My People Are Rising

by Aaron Dixon

  It was the most fun we’d had together in a long time. The last year and a half had left me feeling cynical and unsure of myself. I had consumed more alcohol than was normal for me, trying to wash away the doubts, trying to bolster my courage, trying to fortify myself against the pain, the hurt, and the loss of good comrades. Yet there was never any doubt in my mind, never any second-guessing about the direction I had taken.

  19

  The Chairman Is Kidnapped

  And if you had a choice of colors Which one would you choose my brothers If there was no day or night Which would you prefer to be right

  —Curtis Mayfield, “Choice of Colors,” 1969

  In August 1969 I was at the weekly party meeting at St. Augustine’s Church in Oakland. Comrades from all over the country were in attendance, listening to Masai Hewitt, the minister of education. Masai had taken over for George Murray, who departed in the summer of 1968 to become a reverend in his father’s church. Toward the end of the meeting, Chairman Bobby called on me to recite the ten-point program and platform, something often done at these meetings to make sure everyone was on their toes. I stumbled through the ten points, surprising even myself. Part of it was nervousness, the other part was indicative of the past year in Seattle, a year of turmoil and bad moves.

  “Aaron, I want you to keep your ass down here for a couple of months,” responded the chairman.

  I had seen the chairman come down on a lot of people. He was pretty much a fair and compassionate person in his dealings with party members, but if someone was bullshitting or fucking up, he would come straight out and say it in no uncertain terms. I was stung by his rebuke, yet his words rang true.

  In April 1968, I had jumped right into the fire. I had not been fully equipped for what was asked of me. More recently, National Headquarters had begun requesting that newly appointed chapter heads spend some extended time in Oakland. But I’d had only the one week in April 1968, along with the weekly meetings, for which I would stay only a few days. I desperately wanted some time away from Seattle. I needed to be around the seasoned comrades in the Bay, and hoped that some of their wisdom and experience would rub off on me. When I got home, I spoke with comrades and family about the prospect of an extended stay in Oakland. A few weeks later, Elmer drove Tanya, little Aaron Patrice, and me down to National Headquarters and headed back to Seattle.

  Early in 1969, National Headquarters had relocated to a new office in Berkeley, which was quite an improvement over the old one on 45th and Grove in Oakland. This office was a spacious, two-story brick structure with a large glass window on either side of the entrance. The new office would be able to accommodate all the visiting officers from chapters around the country. Inside, toward the back of the office, was a big, comfortable chair where the officer of the day (OD) sat. The OD ran the daily operations of the office, among many other things. On the left side of the office was a long counter with posters and books and papers. There were several smaller offices in the back. On the second floor was a large room in which John Seale, the chairman’s brother, had constructed two long drafting tables. This was where the layout for The Black Panther took place. In the back of the second floor were several more offices and a large kitchen.

  On one of the office walls was a large map of the United States with scores of red pins indicating the locations of Black Panther Party chapters and branches. Chapters and branches, as well as the new Communities to Combat Fascism centers, were required to send people to National Headquarters for months at a time, and some stayed much longer. In contrast, with Seattle being the very first chapter to open outside of California, I had never spent more than a week at National Headquarters. There were many things to learn, things I’d had to learn on the fly. I was now prepared to stay and soak up all that was required of me in order to learn how to more effectively perform my job.

  The first couple weeks I spent out in the field, selling papers, passing out leaflets, sometimes at designated spots, sometimes working with another person, going door to door, house to house, block to block, often talking with people, educating them, befriending them, connecting them to the party and its ideology. Wednesday nights, Panthers throughout the Bay gathered at the distribution office in Frisco at 7 p.m. to work on the folding, wrapping, counting, and boxing of the weekly newspapers, shipping them out to chapters throughout America and the world, and also sending out rolled individual orders to persons in England, Europe, Japan, and India, often in the most unlikely places. We worked through the night, finishing up early in the morning, taking breaks to smoke some Brother Roogie or drink some Bitter Dog, talking about the latest attack or what was happening on the political scene, or hooking up with a sleeping partner. Some days we were assigned to work at the Breakfast Programs, to leaflet union-organizing sites, or to attend rallies, selling papers and organizing people.

  At the office, little Aaron Patrice sat in his bassinet in the middle of the floor, watching John Seale, Shelley Bursey, and the other newspaper staff as they laid out the paper. John Seale gave Aaron Patrice the nickname of “Moonbaby,” because of his round head and the quiet, serious look on his face. Tanya sometimes stayed at the office to look after our son. Other times, she went out into the field with the others.

  I met wonderful comrades like thirteen-year-old Madeline, mature and wise beyond her years, curly-haired Kathy Kimbrow, and a high-strung young brother named Poison, from New Orleans, one of the most energetic and compassionate brothers you could imagine. I befriended a brother named T. C., who did a lot of organizing at Laney and Grove Street Colleges. Sometimes I assisted the OD, a post that alternated between Robert Bay and Charles Bursey. In addition to running the daily operations of the office, the OD coordinated rides for Panther operations in the Bay Area as well as the pickup and drop-off runs to the airport, which seemed constant. The OD was also responsible for office security, not just from the police and agents but also from enemies in the community—those who didn’t agree with the party, held a grudge, or had a bone to pick.

