by Aaron Dixon
I sat in the hallway for hours, waiting to be summoned to meet with David. Finally, late that evening, David appeared with Geronimo Pratt. I gave David the $2,000.
He said, “Right on, Comrade.”
The three of us left in a car along with Brenda Presley, who was on the newspaper staff, and headed to Frisco to drop her off. As “Crystal Blue Persuasion,” a favorite of David’s, played on the radio, I sat in the back, quietly unsure of what might happen on this sudden, short trip.
David was under a tremendous amount of stress, which had caused him to develop ulcers, as did a number of comrades. Only a few days earlier, Randy Williams and Melvin Holloway had been transporting weapons late at night in the party’s van and ended up in a shootout with the pigs, which would send Randy and Melvin to prison for at least a decade. Losing Randy Williams was a serious blow in terms of the party’s military capacities. In that tense atmosphere, I was relieved to be on a plane home the following morning. I never found out what the emergency $2,000 was for; it had been an order from the chief, so that was that.
In Seattle, we had taken up the practice of throwing our unwanted LP records at a wall in the upstairs barracks with as much force as we could summon. Shards of vinyl were embedded in the wall, which we called the Wall of Frustration. It was a way for us to release some of our pent-up anger and frustration, especially after a death or arrest or attempted raid. I had developed a nervous condition in my stomach area, prompting my physician to prescribe me Valium, which I took on only a few occasions. Enemies were constantly at our door; at times it seemed there were enemies inside the door. Mistrust ran high, and for those of us still standing and willing to fight, we had only two options: to leave or stay. At times I fell into pockets of deep depression, sometimes staying upstairs in the barracks after making sure everyone had his or her assignment for the day. Sometimes I just wanted to be left alone. Fortunately, these bouts did not last long. There was simply no time for such moments of despair.
There was a ray of light during these dark days. It was the birth of my daughter Nisaa, despite the circumstances of her conception. Her mother was a young community worker who had run away from home and was living at the center. Tanya was not happy about this new development. Soon after her birth, Nisaa’s mother joined the Nation of Islam and moved to Chicago. I did not lay eyes on Nisaa again for many years.
23
Huey Is Set Free
Find the cost of freedom Buried in the ground Mother Earth will swallow you Lay your body down
—Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, “Find the Cost of Freedom,” 1970
Through all the turmoil and chaos, it was difficult to focus on the quiet victories. However, in May 1970, we had great occasion to celebrate. Huey P. Newton’s appeal was successful. The California Court of Appeals reversed the conviction, and the minister of defense was released from prison.
We had expanded the party throughout the country, organized hundreds of “Free Huey” rallies worldwide, and attempted to petition the United Nations. We had formed numerous coalitions with some unlikely allies. Our leaders had traveled the globe to raise support, and we had even threatened violence. All this so our leader would be set free.
Oddly, it was almost anticlimactic. So much time had passed. So much had occurred since his arrest in 1967. The party had gone from a small group of revolutionaries in Oakland and Los Angeles to an international organization. By 1971, the number of martyred comrades would total more than twenty-five. Black Panther offices throughout the country had been raided, bombed, destroyed. The paper had gone from a circulation of 500 to 350,000. Many of the party’s leaders had been imprisoned, exiled, or killed. The Black Panther Party was a far different organization than it had been at its inception, and Huey’s release gave us new hope that the party would become stronger and more focused for the next phase of our struggle. However, we could not pause to celebrate.
On August 7, 1970, seventeen-year-old Panther Jonathan Jackson, the younger brother of field marshal and prison organizer George Jackson, entered a Marin County courtroom with a satchel of weapons and disarmed the county sheriff. Jonathan then armed three Black San Quentin inmates—defendant James McClain and witnesses William Christmas and Ruchell Magee; he took the judge and prosecutor as hostages, and demanded the release of his big brother, George, along with the other two Soledad Brothers, and a plane to take them all to Cuba. The group made their way through the courthouse, disarming bewildered sheriffs along the way. In the parking lot, Jonathan let off a burst of gunfire to put the pigs on notice.
The San Quentin prison guards and California Highway Patrol, having learned about the plan from a source, were waiting. They flooded the area, aiming their weapons on the group, who were loading themselves into a van. As the van began to pull forward, a shot was fired by a Marin County sheriff, instantly killing young Jonathan Jackson. The pigs were determined that no Black revolutionaries were going to escape with any hostages. The enemy showed its true nature: without any regard for the innocent hostages, the pigs opened fire, killing the judge and two of the inmates. Only Ruchell Magee and the prosecutor remained alive; the latter was wounded and became paralyzed for life.
Watching this on the news was painful and heart-wrenching. It was a drastic, desperate move by a brave young man longing to see his brother free. It was the boldest revolutionary mission in the war between the government and the party. Young Jonathan marked his place in history and would not be forgotten. Implicated in providing one of the weapons to Jonathan Jackson was Angela Davis, the Communist Party organizer and Black Panther Party associate. A national manhunt was put out for her. She was eventually arrested in New York and put on trial in California, but she was acquitted of the charges. The Marin County incident was henceforth known as “Black August.”
