My People Are Rising

by Aaron Dixon

  15

  The Unromantic Revolution

  Hang onto the world as it spins, around Just don’t let the spin get you down Things are moving fast Hold on tight and you will last

  —Donny Hathaway, “Someday We’ll All Be Free,” 1973

  The revolution did not pause or slow down. There was no time for reflection or regrets. It was sometimes difficult to distinguish right from wrong, or truth from falsehood.

  Tensions between the Seattle chapter and the police had reached dangerous levels. When darkness fell, Madrona Hill became a no-man’s-land. The cops would only come up to the hill in three-car caravans, four cops deep, with shotguns protruding out of the windows. Madrona Hill was dubbed “Pork Chop Hill,” after a famous Korean War battle.

  One cloudy Saturday afternoon, party members had gathered at the office for the weekly political education classes. I was en route to the meeting in a car with Willie Brazier, Buddy Yates, and LewJack, when we found ourselves behind a police cruiser driven by a sergeant. He stopped in front of the office and peered in.

  Suddenly Willie Brazier jumped out of our vehicle, ran up to the cop car, yanked open the door, and began tugging the shocked cop out of his car, yelling, “Pig, what are you doing here?”

  The sergeant must have pushed an emergency button, because within seconds cop cars descended on the scene from every direction. Buddy, LewJack, and I had gotten out of our car. Willie let go of the cop and the four of us retreated across the street toward the office. The cops stayed in their cars, shotguns sticking out of their windows. Had they decided to start shooting, there was nowhere for us to go. For a few seconds we stood looking at the cops while they looked at us, all wondering what would be the next move.

  The sergeant finally spoke. “This is a warning to you guys. We’re ready for anything.” After that the cops split.

  Another afternoon, we were in the office, preparing for a meeting. There happened to be a bus stop right in front of the office. We had instructed the bus drivers to park about five feet back, so as not to block the front of the office. Most complied, but every now and then there would be a dissenter.

  A dark-haired bus driver pulled in front of the office and sat there, blocking our entrance. Elmer and Steve Philips boarded the bus and commanded the driver to move.

  “No, I’m not moving,” he replied. Suddenly, Elmer and Steve pounced on the driver and grabbed his bus phone, ripped out the wires, and threw it onto the roof of the office building. The bus driver finally drove off.

  Eventually, the transit company sent some managers over to negotiate on the bus stop issue. We still refused to allow them to fully block the front of our office. Meanwhile, a warrant was put out for my arrest for assault on the bus driver. The driver swore on the witness stand that I, not Elmer, had attacked him. Even though Elmer got on the witness stand and testified that he had done it, I was the one found guilty. Luckily, Judge Stokes was presiding over the proceedings. Judge Stokes was one of the few Black judges in town at that time, and I had gone to school with his daughter. Yet, even with the connections, I think we were all pleasantly surprised when he gave me probation and relieved me of jail time.

  Plenty of people were supportive of our chapter. People dropped off money, office equipment, and supplies, sometimes even weapons. Thus, when Jack, a short, stocky, blond, Scandinavian-looking dude showed up, we were inquisitive, in spite of our skepticism. He was decked out in a three-quarter-length black leather coat and a black beret, and had on a button of Che Guevara. “Hey, my name’s Jack,” he said, extending his hand and giving me a firm handshake. “I belong to the Communist Party on Mercer Island.”

  We nodded and looked on, trying to size up this cat. He continued, “Yeah, I fought with Che and Fidel when they landed in Cuba.”

  After we had listened with interest to several of his stories, he left and promised to come back, which he did. He took us out to his house, where he lived with his two wives. He taught us revolutionary tactics, including how to make time bombs with a stick of dynamite and an alarm clock in a shoebox. Learning of his access to dynamite, we made arrangements for two cases of dynamite with nitroglycerine. The Molotov cocktails had served their purpose. Now it was time to move on to something more effective.