  In one such instance, I was talking with Charles Bursey when a bearded brother began arguing with Robert Bay inside the office. Robert called for Bursey and me: “Aaron! Bursey!”

  Bay nodded his bearded, chubby face toward the troublemaker. We escorted him outside to the side of the building. Robert Bay hauled off and hit the brother in the back of the head. Bursey and I joined in. We pummelled him to the ground and sent him on his way.

  “He was a pig,” said Robert Bay afterward. I never knew whether that was true, but it was not my place to question my superiors.

  The OD was also responsible for feeding the troops when they came in from the field. On certain days Chairman Bobby barbecued, spending hours preparing elaborate, delicious Southern dishes, talking party business as he cooked. Some evenings we had political education classes. Other evenings we just hung out drinking, smoking weed, talking with new comrades from faraway places. One night I had a long conversation with a brother from North Carolina about the meaning of the song “Choice of Colors” by Curtis Mayfield, as we tried to decipher the true meaning of the lyrics, coming to the conclusion that Curtis was trying to say some progressive political stuff in that song.

  Tanya, little Aaron Patrice, and I were assigned to a big house in Berkeley on 10th Street, where Bobby and Artie Seale were also staying, along with Randy Williams and the woman he was relating to, Lauren Williams, who happened to share the same last name. Assigned drivers were responsible for picking up comrades scattered throughout the Bay to get them to headquarters by 8:30 a.m., then dropping them off at night, usually around midnight.

  Cotton, one of the military experts from the Southern California chapter, had come up to National Headquarters to work on digging a tunnel beneath the office in the case of a police attack. We spent many long hours digging that tunnel, but there were just too many pipes in our way, so the project was eventually abandoned. Cotton spent much of his time traveling with Geronimo Pratt to chapters throughout th
e country, helping with the fortification of offices and the construction of tunnels.

  One morning we received a copy of the Berkeley Free Press, a paper put out by hippies and white radicals. The front page revealed a detailed plan by the Berkeley Police Department to launch an attack on National Headquarters with assault squads, using Stoner rifles—weapons that could shoot through brick. When Chief of Staff David Hilliard was alerted, he immediately called a press conference, exposing the scheme before the pigs had time to carry out their assault. David also ordered increased nighttime security inside National Headquarters. For several weeks, there were about twenty armed comrades, alternating in two shifts, stationed around the office.

  I remember a San Francisco Panther named Fred Knowland walking around the security perimeter, checking on the watch. He warned me, “Comrade, if I catch you fallin’ asleep, I’m going to put this .357 upside your head.”

  When it came time for me to check the perimeter, I found Comrade Fred had fallen asleep. I did not hesitate in hitting him upside his head with my piece.

  A few days later we began to prepare for a “Free Huey” rally in East Oakland at Arroyo Viejo Park. David Hilliard would be speaking and the Mad Lads were scheduled to perform. The Mad Lads had been on top of the charts before two of its main members were drafted to serve in Vietnam. The original group had not performed live in more than two years. It was good to see the Mad Lads back together, and it certainly was a joy for me and many others to be experiencing them live in a free concert in East Oakland.

  Again, I was with a security detachment that formed a semicircle around the stage. It was another hot, muggy day in Oakland. There were many different types of people at the park that day. Some were political—some were not—and under these circumstances, you never knew what might happen. Of course, throw in a red devil epidemic and you automatically increase the likelihood of trouble. Red devils were little red pills that made you high as hell, but also made you crazy and ornery. It wasn’t long before a fight broke out between some brothers with Doberman pinschers, the dog of choice of brothers in the streets. We moved in to break up the fight, unintentionally roughing up some of the combatants in the process. One brother separated himself from us and pulled out a gun. Randy Williams, who was in charge of security, told everyone, “FREEZE!” and began walking toward the brother. Slender, unemotional Randy looked the brother in the eye with that Clint Eastwood fearlessness and slowly walked toward him while everyone watched in silence. When Randy got five feet away, the brother turned and ran. From that day forward, Randy was known as “Cold Steel.”

  We had only been in Oakland three weeks, and each day had seen one event or another. You never knew what the next day would bring. One day in particular would impact not only the entire organization but also the movement as a whole.

  With Huey in prison and Eldridge in exile, Chairman Bobby had become the heart and soul of the party. He was the force behind the “Free Huey” movement. Tireless and relentless, he was a fiery, persuasive speaker, and the party’s spokesman. Within days he would be silenced.

  It was a breezy Saturday morning. Most of the party officials were attending the wedding of the minister of culture, Emory Douglas. It wasn’t often that a comrade got married. We went to far more funerals than weddings. With few celebrations, this was a moment to be joyous and happy for Emory, the youngest member of the Central Committee, and his bride. But after the short celebration, it was time to get back to business.