In September 1970, the party, along with a coalition of leftist and radical organizations and the United Front Against Fascism, conceived of the People’s Revolutionary Constitutional Convention, to be held in Washington, DC, in November. The first stage was a three-day plenary session at Temple University in Philadelphia, birthplace of the Constitution. The plenary session was slated to be a huge event, a profound statement to the American people concerning the need to reconceive and rewrite the US Constitution in a manner that would speak directly and truly to creating a more humane and just society. We expected people from all over the world to descend on Philadelphia, where Huey was to give the keynote address.
During the weeks leading up to the September plenary session, the Philadelphia chapter had several run-ins with the Philadelphia Police Department and its Chief Rizzo, the epitome of everything we detested about the pigs. He was a racist dog, fat and repugnant, bent on not only destroying and humiliating the Philadelphia chapter but also keeping the plenary session from happening. His threats culminated in a raid on several of the party’s community centers, eventually forcing the comrades to surrender, stripped to their underwear. All this went down just days before the plenary session.
Big Malcolm, Valentine, James Redman, and I arrived in Philly the first night of the plenary session. A huge demonstration was in progress, with thousands of people protesting the repressive police tactics. When we arrived at Temple University, the scene looked explosive. On one side of the street was a battalion of Philadelphia pigs with riot gear and large batons, waiting to unleash their fury and hatred. On the other side was a mass of radical demonstrators of all colors, yelling, chanting, fists pumping, egging on the pigs. The four of us were thrust into the middle, along with a squad of other Panthers, forming a long line between the amped-up demonstrators and the robotic riot squads of police. It seemed the lid was going to blow any minute. We tried to push back the demonstrators, all the while keeping our eyes on the crazed-looking cops. One demonstrator threw a Coke bottle at the cops, only to have it plucked out of the air by Comrade Valentine.
The line of Panthers was able to keep the two sides apart, bringing calm to the streets so the conference
could begin. As the event got under way, the four of us were pulled away by June Hilliard, and we next found ourselves with several other Panthers forming a semicircle at the front of the stage as Huey began to speak. I kept wanting to turn around to marvel at our leader, who had spent two and a half years in solitary confinement, who had issued important declarations and strategic positions from his cell, enabling the party to withstand the most violent attacks by the US government. But I kept my eyes straight ahead, looking out into the sea of people, only occasionally glancing at Big Malcolm to my right and Valentine to my left.
Several hours later, we were given our housing assignment. We eventually found the place, a small, reddish church on Susquehanna Road in a run-down neighborhood. Inside, we discovered there was no running water and no blankets or other bedding. Some of us ended up knocking on neighbors’ doors. They provided a few blankets and let us use their bathrooms to wash up in the morning. Big Malcolm, always the one with creative initiative, met a young sister from the North Carolina chapter to sleep with for the night. They ended up in one of the church pews, wrapped in an American flag that Malcolm had borrowed from the front of the church.
The next day, dozens of planning workshops began, and we were all put on several work details. The remainder of our time was spent working, unable to witness or participate in any of the sessions or workshops. For one assignment I taught a Red Book class to more than a hundred East Coast rank-and-file comrades, all dressed in the Panther black uniform, which was reserved for special events. These were the young warriors we hoped would be the impetus for the revolution. I wondered how long these young brothers would last in the party, and how many would withstand the various assaults against us. How many would become disillusioned and drop by the wayside?
On our way back to Seattle, the flight stopped in Chicago. Four FBI agents boarded the plane and detained James Redman. James had worked in intelligence during his tour in Vietnam. They let him go after a few hours of questioning.
The plenary session proved a major success, laying the foundation for the larger event. The People’s Revolutionary Constitutional Convention was held November 27–29, 1970, in Washington, DC. The Seattle chapter put in a lot of time organizing and fundraising to send twelve party members and a handful of community members to the convention. Those of us who had attended the plenary session in September stayed behind. The People’s Revolutionary Constitutional Convention had been conceived by Eldridge, initially. It wasn’t something Huey fully embraced; as a result, nothing specific or substantive came of it.
Following the conference, Huey made a move to establish an Ideological Institute for the party leadership, including captains, who by this time were to be called coordinators. Once a week, selected coordinators from around the country would go to Oakland in order to develop a broader, more philosophical approach to thinking. At the institute, we were introduced to the ideas of British Marxist philosopher Maurice Cornforth and his works on dialectical materialism. We learned to look at matter, history, and all other phenomena in dialectical terms. This was an attempt to expand the minds in the party to become deeper, more analytical thinkers and thus better leaders and organizers. We discussed change: the fact that nothing in the universe is permanent except for change, and how, when two contradictory forces collide, a transformation takes place.
A number of comrades were not ready for such heady dialogue. People grumbled, surprised by this development and unsure of their ability to adapt to this new way of thinking. As a matter of fact, it was the party’s adaptability that allowed us to grow stronger rather than weaker under the constant government assaults. It was this philosophical approach that would allow us to continue to grow and change and adapt, yet many remained skeptical.
