by Aaron Dixon
The new recruits signed up for a variety of reasons—some for the sense of belonging to something that instantly gave their life meaning and purpose; others because they had felt the sting of racism, the cuts of injustice, and felt this was their opportunity to strike back. A few were simply curious. A few others came with their own agenda and notions as to how the liberation struggle might be able to benefit them personally.
The array of characters was impressive. Chester Northington, John Eichelburger, and Vietnam vet Bruce Hayes were older cats who had been involved in other Black Nationalist organizations. I had met them previously at Voodoo Man’s house. The Noble brothers brought two carloads of young recruits with them from the South End, including their two sisters. The Noble brothers earned the nickname “F-Troop,” not so much for any resemblance to the bumbling idiots on the TV show F-Troop but due to their wild appearance and frequent lack of discipline.
Two seventeen-year-old students, Warren Myers, who went to Catholic school, and Steve Philips, later proved to be two of our bravest and best warriors. Also among the recruits were brothers who had been involved in street life and saw the party as their way of evening the score as well as redeeming themselves in the eyes of the community, like Willie Brazier and Jimmy Davis. And there was always a steady trickle of Vietnam vets.
Among the first Vietnam vets to join were three buddies who grew up together, went to war together, and were fortunate to return together—Bobby White, Bobby Harding, and Mike Tagawa. They brought invaluable experience and dedication to the chapter. Mike Tagawa and Bobby Harding drew on their military experience to instill discipline in the young Panther recruits. They started teaching classes on how to break down and clean weapons, how to aim and discharge weapons properly. They led close-quarter military drills with the Panther recruits three times a week. We needed a structured activity for all the new recruits. As the party considered itself a paramilitary organization, the chapters in Los Angeles and Oakland had adopted military-style drilling and marching, and now we did as well. All new Panther recruits were required to go through a six-week training program.
We gathered at Madrona Park, the scene of childhood memories of muddy football battles, wild baseball games, and occasional fights. Now in this same setting, dozens of Black young men, dressed in the Panther black, berets tilted to the side, were learning military formations, how to stand at attention and stand at ease—and, most important, how to follow orders. In Oakland and possibly in Los Angeles, Panther women also participated in the drills, but in Seattle they were not required to.
Bobby White, a slight brother who wore prescription sunglasses along with his beret, was one of the most dynamic writers in Seattle. He became lieutenant of information. He took charge of the community news bulletins that we put out every couple of weeks; he also decorated the office with posters and revolutionary slogans, and painted the Panther colors, baby blue and white, on the outer walls of the storefront, with “Black Panther Party” in the center. Bobby Harding was also a writer, a poet, and often the three of us shared our work and talked about someday getting published.
The new recruits were not only men. Many young sisters joined up, some of whom were tougher than the brothers. Joyce Redman had long been regarded as one of the baddest sisters in the neighborhood. No one wanted to mess with her because she was known to beat the hell out of her opponents, male or female. Maud Allen, articulate and hard-nosed about party rules, became the captain of the women. There were the two Kathys—Kathy Jones, still in high school, and tall, thin Kathy Halley, who had transferred to the UW from Wilberforce University, a Black college in the Midwest. She later changed her name to Nafasi, and became my close confidant, constantly worrying about my safety. I also met a little, cute, fiery sister named Tanya, a couple years older than me. She soon became my girlfriend and was the woman to whom I lost my virginity.
Buddy Yates and Curtis Harris were two brothers with similar personalities, and early on it was obvious they had an agenda that had very little to do with the liberation of Black America. Curtis, my brother-in-law, was two years older than me. He made up a title for himself, “assistant captain.” It was a move that should have alerted me and others, but at the time we ignored it—a mistake for which we would pay plenty.
Of the many colorful individuals who signed up, none was as memorable or as committed in those early days as Lewis Jackson. “LewJack,” as he was called, must have been about twenty-three years old. He had moved to Seattle from New Orleans, and used to tell many stories about growing up in the tough Ninth Ward of New Orleans. He had a tattoo of a football right between his eyes, thus his second nickname was “Football.” His beady eyes lit up when he talked about the fights he had been in and what he wanted to do to the pigs, although sometimes his French Creole dialect made him hard to understand. One of the few recruits to come equipped with a weapon, a .45 that he carried everywhere, LewJack appointed himself as my personal bodyguard. He followed me around constantly, even sleeping out in front of the house in his car when there were threats against my life.
New recruits were given a packet of information, which included the party’s national and local leadership structure, ten-point program and platform, twenty-six rules, and a “Pocket Lawyer of Legal First Aid,” listing one’s legal rights. Panthers were also given Mao’s Little Red Book and a list of additional required reading, and were charged with memorizing Mao’s Three Main Rules of Discipline.
