My People Are Rising (12 page)

“See, Whitey understands only one thing. You start spilling his blood and you get his attention. . . . We gonna have to call out the haints, call out the warriors. You understand me?”

We all nodded and sat and continued to listen to this older cat. He gestured with his long fingers as he continued to talk for hours about his ideas of rebellion. At one point he walked into the back room and came out with a .30-caliber US carbine, the kind I had seen in countless war movies, the same kind my father had carried into battle in the Philippines.

“Brothers, this is what y'all need, some guns.”

We were surprised when a brunette white woman appeared from the kitchen and asked us if we wanted something to drink. After several hours of listening and talking, we left.

We didn't know who this cat was, nor did we care. We just wanted someone to point us in the right direction. We visited Voodoo Man often, and each time we saw more and more brothers and sisters over there from the SNCC and BSU circles we associated with. I think everyone was intrigued by his guns, and his talk was different from what we had been hearing at BSU and SNCC meetings. We didn't even care that he and his whole scene seemed a little weird. We just wanted to move, to act, to make some noise, to startle the white establishment, to let them know we were watching their every move.

One Friday night, Anthony and I accompanied Elmer and the Regents to the YMCA up on 23rd for a “Battle of the Bands” dance and contest. Elmer's band was doing battle with a band from the South End called the Noblemen. They were a group of brothers who were not terribly good musicians, but they were funky and their lead singer, George, knew how to work the audience. During the dance there was some gesturing back and forth between members of the two bands. Because they were from the South End, we did not really know these brothers, nor did they know us. While we were putting our equipment back in the van, Elmer and one of the Noblemen got into an argument, and soon we all squared off with each other and started fighting.

Within minutes the cops showed up and started pushing, shoving, beating us with their batons, and attempting to arrest us in their usual manner, and in a flash we united, turned on the cops, and attacked them. The crowd soon joined in. We chased the cops away and started throwing rocks and bottles at the white passersby, yelling obscenities. It was like an explosion of capped anger, like someone took a bottle of Coca-Cola, shook it up, and let off the cap. We erupted that night with Seattle's first little riot. Soon more cops came. We stood our ground, throwing whatever we could grab, but were slowly overtaken. I was on the corner cussing, throwing rocks, when I was grabbed by four cops and practically heaved onto the hood of a squad car. One cop grabbed my long Afro and pulled my head back by the hair, and out of nowhere came a white guy with a camera, wearing a trench coat. He snapped my picture and disappeared. I knew he was a cop. Elmer, Anthony, I, and the Noblemen brothers were arrested and taken downtown. We were released a couple hours later without being charged.

The following evening, Reverend Lloyd, the most outspoken religious leader in the Central District, called a community meeting about the incident. His little church on Cherry Street was packed with older people from the community. Many of them were upset about the treatment of us young rebels. We were praised as innocent, brave warriors brutalized by the police. The meeting went on for hours and finally ended without resolution. That little riot at the Y was the first time most of us had an actual physical conflict with the cops. They did not have to come down on us the way they did. But through their actions, they brought us together, uniting us and politicizing us, all in one night. I remember the cop taking my picture, which could have meant only one thing: just as we were preparing ourselves for the inevitable, the authorities were doing the same thing—preparing, by identifying future enemies of the state.

9

The Death of Martin Luther King Jr.

What's gonna happen now? In all of our cities? My people are rising; they're living in lies. Even if they have to die Even if they have to die at the moment they know what life is

—Nina Simone, “Why? (The King of Love Is Dead),” 1968

Not long after the incident
at the Y, the BSU office received a call from a distraught Black student at Franklin High School by the name of Trollis Flavors. Trollis had gotten into a fight with a white student and had been suspended, while the white student remained in school. That was not uncommon. However, we had been observing dynamics at Franklin prior to this episode, as it was a mostly Black and Asian school yet had no Black or Asian teachers or administrators. The incident with Trollis Flavors gave us an impetus for taking some type of larger action.

On a rainy Friday morning, twenty-five to thirty BSU members from the UW, as well as Elmer, Anthony, and a handful of other Garfield High School students, gathered outside the little sandwich shop across from Franklin to demand that Trollis be reinstated, and that the school hire Black and Asian teachers and staff. Led by Larry and Carl, we marched two abreast as we crossed the street, chanting “Beep, beep! Bang, bang! Ungawa! Black Power! Ungawa!” and headed into the school. Some of the Black students from Franklin joined us and we proceeded into the administrative office, drowning out the pleas of the little white secretary, who demanded we leave. We asked to meet with the principal, who refused, so we barged into his office, our chants growing louder as we began to feel more powerful. The principal ran out of his office in frustration, eventually canceling school for the rest of the day and sending home the staff, leaving the school in the hands of the students, who were too excited to leave.

Larry and Carl decided to hold a rally in the school auditorium and spoke to a packed house of excited Black, Asian, and white students. We felt overjoyed and victorious. Never before had we experienced this sensation of power. Our complaints and gripes had always been ignored and pushed aside, making us feel like victims without rights, without reasons for grievance. Well, that day we showed the racist school district that the youth were ready to challenge each and every unjust act until things were made right. That weekend we partied and reflected on our victory, eager for the next challenge.

My love for writing and the theater was being overshadowed by these social issues that kept popping up. My personal life was affected, too. My girlfriend, Brenda, gave me an ultimatum to let the militant stuff alone or she would leave me. She was my first love, and for a long time I thought there would be no other. But there was no decision to make. I seemed to be losing control over the events of my life, as though something were pulling me ever so slightly in an unfamiliar direction. It was like walking in one direction, only to have a strong wind overwhelm you, moving you in another direction, toward another place that in time becomes your rightful destination.

