My People Are Rising

by Aaron Dixon

  28

  The Godfather on Lake Merritt

  Twinkling twinkling grains They do all sorts of things While your inner mind is pleased Your conscience is only teased

  —Curtis Mayfield, “No Thing on Me (Cocaine Song),” 1972

  “Aaron, you and Charles Bronson are going to Seattle with the chairman. He has a speaking engagement there. Be ready to go in the morning.”

  “Right on,” I responded and hung up the phone. I was elated that John Seale had given me this assignment. I could get out of Central and go home, even if only for a few days.

  The next day, with a .45 on my side, I was standing on the stage in Seattle, flanked by Charles Bronson, looking out at the audience, watching for troublemakers or would-be assassins. As Chairman Bobby spoke, it felt strange to be standing there. I had been away for what seemed like too long from the mild atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. When I had left for Oakland, I was the defense captain of the Seattle chapter; now I was a bodyguard for the chairman and would soon be back in Oakland as the OD of Central Headquarters.

  Later that evening, at the University Hotel, Chairman Bobby, Charles Bronson, and I were joined by Elmer, Michael, and one of Elmer’s most important recruits, Comrade Ron Johnson, a former member of the Nation of Islam in Los Angeles. We talked and drank long into the night before Elmer, Ron, and Michael left. My duties did not allow for me to leave the hotel, which meant I would have no opportunity to see my parents.

  The next day we were at the airport, ready to depart for Oakland, when out of the blue two Seattle police detectives approached us.

  “Aaron Dixon, we have a warrant for your arrest,” said one.

  “What for?” I asked, my heart beating faster.

  “For driving with a suspended license,” the officer replied.

  They were polite, which was a change. Luckily, I was not carrying the weapon Elmer had provided me. I spoke briefly with the chairman and left with the officers. Within a couple of days, I was sentenced to six months in the city jail for driving with a suspended license. Where they had dug that up, I don’t know. But it really didn’t matter. My task now was figuring a way out of there.

  While I was in jail, I began to do what all Panthers must do while incarcerated: politically educate the inmates. After a while, the guards caught on and decided to separate me from the rest of the inmates by putting me in an eight-bunk cell by myself. I didn’t let that stop me. I continued talking to the inmates about their rights and why the Black Panther Party had stood up to the police, why our Survival Programs were so important to the people, and why it was imperative for people to come together to oppose this racist system of oppression. The guards demanded that I stop speaking through the bars, and when I refused they threw me into a padded cell for a couple of days. The padded cell was about the size of a small closet. You could not lie down or stretch out. I had to sleep with my feet propped up on the opposite wall.

  After several trips to the padded cell, I decided to spend my time writing and reading and talking with my parents when I got the opportunity to speak on the phone. Poppy said he was going to talk to the judge to see if he could get me released. I didn’t know if it would be possible, but I knew if it could be done, Poppy would do it. All I could do was bide my time. One day I decided to take all the mattresses off the other bunks and stacked them on top of one another near the window where the sun shined in. I would lie on the mattress stack in the sun and read, contemplate, and write. Sure enough, after a little over three months, I was free. Poppy had convinced the Black judge to release me. After spending a couple days with Mommy, Poppy, Elmer, and Michael, I flew back to Oakland to resume my duties. It felt good to be back in the fold. I had needed a rest, truth be told, but I would rather have been resting under more desirable circumstances. I made it back to Central just in time for a series of changes.

  Recognizing that we needed some form of recreation, the Central Committee made the decision to give the majority of party members Sundays off. Many of us had been working seven days a week for five to six years straight, and the idea of having a day off each week was happily embraced by everyone. On Sundays we would meet at Arroyo Viejo Park to play basketball and football. All the pent-up anger and aggression came out during the football games, resulting in numerous injuries, so it wasn’t long before football was dropped from the Sunday plans. I do remember some basketball games. A friendly rivalry developed between the group of Valentine, Steve McCutchen, and me against Steve Long, Tim Thomson, and Bubba Young. We battled, rebounded, pushed, and shoved, often shooting for hours, as each of us showed off our technical skills. Steve Long and Tim Thomson were very good ballplayers. It was competitive but fun and great for relieving the stress we carried around.

  Living at Central or some other overcrowded party facility was getting old. I got together with Melanie and Sherman, a brother from Los Angeles, and the three of us rented a three-bedroom apartment. After a year of sleeping on desks, in chairs, or in shared beds, it was good to have our own apartment, even though we did not spend much time there except to sleep. We were the first group to get an apartment, then other comrades began to follow our lead. On Sunday evenings, we would gather at the big house on 29th, where we prepared meals and played cards and other games while listening to the sounds of the Spinners and the O’Jays. Comrades also sometimes went to the movies or out to dinner.

  One Sunday evening I took little Aaron Patrice to see the film Papillon with Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. The film, now a classic, is about a Frenchman, Papillon, who is wrongly convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison on Devil’s Island in French Guiana, an almost unlivable place. He leads an unceasing struggle to be free, and, as a graying old man, he risks death to finally gain his freedom. Little Aaron was only four years old, yet he seemed to understand Papillon’s unending desire to be a free man. I would watch this fim many, many times. I was captivated and related to his struggle to free himself from the cruel life of a prisoner in one of the most inhumane prison camps in existence.