Recruits were instructed to attend weekly meetings, which were not always held consistently in those early days of figuring things out. There seemed to always be something coming up to change the schedule. Sometimes I led the meetings and at other times Lieutenant of Political Education Willie Brazier led them. We formed a Central Staff, composed of officers appointed at the time of the initial meeting with Bobby Seale. In theory, the Central Staff was supposed to serve as the governing force of our chapter, similar to the Central Committee in Oakland. Of course, it never functioned as we had envisioned. There were just too many strong personalities, and at the time I did not quite have the confidence to command the necessary respect.
When Chairman Bobby was in Seattle, he had described an organizing tool created by James Forman, the former executive secretary of SNCC. Along with fellow SNCC leaders Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown, Forman had recently been drafted into the Black Panther Party. The tool he developed, known as the “10-10-10,” called for dividing the organizing area or community into ten sections, further dividing each section into subsections, and dividing subsections into blocks. Each section had a section leader, and each subsection had a subsection leader as well as block captains.
We attempted to use a variation of this tactic, as did other new chapters, dividing our organizing area into three sections and appointing section leaders. This was supposed to be a means of not only organizing the community but also engaging and coordinating the new recruits according to their assigned sections. During this time period, though, it was very difficult to make “10-10-10” work for us. Events were occurring at high speed.
Early on, because so many young people had signed up, discipline proved to be a problem. Elmer, who was rapidly becoming my solid right hand, organized a “goon squad” to administer some discipline to those young comrades who were not following orders or were conducting themselves in a rowdy, disorganized fashion.
The Oregon cities of Portland and Eugene also started Panther branches that came under the authority of the Seattle chapter. For me, this meant frequent trips to Portland to check with Captain Kent Ford, and to Eugene to see the Anderson brothers. A little older than myself, Kent Ford was a solid organizer with a low-key demeanor. The Anderson brothers were originally from Los Angeles. They had come to Eugene to play football at the University of Oregon, but they stopped playing football and instead dedicated their time to forming the Eugene branch.
It wasn’t long before our little sleepy Madrona neighborhood had been transformed into a Black Panther
fortress. On any given day, scores of young men and women in black berets and leather jackets congregated inside and outside our storefront office; sometimes they marched at the park, often carrying rifles and shotguns up the street. It wasn’t uncommon for twelve or more Panthers to be sitting around the office, holding their weapons.
The Black community’s response to us was mixed. There was fear and apprehension among many. Among others, there was a sense of pride and hope, particularly among the disenfranchised, the victimized, the hopeless. The Black Panther Party represented a proud, defiant presence in the community, something not seen since the likes of Marcus Garvey and Paul Robeson—a presence that would stand up and fight back against the racist cops and the racist institutions of the United States.
Many people felt a powerful sense of pride when viewing Panthers in action, and this was never more evident than one overcast Seattle Saturday afternoon, when more than a hundred Panthers attended the Saturday afternoon drills in full Panther uniform. Lieutenants Bobby Harding and Mike Tagawa had drilled the comrades for well over an hour, marching up and down the Madrona playfield. They looked superb and polished.
Like clockwork, the cops showed up and lined up in their cars on the side of the park. We decided we would give them something to look at. I instructed Bobby and Mike to lead the comrades onto the streets. They put on a display that day: marching out of the park, proceeding three blocks down 33rd Avenue, completely engulfing the streets, their eyes determined, looking straight ahead as Bobby and Mike barked out the cadences. They reached Cherry Street, one of the main streets coming up to Madrona. Marching on Cherry, the comrades occupied the entire right side of the street. The people in the neighborhood came out to watch, sitting on their porches, some cheering, others taking pictures, looking on with a secret pride that many of them had never felt before.
Meanwhile, the cops had stationed squad cars at every intersection. At one point the comrades marched directly toward one of the police cruisers but at the last second veered to the left. It was as if they had been marching together in formation for years. Finally, at the bottom of the hill, they turned and marched back up and into the park. That was a very proud day for the Black community. We showed that we were their protectors, their defenders.
Our phones at the office were constantly ringing with people calling for help with landlord issues, spousal abuse, or problems with the police. In one incident a single mother with a house full of kids called to report that her landlord had removed her front door because she had fallen behind in her rent. We dispatched a squad of Panthers to the landlord’s house. They secured the door, carried it down the street to the woman’s house, and put it back on its hinges. We got frequent calls from women complaining about abuse from husbands or boyfriends. Usually, after a visit from a contingent of armed party members, the abuse would stop, at least for the time being. And we responded to constant calls about police harassment by showing up with armed Panthers to confront surprised police.
During the last week in May, we received a call from a single Black mother whose son attended Rainier Beach, a predominantly white school located on the outer fringes of the Black community. She said her son had been having trouble with the white kids at school. They had beaten him up on several occasions and the principal refused to do anything about it.
Each week I mailed a chapter report to Chairman Bobby, and once he’d received and reviewed it, we talked on the phone. The week prior to this mother’s call, the chairman had reminded me that we were not the police, and our function was not to respond to every call, as we had learned the community would often take advantage of our services. With this in mind, I told the woman we could not respond to her request.