  As Chairman Bobby, John Seale, and June Hilliard began to pull out of the church parking lot, five FBI vehicles cornered the car, drew their guns, pulled Chairman Bobby out of the car, placed him under arrest, and took off with him in one of their cars. I was at the house in Berkeley during the wedding. June called and informed me of the chairman’s arrest.

  “Aaron. The pigs just arrested the chairman. They might be coming to the house. I want you to secure the house and don’t let the pigs in. Understand?”

  “Right on,” I answered.

  I immediately grabbed Randy’s CETME semiautomatic weapon, put a bandolier over my chest, and went to check the front and back windows of the house. Pig cars were circling the block, slowly driving by, casing the house. Suddenly, one stopped. I nervously ran downstairs and looked through the peephole. A sergeant had gotten out of his car and was walking up to the door. He knocked on the door and stood there for several minutes, looking around, knocking again. I remained silent, with my weapon ready. He eventually left.

  Attorney Charles Garry, the party’s legal counsel, learned that the pigs had executed a warrant for the chairman’s arrest for a speech he had made at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, where two hundred thousand people had gathered to protest the Vietnam War. The chairman was charged with conspiracy and intent to riot, along with seven others. They would be known as the Chicago Eight—later the Chicago Seven, when Chairman Bobby was bound and gagged and separated from the others during the trial.

  The FBI took him immediately by car all the way to Chicago, subjecting him to horrendous conditions. On this maddening cross-country journey, the chairman was denied food, sometimes water, and access to the restroom. He was treated worse than a dog on this harrowing trip. He did not even have an opportunity to speak with his attorney or contact his family. Within days, the party released a large poster of the chairman with the caption, in large capital letters, “KIDNAPPED.” It would be more than two years before the chairman would set foot back in Oakland.

  With the chairman gone, David Hilliard assumed the main leadership role during a very difficult period for the party. Internal strife was on the rise. And David Hilliard’s response would shape the future of the Black Panther Party.

  Charles Bursey also went away to serve time for the April 6 shootout that had led to the death of Little Bobby Hutton. Besides David Hilliard, Bursey was the last of the seventeen brothers involved in that incident who remained in the party or on the streets, and even his days were numbered. Bursey was the epitome of a well-defined Panther: dedicated, intelligent, down-to-earth, tough. He had a rough-and-tumble look to him that was often softened with a gentle kind of smile. It had been a year and a half since the shootout, but I think Bursey suspected all along he would be going away to prison. He and a comrade sister named Shelly had just gotten married. Unfortunately, he never returned to the fold.

  With the chairman gone, my function in Oakland was over. It was the chairman who had ordered me to Oakland, and it would have been his decision as to when I would return to Seattle. That decision now fell to David and June Hilliard. I was needed back in Seattle to begin the push to free the chairman and to prepare for what we knew would be a new wave of attacks.

  20

  The Resurrection of the Seattle Chapter— September 1969

  But that’s what makes the world go ’round

  The up and down, the carousel

  Changing people, they’ll go around

  Go underground, young man

  —The Stylistics, “People Make the World Go ’Round,” 1972

  When I returned to the Seattle chapter in September 1969, only Elmer, Anthony Ware, Garry Owens, Nafasi Halley, Malcolm “Big Malcolm” Williams, and a few other comrades remained of the original members. Previously on the sidelines, Big Malcolm, whose wife, Jeri, worked with Tanya, was now a full-time member. Elmer had expelled those who had not shown much interest in doing the day-to-day, nitty-gritty work. Among that group were many who had become disillusioned and decided to move on. I can’t say I blamed them. That first year and a half was wild at times, full of contradictions, and without real direction. I had not asserted my rank as captain as much as I should have. I was now determined to exert more control over the chapter. We put the past behind us, and, applying some of what I had learned during my weeks in Oakland, we began to rebuild the Seattle chapter.

  Following the National Conference for a United Front Against Fascism, in the face of increasing repression, the party dec
lared that storefront offices were too vulnerable to police attacks, as well as not effective for serious organizing of the people. Houses or duplex buildings in residential neighborhoods were safer and better suited for working with the community. At the same time, the party recognized that many people in communities of color were not prepared for the type of revolution we had envisioned. Many families were struggling just to make ends meet, as the Vietnam War had siphoned off funds for social programs. Thus, the party set its sights on winning over the people by providing them with services that their own government had failed to provide. We now devoted most of our attention to creating the innovative and groundbreaking Survival Programs. From Panther community centers, in the span of only a few years, the party launched twenty new Survival Programs nationwide.

  The party also ordered all members to take off the leather jackets and berets in the interest of our dressing more like the people. By wearing a uniform, we had isolated ourselves from the very people we had pledged to uplift, and also made it easier for the police to identify, arrest, and kill us. We came to understand quite well that our very lives depended on our relationship with the people in the community.

  In Seattle, we closed our storefront office in Madrona and moved into a two-story duplex on 20th and Spruce in the Central District, using the downstairs as our office and the upstairs as living quarters. The center was named the Welton Armstead Community Center, after the first Seattle Panther to be killed by the police. It was common practice in the party to name community centers and programs after fallen comrades. It was our way of keeping their memory alive.