pigs. Steve’s brother, Anthony, ran and got away but was eventually caught and charged with assault with a deadly weapon.

  These murders affected me greatly. The police had gunned down those brothers at the gas station for no apparent reason. Even though we had had our differences, I was sorry to see that Tommy had gotten killed that way. I knew Robert and Steve, but not as well as I knew Tommy. Nonetheless, I was impressed with the brothers. They didn’t die like hogs, “hunted and penned,” as Claude McKay wrote; they went out in a hail of gunfire, fighting back.

  After that day, the tension in the air became so thick you could scoop it with a spoon. I knew it was time for me to do more.

  I started taking classes in September and joined the Black Student Union right away. I developed some great relationships at Harbor. I met Melvin X, Brother Shabazz, and Dedon, all leaders in the Black Student Alliance. My affiliation with them led to my involvement with other BSUs throughout Southern California. The BSA’s purpose was to help establish BSUs and black studies programs. They also encouraged students to actually complete their college education. I
would say that the difference between the BSA and other organizations set up to establish BSUs was that they advocated an Afrocentric and socialist political perspective.

  Because there was a scarcity of black students at Harbor, it was easy for us to get to know one another. In fact, it probably forced us to rely on each other, the very same way that many black communities did before the era of integration. We carved out an area in the student center where we gathered to play cards and dominoes. It was here that I first noticed Joe Thompson, who later became a close friend. Joe had gapped teeth and wore a big Afro. I quietly watched him as he effortlessly wooed the ladies.

  One day as I was rolling off campus, I saw him waiting at the bus stop. I honked and waved him over toward me. “What’s up, man?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Just getting ready to head to the crib.”

  “Hop in,” I offered. “I’ll help you get there a bit faster.”

  He looked at me. “You sure?”

  “Ain’t no problem,” I said with a nod, not even asking where he was going. He seemed cool enough to me, and I wasn’t in any big hurry that day.

  When we arrived at Joe’s house, he invited me in.

  “Sure,” I said with a shrug. “Why not?”

  As we walked through the door, I looked up and saw a suited-down, dark-skinned guy with big bugged eyes standing in the entrance, looking like he was just preparing to leave. His presence startled me a bit, so I stood ready to fight; but Joe immediately reached out to embrace him. Then Joe turned, pointing toward me. “This here is my man Wayne, one of my boys from campus. Wayne, this is my cousin Freddie, Freddie Hale.”

  Freddie and I both extended our hands at the same time, clasping in a firm and energetic grip, a kind of universal thing among black men then. It was one way that brothers exhibited our respect for each other, as well as our excitement about the possibilities that seemed to hang in the air everywhere. “Well, Mr. Scholars,” Freddie said with a grin, “this here suit is about to go get his loot.”

  “Well, go on do that there, Mr. Suave, Mr. Flair,” grinned Joe. We all laughed.

  Freddie really was a mack man and a supreme hustler. But he was also a generous brother who would later come to have a major influence on me. One of his lucrative hustles was to chase accidents for an attorney. He would also stage accidents, if they weren’t happening on their own frequently enough. Freddie would have a driver hit a car, get a police report, then take it to the insurance company. The passengers in the car would go to the chiropractor and get a neck brace or have some other kind of treatment. After three months or so, everybody involved would get about $2,500.

  One day Joe rode with me to pick up Sharon at Washington High. As we were cruising on our way home, some fool ran a stop sign and hit my damn car, right on the front passenger side, where Sharon was sitting! One minute I was just smoothly gliding through the intersection and the very next minute I heard the sound of screeching tires, then crunching metal, followed by that “into the middle of next week” jolt. Of course I was initially stunned, responding by instinct with a “What the hell?” I looked to my right and saw what had happened. It took a minute for me to clearly take it all in. My mind raced.

  Was everyone all right? How bad was the damage? Was the idiot in the other car hurt? Did he have insurance? An image of my mother even flitted through my thoughts. Eventually, Joe, Sharon, and I got out of the car slowly. After we discovered that none of us was hurt badly, Joe told me not to worry about the damages. He would notify Freddie, who would get us paid. Knowing that my car would be fixed and I might also get some extra money quieted the anger I would have been ready to fire at that other driver. Sho ’nuff, about three months later Freddie’s hustling got us paid.

  Joe eventually started hanging with Louis and me, and Joe, like Louis, was heavy into chasing girls. I was down with that, but I also had the struggle for black liberation on my mind. By this time, I had become aware of another of Joe’s passions: red devils, a drug we called stumblers because they made you stupid.

  Joe coaxed me into trying them one time. That one time let me know I wasn’t interested in that kind of high. “Look, man, we’re all grown and to each his own, but them devils don’t do nothing for me. I didn’t like the way they made me feel, as though I’m not in control of myself.”