The mother continued to call our office nearly every day. We found out that as the school year was drawing to an end, the white kids at Rainier Beach stepped up the attacks on not only this particular Black kid, but also on the other Black kids at the school. Finally, early on a Friday afternoon, she called again, crying and sounding desperate, saying that the white kids had brought knives, chains, and bricks to school, threatening the lives of her son and the other Black students. We received at least four other calls from distraught Black mothers. When I hung up the phone after speaking with the last mother, I looked around at the comrades, who sat holding their rifles and shotguns. I could tell they were wondering if I was going to give the word.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my carbine. We loaded up in three cars and headed south to Rainier Beach, taking back streets, past Lake Washington, past large, expensive homes and manicured lawns, finally arriving at the school. When we pulled in we spotted thirty cops lined up on the side of the building. As we got out and headed toward the school entrance, a fat sergeant, his belly hanging over his belt, met us. I recognized him—he and I had encountered each other on several occasions. He had once remarked snidely, “Oh, not the Panthers again,” when we had responded to a community call.
“Dixon,” he blurted, “you can’t take those loaded weapons into the school.”
I shot back, “They ain’t loaded,” rationalizing that if the carrier of the gun knew the bullet was not in the chamber, then according to the law the gun was technically considered unloaded.
We continued our way in and began looking for the principal. A man in a black suit hurried down the hallway—that was our man. Willie Brazier and several other comrades pursued him, escorting him back to an empty office where I confronted him.
“If you don’t protect these Black kids, then we will do it, understand?” The words just seemed to shoot out of my mouth.
The poor guy was visibly shaken. “I promise I will make sure nothing happens again,” he replied.
Satisfied with his response, the thirteen of us left the building. We backed our way across the street, keeping our eyes on the cops, just as Huey had instructed, hopped in our cars, and headed back to the office. The cops followed but did not stop us. That evening, I received a call from Mike Rosen of the ACLU, the same attorney who had represented me, Larry, and Carl after the Franklin High School demonstration. He said the district attorney was preparing an indictment against us, but it never came.
For us, this was what putting on the Panther uniform was all about—standing up strong, refusing to be brushed aside and marginalized. We were dead serious when it came to the rights of the people. One thing was certain: if we had to die in the process, most of us were ready for that, too. The Rainier Beach school incident was one of the most significant moves we made during that summer of 1968, and it would set the stage for upcoming battles with the police.
During those early days of the Seattle chapter, everything was happening so fast, and without a blueprint or methodology to guide us, we often had to learn how to operate on the fly, following our instincts. We had many recruits, yet we lacked a clear understanding or model of exactly what we were supposed to be doing on a daily basis and also in the long term. In response to the constant stream of requests from the community and beyond, we organized a speakers’ bureau to give talks on the Black Panther Party and what it was all about. Gary Owens, a college student in his early twenties, along with Willie Brazier and others, took the bulk of the speaking assignments. Eventually, we started getting deliveries of The Black Panther newspaper from Oakland once Eldridge Cleaver got out on bail following the April 6 shootout. The paper had lain dormant until the return of the minister of information. The Black Panther was the most important and immediate mechanism the party had for educating people about what the party stood for and what was truly going on in the United States and the rest of the world. Sales of the paper also provided us with a much-needed source of revenue.
Since the death of Martin Luther King Jr., my life and the life of many other Black youth throughout America had taken on an overwhelming sense of urgency. The movement was accelerating and transforming. We were now consumed with the fight for justice and the right to determine our own destiny. For me, school took a backseat to th
e emerging struggle.
When I got back from Oakland after that first trip as a Panther, I immediately went through my closet, taking out all my suits and the Italian knit sweaters I had bought with my work money. I no longer had any need for those fine clothes. They would be replaced by green army fatigue pants, blue jeans, fatigue jackets, leather jackets, and combat boots. I gave my suits to Elmer, a futile decision on my part, because Elmer had no need for them either. We had both plunged in the lake of rebellion together.
Despite my plunge, I was still subject to the lure of spontaneous adventure. The Urban League program that had supported my entrance to the UW sponsored a summer internship program that kicked off with a five-day orientation trip to New York City, filled with workshops and field trips, all expenses paid. Going to New York is something many young people dream about, and it had certainly been my dream before the revolution took over my life. Mr. Page, the program director, called me on several occasions, attempting to convince me to go. I resisted until the last minute, when I caught a red-eye flight to New York City. I knew there was a lot going on in Seattle with our chapter, but I felt the other leading members would be able to handle things in my absence.
On the bus ride from the airport into the city, dressed in my Panther attire, I marveled at the forest of tall, concrete buildings as my nose burned from the coffee smell of big-city pollution. I finally arrived at my stop in Manhattan and made my way to the New Yorker Hotel, where Black students from around the country had converged, including several of my friends from Seattle. After an initial presentation we were assigned to our lodgings, with the men staying at the YMCA and the women at the New Yorker Hotel. The following day, when I called the office in Seattle, I was told that Chairman Bobby Seale had called for me. Upon hearing I was in New York, he left a message for me to meet him on Saturday morning at Brooklyn College in Flatbush, Room 104.