It wasn’t long before the old and new began to clash. We all carried a tremendous amount of paranoia. We were always on alert, aware of phones being tapped, of close comrades being fingered as informants and snitches—people we never would have thought of as collaborating with the police. This left lingering doubts and questions.
When Huey came out of prison in May 1970, few original members were left in Oakland. Even his right hand, Chairman Bobby Seale, was locked away in Connecticut. For an introverted personality such as Huey, the paranoia and distrust must have been immense. The party had grown from a small band of friends and neighborhood buddies to a bicoastal organization with thousands of new faces, personalities, and egos. Even before Huey was released, tensions were brewing between the New York chapter and the West Coast leadership. Without Bobby Seale on the scene as Huey’s voice of reason, the party was headed for monumental internal struggle. The work of COINTELPRO had further undermined the relationships between party leaders and created distance and suspicion between East and West Coast party leadership. On top of that, the party was slowly dividing into opposite strategies: all-out guerrilla warfare versus a focus on the Survival Programs. The New York chapter leadership was advocating for armed struggle, along with working with the Weatherman (also known as Weather Underground). The official policy of the party was that the people were not ready for guerrilla warfare; they were in need of Survival Programs, and we would use these as tools to organize, educate, and politicize the people.
Over the next several months, these factors and more led to ongoing disputes involving members of the New York chapter and David and June Hilliard. The disputes eventually resulted in the expulsion of the New York 21 while their trial was still under way. Later, Geronimo Pratt, along with twenty members of the party’s underground who had been traveling with Geronimo in Texas, were also expelled by the Central Committee.
Hearing of the expulsion of the New York 21 was a blow to morale, as was the loss of any leading party member. But you could not publicly show any sympathy or feelings about the loss, nor would you dare question why someone had been expelled, for fear that your own loyalty to the party could be called into question. Some of the best comrades on the East Coast were among the New York 21, very bright minds and very creative comrades such as Joan Bird, Afeni Shakur, and Michael Tabor, to name just a few. Even knowing about the conflicts, it always felt to me that we had cut off a part of ourselves. Geronimo was also a great loss. When I first met him he was brash and arrogant, without a sense of humility or correctness. After taking the helm of the Southern California chapter, he eventually centered himself and was able to develop a strong defensive strategy for the chapter, as well as directing the fortification of other chapters around the country.
To make matters worse, an issue of the party paper declared Huey “Supreme Commander.” Upon reading that, I got a sick feeling in my gut. This was not the way things were supposed to happen. Huey seemed to be moving to change his image from that of a selfless revolutionary to an all-powerful leader. I fought these feelings and thoughts, putting them away, trying to maintain my belief that the party and Huey knew best, and trying to hold on to my commitment to the struggle. I could only hope that these things would pass.
24
Seattle: Riot 18
Beware, beware of the handshake That hides the snake I’m telling you beware
—The Temptations, “Smiling Faces Sometimes,” 1971
It was one of those perfect early fall Saturday afternoons in Seattle. All the comrades were out in the field, trying to unload the last stack of Panther papers. Poppy had called to say he was making me some barbeque and Mommy was making my favorite apple pie.
Big Malcolm and I had some special work to do that day. We had to take the weapons out for testing, to make sure all the technical equipment was in proper working condition. As we drove Big Malcolm’s big green step van through the sunlit woods, we puffed on some hash, marveling at the tall evergreen trees. When we reached our destination, a secluded area with a dirt hill, we climbed out and unloaded the weapons from the van, one by one. We fired ten to twenty rounds from each rifle, taking turns as we went along. Finally, we were left with the Riot 18, a beautiful weapon I had bought in an El Cer
rito gun shop near Oakland, the same weapon Big Malcolm had clutched as we prepared for the aborted raid during Valentine’s run from the pigs.
“Here, it’s yours,” said Malcolm in his deep, gruff voice. He sat down on a stump. I glanced down at my wrist at an expensive, gold-and-jade watch given to me by Beverly, one of the young prostitutes we had befriended. She had taken it from her pimp and given it to me to show her appreciation for our trying to help her get off the streets. For a moment, I marveled at the glistening gold, jade, and the intricate jewelry work.
As I put the shotgun up to my shoulder, a slight voice whispered on the wind, Don’t fire it from your shoulder.
I had learned to listen to my inner voice in these uncertain times. Lowering the shotgun to my side, I pulled the trigger. As the firing pin hit the primer in the middle of the shell, a tremendous explosion occurred. Malcolm would say later that the blast had lifted me off the ground as it blew my left arm almost in two. I stood there in unbearable pain, screaming in shock, as I attempted to hold my damaged arm together, blood shooting everywhere, my arm a tangled mess. I looked down. Blood was bubbling and veins, arteries, and bones were sticking up. It was a gory sight and we knew we had to get to a hospital fast.
Two white teenage boys in a white ’69 Ford Mustang had just pulled up to see what was going on. Malcolm commandeered their car, knowing his van would have been too slow and too bumpy on the uneven country road. We hopped in and desperately tried to find a hospital. At one point, we pulled up to a park, where a group of elderly white women were gathered, all dressed in white.