  With the election behind us, Chairman Bobby decided the comrades needed to focus on becoming a more disciplined force. Having spent four years in the air force, the chairman thought some of the methods used by the armed services would benefit the party as a whole. Everyone was summoned to the school auditorium for the orders. The chairman outlined the new expectations: at 3 a.m., the security person on duty at Central Headquarters would receive a call from June Hilliard or John Seale, informing them of the location of the morning exercise session. Security would in turn call all the Panther houses with the designated location where all party members were to report at 6 a.m. for calisthenics, followed by a two- to three-mile run. Then we were to return to our living quarters to clean up and shower. Beds had to be made military-style. Clothing, including socks, was to be folded neatly, and an inspection team would come by to check on the tidiness of the sleeping quarters, the cleanliness of the bathrooms, and whether socks and clothing were folded to military standards. Drinking alcohol and getting high were forbidden while conducting party business, which had always been a party rule, but it was now to be strictly enforced.

  If you violated any of the new rules, you were summoned before a disciplinary board. This was a difficult new direction for many comrades, especially in light of what many of us had endured during the party’s early years. We worked hard as it was. The calisthenics and the running were needed exercise, but the rest we could have done without. It really created more of a burden than anything else.

  By 1974, it was obvious that Huey was moving in a direction that Bobby did not fully support. Huey, flanked by the thirty-man-strong security squad, had started to shake down the criminal elements in Oakland. Pimps, drug dealers, and managers of after-hours spots were now obliged to kick down some money or face consequences. This was not a counterrevolutionary tactic—in fact, many revolutionary movements throughout the world had operated in a similar fashion, taxing the illegal capitalists wh
o profited off the community but did not pay into the system—but things began to get out of hand.

  An unflattering story had run in Jet Magazine in May 1972, with Huey on the cover, sitting imperiously in a brown leather chair, very well dressed, labeled “Supreme Servant of the People,” a title chosen by the Central Committee. It sent a very different message than the earlier pictures of him in his leather jacket, black beret tilted to the side, shotgun in one hand and spear in the other. This new image created doubts in the minds of party members and general public about Huey’s real motives. As Valentine was part of the security squad, I would hear bits and pieces from him and others about what was occurring on the streets, and occasionally while members were in the field, people from the community would make comments. Around the same time, The Godfather was released, along with Huey’s order for party members to see the film more than once.

  Something was not right in Oakland. On one hand, the campaign and the programs at the school and the Son of Man Temple had been great developments for strengthening our relationship with the community. On the other hand, there was a dark side, an ugly side that had always existed, which lurks in the shadows of most militant organizations. That side was tilting the scales away from our goals of liberating Oakland. There was the tailor who was beaten up in Huey’s apartment. There were rumors of prostitution and the attempted takeover of a rival nightclub. One day, twenty comrades were summoned to the LampPost. Gathered across the street was a band of street dealers, most of whom were armed. They were angry with the party because of the shakedowns and had intended to attack the LampPost, but they backed down when they saw all the comrades showing up.

  Another evening, after dinner at Central, June called. “Aaron, get all the comrades in the truck and drive down to 7th Street in West Oakland to Lady Esther’s Orbit Room. Immediately.”

  I got thirty comrades in the truck within minutes and hopped on the Nimitz Freeway. Five minutes later we were in West Oakland in front of Lady Esther’s club. Huey and Robert Bay and several other Panthers emerged. Huey was talking to three dudes who had threatened him. June had us pile out of the truck and form a circle around Huey and the three dudes.

  Huey, his coat draped over his shoulders, asked of his confronters, “So what are you going to do now?” He repeated this several times as the dudes stumbled and took off running. Many of us hardly ever saw Huey. He seldom came to Central Headquarters, as the Central Committee met at his home. If you had reason to see him, you needed to make a visit to his penthouse on Lakeside Drive or to the LampPost.

  With the election over, there was a need for a new focus, an avenue to channel the energies of the throngs of uprooted Panthers. But instead of guiding the party in a new direction, as he had done so brilliantly for years, even while in prison, it appeared that Huey’s intent now was to dismantle much of the party itself. Since its inception, the organization had attracted some of the best young people in Black America, and, I would argue, some of the brightest, bravest, toughest, and most dedicated citizens in America altogether. Even after the purge, the split, the police raids, mass imprisonments, and countless deaths, many of those comrades were still around. But gradually many would leave the fold, some voluntarily, some on Huey’s orders. Some would even flee the party in an attempt to put distance between themselves and the madness going on in Oakland.

  Bubba Young and Gwen Goodloe took off, as did Omar. Big Herm, who had managed Chairman Bobby’s and Elaine’s campaigns and now managed the LampPost, was run off. Carol Rucker and Kim Nelson, longtime party members and two of the toughest, hardest-working sisters around, split, along with Yvonne Carter, a sweet sister and the widow of Bunchy Carter. Big Malcolm moved to San Francisco and dissassociated himself from the party.