  The plan was set: Jack would get the dynamite from his contact. Gary Owens and I would meet him near University of Washington campus. We picked him up without incident and headed to the office. When we got near, a cop car that had been tailing us for a while put on its flashing red lights and siren. We were all nervous, but Jack was sweating like a madman as he waited while the cop checked his ID. We were sure we would get busted. Luckily, a platoon of Panthers had seen us get stopped and ran down from the office to investigate, which spurred the cops to let us go. That was a close call.

  We buried one of the cases of dynamite in a wooded area and took the other case to the basement of my apartment, where we left it in the care of two comrades who volunteered to stand watch until we decided what to do with it. When we came back to check on it several hours later, the two comrades informed us that the cops had come by and confiscated the case of dynamite—a very fishy story, but somehow we overlooked it at the time.

  As a matter of fact, one night a week later these same comrades, along with Curtis Harris, decided they would escort me home from the office, which I found unusual. I usually walked by myself or was accompanied by LewJack. Besides, I knew these guys from high school, and they didn’t have a political bone in their body—they pretty much hung out with the thug crowd. When we turned a corner, a slow-moving police cruiser appeared. Suddenly Curtis pulled out his .45 and fired in the direction of the cop car. A moment later, when I looked around, Curtis and the other two had disappeared and I was alone. Knowing full well the place would quickly be covered with cops, I ran up the stairs of the Melinsons’ house nearby and into the backyard. Within minutes I could hear cars filling the streets, doors opening and closing, and the voices of desperate, angry white men getting closer.

  The backyard was completely enclosed by ten-foot-high, thick, green bushes. There was no escape, and I could hear the voices getting louder, quickly coming my way. I pulled out my 9mm and braced for the worst. Just then, the back door of the house opened, and out stepped Mr. Melinson. He silently motioned me inside. I ran in with my piece in my hand just as the cops were entering the yard with guns drawn. Mr. Melinson drew me into the living room, where we sat in the darkness with his family, watching the action out the windows. We could see the cops frantically searching for me, under cars, and behind buildings, but I was nowhere to be found.

  Elmer, Michael, and I had grown up with the Melinsons. The family had seven kids. Their daughter, Wanda, had a strong crush on me in the sixth grade. My brothers and I had played football, basketball, and tennis with Wayne and Gary. However, when Elmer and I joined the party, Mr. Melinson ordered his children not to have anything to do with us, which was understandable. I had observed Mr. Melinson for many years. He was a very light-complexioned, conservative Texan who seldom smiled and was known for his strictness. He worked hard and sent all his kids to Catholic school. He was the last person I would have thought would risk his position and family to save a crazy young revolutionary, but he did, and he will forever remain in my heart. After the cops gave up, I ran home, thankful that I had been spared another day.

  It was unsettling, to say the least, that Curtis and the other two would fire at the pigs without letting me know, and then disappear. I was still of the mind that if you were Black and down for the cause, you were unquestionable. But, in reality, there were far too many men and women who looked and acted the part who were willing to compromise themselves as human beings for a few dollars, for a shorter prison sentence, or just for the thrill of playing both sides. Informants had infiltrated just about every party chapter, quite heavily in some places, and Seattle was no exception. I heard later from sources on the streets that the cops had a price on my head. They thought that ki
lling me would bring an end to all their worries.

  The city had already tried to buy me out, sending a light-complexioned Black man, casually dressed, to the office a few months earlier. “Hello, Mr. Dixon,” he began. His polite demeanor reminded me of my father. “The City of Seattle would like to offer you a position with the city at $35,000 a year,” he said, providing no further details or information about the job. That was a large amount of money to offer anyone, let alone a nineteen-year-old, but I turned him down politely. He said with a smile, “Well, if you change your mind, give me a call,” as he handed me his card and left.

  That summer, for the first time, militant organizations in the Seattle Black community came together in a town meeting with the aim of forming a united front for greater organizing power. The groups included Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), the Black United Front, the African American Journal, the Black Panther Party, and a few others, as well as individual activists like Daisy Boyetta. That night it was a packed house at the YMCA on Madison, with mostly older members of the community. There were many impassioned speeches against the white man and the system, as well as against Uncle Toms, considered complicit with the man. Toward the end, I was nominated to head this united coalition of militants. I strolled to the front of the room, took the mic, and spouted some revolutionary rhetoric. They were looking to me for the answers to their dilemmas, answers I did not have. I was just a nineteen-year-old idealist doing my best to run the Seattle chapter of the Black Panther Party. I was ill-prepared to take advantage of this brief moment of unity, and nothing ever came of the opportunity.