  “That interesting, because they definitely relax me,” explained Joe. “I feel real chilled.”

  “To each his own,” I said again.

  That was that. We never broached the topic again.

  Ramon Mann was my guidance counselor at Harbor. He was a tall Hispanic man with a hawk noise and black hair sprinkled with gray. He was a very progressive teacher who had previously helped to get black studies started at Jordan High School. During my visits to his office, he and I discussed various issues: the school board, racist cops, and of course how I could excel as both student and organizer. He wanted to know what area of study I was interested in. I told him that drafting piqued my interest, but I was much more interested in activism.

  “OK, Wayne, but remember, to succeed you must have goals and you must be organized. Students must be organized. Organizers must be organized.”

  “Organizers must be organized,” I chuckled. “Well, you don’t say.”

  Mr. Mann kept a straight face, totally ignoring my humor. “You’re obviously smart and well read, but it takes more to become successful at whatever your goals are,” he said. “It takes the discipline of continued execution. You can know it and not be it. And that’s where most people fall off the wagon. Don’t become one of them, Wayne.”

  I allowed what he was saying to roll around in my brain and then answered back, with my best effort at a reassuring tone, “I won’t be.”

  By that point in my life, Mr. Mann’s advice was not foreign to me. He was talking about success, my future goals, and becoming better organized. My high school teachers, Mr. Morgan, and my mom had repeated those ideas to me throughout the years. I took their statements seriously and was ready to put some of those pearls of wisdom into action. But not toward school as much. I was seriously considering joining the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense.

  There was a branch of the Party in Los Angeles. Bunchy Carter, a leader of the Renegade Slausons, the largest and perhaps fiercest gang, had organized it in late 1967. Bunchy had spent time in Soledad State Prison with Eldridge Cleaver. After they were released, Eldridge joined the Party in Oakland. He recruited Bunchy, who started the Southern California chapter.

  I was familiar with Bunchy and thought he was the right person to lead a revolutionary organization. In addition to his loyal following of tough young men, he had charisma, intelligence, and fighting skills. Everybody knew of Bunchy’s power. He was not to be messed with.

  My first contact with Bunchy, in fact, had occurred back when I was about twelve years old. My crew and I were walking to the skating rink and some older guys starting calling out gangs: “Watts!” one yelled; “Farmers!” the other side hollered. My crowd started yelling, “Watts!” But I hollered “Slauson!” the gang based in my neighborhood. Plus, I had realized that our challengers were from the Slausons, led by Bunchy. In their eyes, I was the only one ready to defend my set. So they jacked my buddies for not having the heart to stand up for their set, but they let me go. My boys weren’t hurt, but it taught them to stay true to who you are and where you come from.

  Over the years, I saw Bunchy hanging with Ernest Bird, Skillet, and Treetop. Those four were the main players in South Central; they wore a uniform of Levi’s and white shirts or T-shirts and Stacy Adams “biscuits” or Spanish boots.

  I got to know how Bunchy operated a little better after he began working at the Teen Post on Central Avenue. Like me, my aunt Caffie Greene hired him. She was having trouble controlling some of the young men at the Teen Post, but after she hired Bunchy her troubles lightened because Bunchy immediately began to organize them as soldiers in the army for black liberation. Bunchy used
the Teen Post to recruit for the Party. He required the young men enrolled in the program to learn the Party’s ideology, he trained them in self-defense tactics, and he taught them how to properly shoot guns. Aunt Caffie used to tell me about how Bunchy would line up the young brothers and bark orders at them, which, to her surprise, they would obey.

  While sitting on a bench in the park one Saturday, I decided to engage Louis about his views on black revolutionary groups in Los Angeles. “Man, what do you think about the Nation of Islam?”

  “I guess they’re all right, but they seem like a bunch of robots to me, man,” he said. I laughed. “They all dress alike, talk alike, and eat alike. You know, they don’t even eat pork,” he laughed. “And, I loves me some bacon and pork chops. Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason,” I replied. “I respect what they do and even some of their beliefs about white folks, but their rules are too damn strict.”

  Another group that had become popular in the black community was the Us Organization, founded by Ron Karenga. Us was built on the idea that black people needed to claim their lost heritage and culture in order to rebuild a strong community. I respected their organizational structure but thought that their definition of black culture required its members to be against other groups. I was not anti-white or anti- any other group, and I didn’t believe that all white people were enemies either. I had the ability to make a distinction between pigs in the power structure and white people in general.

  I knew some of the guys who had joined Us, like George and Larry Steiner, brothers who had once been in the Gladiator gang. It wasn’t surprising that many of the Us members were former Gladiators. Ron Karenga’s boys recruited from the Gladiators’ neighborhood, around Fifty-Fourth and Vermont, near Manual Arts High School. On the other side, the Black Panther Party recruited from the territories run by Slausons.