  One day, Masai Hewitt, the minister of education, showed up at headquarters. During a Central Committee meeting, he had questioned Huey’s tactics and opposed some of his moves in terms of the party’s direction, and, as a result, was demoted. After that, he spent all of his time at Central, practicing martial arts or reading, not saying much or even showing the beautiful smile he had so often given comrades. Masai was one of the most principled comrades in the party. Warm and loving, he was also extremely committed and articulate about the struggles of oppressed people. He always carried a big black briefcase full of Marxist-Leninist books, and often quoted Mao and Lenin. He had traveled extensively throughout the world on behalf of Huey and the party. You could see in his eyes the hurt, the disappointment, and the humiliation he felt. Masai left without a word, not even a goodbye. Even the venerable Robert Bay was also gone.

  Then came word that David and June Hilliard had been expelled. The rumor was that the Hilliards had plotted against Huey, but in the final hour, June, unable to carry out the plot, broke down in tears and confessed to Huey. Shortly after, Mojo, who seemed like he’d be around forever, was escorted out of the party, never to be seen or heard from again. Mojo had been in charge of the party’s armament since Fred Bennett’s disappearance. It had been rumored that Mojo was possibly a police informant because a large cache of weapons stored at the house on 29th had been confiscated by the Oakland police during a late-night raid.

  For me, personally, things only got worse. I came in from the field one evening and was given word that Tanya had left for Seattle, taking Aaron Patrice with her. I was devastated. Aaron Patrice was my closest friend and weekend companion. Tanya had been working at the LampPost, and because of her late hours, Aaron spent most of his time with me when he was not in school. His constant bright smile always brought joy and amazement into my life. When I contacted Tanya in Seattle, she threatened to disappear and never allow me to see Aaron again. I sank into deep despair, wondering if I would ever be reunited with my son.

  It seemed the party was falling apart. Huey’s drug use and paranoia was dissecting and destroying the party brick by brick, comrade by comrade. Prior to Huey’s arrest and imprisonment, he had not indulged in drugs, nor had he disrespected party members. But when he came out of prison, all the elements were there, waiting to ensnare him. At the time, cocaine was considered the hip new drug. Consumed by the stars, hip politicians, artists, players, and hustlers, it was a drug that made its users feel bigger and more important than they were. For Huey, next to the US government, cocaine became his greatest enemy. Now, without Chairman Bobby by his side, Huey slowly wandered down the path of no return.

  Oakland in the early ’70s was awash in the drug. Coming in through the port and as abundant as water, still labeled a “recreational drug,” it was easy for cocaine to seep into people’s lives, destroying its users and everything in its wake. I remember being ordered to leave Central Headquarters at 3 a.m. to pick up Comrade Bethune to take him to get Huey some coke. Everything came to a head shortly thereafter.

  In 1974, a warrant was put out for Huey’s arrest in the murder of a prostitute. The pimps and hustlers had also put out a $25,000 contract on our leader’s head, and with many of the members of the security squad no longer in the party to protect him, Huey and his wife, Gwen Fontaine, disappeared. They eventually resurfaced in Cuba.

  So many good soldiers had been expelled or run off—dedicated sisters and brothers, people who had been in the trenches from the early days into the peaceful times. Many were people I knew very well, including Valentine. After Valentine refused to kiss Huey’s feet at his orders, Huey broke the butt of a shotgun over Valentine’s shoulder. Valentine was taken to the hospital. While waiting, he called Big Malcolm and asked him to bring him a weapon. But the party was taking no chances: after being released from the hospital, Valentine was put on a Greyhound bus to Seattle by John Seale and Flores Forbes from the Southern California chapter.

  The most shocking development was the departure of Chairman Bobby Seale, his second wife Leslie, and his brother John. Huey may have been the party’s figurehead and chief theoretician, but Bobby Seale was the heart and soul of the Black Panther Party. He was the organizational genius. It was
hard to imagine the party without him. It was Chairman Bobby who had influenced Elmer and me to found the Seattle chapter. But the party and its purpose were much larger than any individual or any of its leaders. Those of us left in Oakland did not know what to expect.

  I began to allow myself to wonder, to question why I was still hanging on.

  29

  Elaine’s Rise to Power

  Time is truly wastin’ There’s no guarantee Smile’s in the makin’ You gotta fight the powers that be

  —The Isley Brothers, “Fight the Power,” 1975

  I remember sitting on a cement block outside the Oakland Community School, wondering about the future of the Black Panther Party. Almost all the party leadership in place at the inception of the Seattle chapter in 1968 was now gone, and only a few chapters were left—Seattle, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Dallas. Central Headquarters was down to 150 comrades from a peak of nearly 500.

  Elaine gathered the remaining troops in the school auditorium and announced that she was in charge. We had assembled there on many other occasions for announcements and directives from the chairman and others, now gone. It was a somber gathering, yet there did not seem to be any doubt as to whether we could regroup and rebound.