  Toward the end of the summer, we lost a very dedicated, beloved comrade, but not at the hands of the police. Seventeen-year-old Henry Boyer came to the aid of his distraught mother, who was being attacked by her boyfriend. Henry was big and thick for his age, willing and able to give someone a good ass-kicking if he wanted to. The man grabbed Henry’s shotgun and killed him. It was incredibly sad to lose Henry in this way. He had a lot of potential, not only as a revolutionary but also as a valuable asset to humanity.

  Everybody loved Henry, and to honor our first fallen comrade, we wanted to send him away in splendid fashion. Nafasi, Maud Allen, and other sisters made beautiful baby-blue, African-inspired robes for the comrade sisters, and all the comrade brothers wore full Panther uniform. We had a double line of nearly two hundred Panthers standing at attention, extending all the way down the block on either side of Angelus’ Funeral Home. It was an inspiring, revolutionary farewell for our beloved comrade. The next day the Seattle Post-Intelligencer reported that it was the largest funeral in the history of Washington State.

  A week after the funeral, Mr. Angelus, the funeral director, called and asked for Elmer and me to come over to the funeral home. When we arrived, he took us back into a side room full of caskets. It was dark and very eerie. He opened one of the caskets and inside were more than a dozen rifles.

  “These are for you, brothers.”

  We couldn’t believe our eyes—they were Argentine British .303 rifles. We thanked him and took them away. Though we never used these weapons, we were deeply appreciative of his gesture of support. There weren’t any other professional Black people willing to risk their livelihood by giving us arms. We considered this a revolutionary act by Mr. Angelus.

  Voodoo Man had moved to a house near the office. After I joined the party, I had never really trusted him anymore. He was definitely more than a little crazy, and even traveled to Oakland in an attempt to sow discord between the Seattle chapter and National Headquarters. He tried to speak with Bobby Seale about me, but the chairman sent him on his way. As the environment became increasingly dangerous, Voodoo Man, along with his white girlfriend, disappeared into the night, leaving behind everything in the house. We never heard from him again.

  As summer drew to an end, I took a much-needed trip to Oakland to restore myself, reinforce my revolutionary direction, and gain some fortification against the struggles I was facing within the Seattle chapter. There had already been an assassination attempt by the police; the chapter had obviously been infiltrated. I was grappling with a general lack of discipline and insubordination among party members, as well as older comrades who questioned my authority. And the death of Henry Boyer had been difficult for everyone.

  It was always good and invigorating to see Matilaba, Landon and Randy Williams, Tommy Jones, and Robert Bay. My timing was good; Tommy and Robert were going down to the Monterey Jazz Festival to set up a booth in the concession area to sell the party’s posters, books, cards, and Black Panther papers. I was able to tag along. Being away from the stress of Seattle, in the sun of Monterey with Tommy and Big Bay was just what I needed. We were able to enjoy the silky voice of Carmen McRae and listen to the stellar sounds of the Modern Jazz Quartet. We even ran into Eldridge and Kathleen Cleaver and Bobby and Artie Seale.

  A few tense incidents occurred, one while manning our booth. Some Los Angeles brothers wearing overalls, members of a gang known as The Farmers, came by our booth and made some provocative remarks, causing Tommy to go for his snub-nosed .38. At one point it looked like we were going to have to throw down with these apolitical jackasses. The Farmers had formed out of the ashes of the Watts riot. Apparently, due to their Black Nationalist stance, they had positioned themselves as adversaries of the party. But all in all, it was a peaceful trip. It would be the last time I would spend real time with Tommy, who had recently been appointed to the rank of captain and given his own office to run in West Oakland down on 7th Street. He still looked out for me, treating me like a little brother.