Several weeks later, while I was lying across the bed listening to Coltrane's “My Favorite Things,” contemplating when to start my English assignment, the doorbell rang. I knew Mommy would answer it, but I figured it was for me, so I ran downstairs—only to find two police officers there, talking to Mommy.

“Mrs. Dixon,” they said, “we have a warrant for your son's arrest.”

“For what?” she shot back, a serious look on her face.

“For unlawful assembly at Franklin High School,” replied one of the officers.

I was handcuffed and I left quietly with the police, telling Mommy not to worry. I was glad Poppy was not there—things might not have gone so peaceably. When I arrived at the police station, I saw Carl Miller and Larry Gossett, the two BSU heads. I learned that Elmer and Anthony had been arrested right in the classroom and taken to the juvenile detention center, and Trollis Flavors had been arrested as well.

This was my first experience of going to jail. The King County Jail had been built at the turn of the century, and it showed. The place was a dark, archaic-looking dungeon, like something out of medieval times. The only comforting aspect was that I was placed in the same day cell as Larry and Carl. We were dismayed by our sudden arrest, having had no idea that warrants had been put out for us after the demonstration at Franklin. We sat in the dark, cold, gray day cell, exchanging small talk, wondering how we were going to get out. At times we glanced at the old black-and-white TV in the corner, sitting high up on a metal shelf.

The day was April 4, 1968. It had been one of those dreary Seattle days when the rain drizzles down constantly and passively. Then suddenly, Walter Cronkite came on the TV with a grave expression on his face. We weren't sure what we heard coming out of his mouth. Even as we stopped our conversation and listened closely, we were still uncertain.

“Today, in Memphis, Tennessee, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.”

The word
assassinated
reverberated inside my head, almost throwing me off balance. Carl and Larry gasped. “What? What? NO, man, no, man, this can't be real,” said Larry.

We looked at each other in shock. Walter Cronkite continued the broadcast, talking about the assassination and the riots that were beginning to break out in Harlem, Chicago, and Detroit. Stokely came on in Washington, DC, holding a .22-caliber pistol, shouting, “It's now time to burn, burn, baby, burn!” as crowds of young people rampaged through the streets of DC.

Other broadcasts came through, showing similar scenes of riots and mayhem in city after city. It was looking like the revolution had come—and here we were, sitting in jail. The three of us retreated to some private, personal space to try to comprehend the moment. Tears welled up in Carl's eyes. My emotions were going wild. I kicked and banged the steel table, throwing whatever I could throw, wishing I were out there on the streets.

Martin had been heaven-sent, a modern-day saint, our Mahatma Gandhi, confronting America and its injustice as no other man had ever done, and doing all this with no malice, no anger, no hatred, just pure love and pure faith that someday we could all live in peace and harmony. Later that night those of us from the day cell were ushered farther back into darkness, down a dark corridor to our one-man cells. I was glad to be alone, glad to be away by myself where I could grieve in private. I thought back to when I was twelve and sat on the corner of that bandstand listening to Martin, looking out on the crowd, feeling somehow responsible for his well-being, looking at his smooth face, feeling his love. Despite becoming impatient with his nonviolent, nonthreatening approach, we young organizers still greatly admired his courage. He was our modern-day savior.

Anger filled me that night. There would be no more tears and no more dialogue. The war began that night all across America. I vowed to myself that Martin's death would not go unavenged. If a man of peace could be killed through violence, then violence it would be. For me, the picket sign would be replaced, and in its place would be the gun. It was now an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. There would be no more unanswered murders. I finally dozed off to a painful sleep.

The next morning we were awakened for our bail hearing. We first met with two young ACLU attorneys, Mike Rosen, a Jewish man, and Chris Young, a white woman. They told us that the courtroom was packed with students and supporters and briefed us on how to respond to the questions presented by the judge. I was the last of the three of us to walk into the courtroom. Larry and Carl had already been released. Now it was my turn. I felt almost overwhelmed, looking at the sea of faces crowded into the courtroom. Some faces I recognized. Most I did not. They all seemed to melt together, and I tried to maintain my composure when the crowd gave a big cheer upon my release.

Mommy came over and hugged me. It was a relief to be out. But the pain of losing Martin was still immediate and very strong. At the same time there was an even stronger sense of certainty, a feeling that the time for major action was fast approaching, that our day of redemption was near.

The next day, the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
ran a large photo on the front page of Larry, Carl, and me wearing my Stokely shades—putting me into the mind of every cop in the city. After that photo I could not go anywhere without being stopped and harassed by the Seattle police.

That night many of us met at Voodoo Man's house. America was burning over Martin's death, and we wanted Seattle to burn, too. So far Voodoo Man was the only one who seemed willing to meet our needs, to share our desire for revenge. He sent out three squads of brothers to throw firebombs and handed me and Dewayne Hall .30-caliber carbines, telling us he wanted us to stay there with him to protect the house. I remember squatting in the kitchen, guarding the back door in the candlelit den, the sounds of sirens all around, wondering what would happen that night and what the others were doing. Every now and then, a cop car with lights flashing would go by, streaking to some unknown destination.

Voodoo Man was walking around with his carbine, eyebrows arched with a crazy, far-off look in his eyes. “Man, tonight the blood is going to flow.”

My thoughts wandered to images of armed Black guerrillas running across rooftops and through deserted, bloody streets. Suddenly, those thoughts were broken by the flashing of red and blue lights and unintelligible voices. There were four cop cars out front with their lights on.

“You and Dee wait here,” said Voodoo Man as he stepped outside. Dewayne and I looked at each other, wondering what the cops were doing.