  It had been a wild summer, the most rebellious in modern US history, and many of the new chapters were going through similar growing pains as we were in Seattle. We were all trying to understand what our role was to be as an organization, and trying to come to grips with our deep hatred toward the police and all they represented. The government was adjusting as well, and their tactics would soon become much more deadly for the Black Panther Party. We had no idea what lay ahead, no inkling of the undercover operation that was silently being launched against us.

  16

  Death in Winter

  Sometimes in winter forgotten memories remember you behind the trees with leaves that cry.

  —Blood, Sweat & Tears, “Sometimes in Winter,” 1968

  On September 8, 1968, Huey P. Newton was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter, which carried a two- to five-year sentence. Charles Garry, Huey’s attorney and the legal counsel of the Black Panther Party, had developed a solid case for Huey’s innocence. The prosecution’s one eyewitness, an Oakland bus driver by the name of Grier, had told the police he had a clear view of the shooter. Grier had, in fact, stated on tape that he did not see the shooter. Charles Garry was able to get this evidence admitted in the court, but it was never disclosed to the jury. Huey had been railroaded. While we were angry about Huey being railroaded, we also breathed a collective sigh of relief that the charge against Huey had been knocked down to manslaughter, thus averting the death penalty. Huey gave orders that the party should fight the guilty verdict in the courts, not in the streets. An appeal was filed by Charles Garry and his longtime legal partner, Fay Stender, and we would have to wait for our leader to be vindicated in the courts.

  For me, that winter began with another benchmark of manhood. Tanya became pregnant. She called my mother to tell her before telling me. I actually found out from my father. Poppy told me, “Aaron, you are going to have to marry her.”

  I replied, “No, I can’t. I am too young.”

  Poppy’s answer to me was, “If you don’t marry her, I will disown you.”

  That was a heavy statement for him to make. I could not understand why Poppy was forcing me to do something for which I was ill-prepared. But this was the way of my parents’ generation. Tanya’s father, a nightclub owner known for his hot temper, called me over to talk to him regarding the situation. He toyed with his .38 as he asked me my intentions. Shortly t
hereafter, Tanya and I were married.

  Elmer and I made a pact that he would interrupt the shotgun wedding. I remember standing at the altar in the church I had grown up in, my back to a sparse crowd, wearing a new, long, black leather coat Tanya had bought for me, occasionally looking over my shoulder, waiting for Elmer to interrupt this crazy proceeding. But he never showed. For me, this was yet another omen that it was time to leave behind my childish ways and brace myself for adulthood.

  Up to that point our losses in the party had been minimal. Our only incarcerated leader was Huey, and there were only a few martyred comrades. However, destiny—in the form of the US government—was rapidly moving to change both of those statistics. Eldridge’s departure from the party’s leadership was imminent. Nicknamed “Papa Rage,” he had taken a guest lecturer position at UC Berkeley, and used it as a stage from which to launch a continuous verbal assault against Richard Nixon, whom Eldridge called “Tricky Dick,” and the then governor of California Ronald Reagan, whom he labeled “Mickey Mouse.” Eldridge even came out with an album, Dig, a recording of a speech given at Syracuse University during his 1968 presidential run as a candidate for the Peace and Freedom Party.

  Nationally, the Black Panther Party had formed a coalition with the white, liberal Peace and Freedom Party. The Peace and Freedom Party refused to recognize either the Democratic or Republican candidates, and instead nominated Panthers and other radicals to run for political office. For the 1968 national election, we collaborated with the Peace and Freedom Party to run Eldridge for president. In California, Bobby Seale, Kathleen Cleaver, and Huey Newton ran for local California political seats, while in Seattle, on the Peace and Freedom ticket, we ran two Panthers, Curtis Harris and E. J. Brisker, for legislative seats. We had a big campaign kickoff party on the top floor of the Sorrento Hotel, a classy place near downtown Seattle. Maud Allen, Nafasi (Kathy Halley), and the other sisters did a magnificent job of organizing this event. It was a festive occasion, with hundreds of Peace and Freedom Party members and Black Panther Party members and supporters. But despite all this successful momentum, a storm was brewing.