My People Are Rising (18 page)

The Oregon cities of Portland and Eugene also started Panther branches that came under the authority of the Seattle chapter. For me, this meant frequent trips to Portland to check with Captain Kent Ford, and to Eugene to see the Anderson brothers. A little older than myself, Kent Ford was a solid organizer with a low-key demeanor. The Anderson brothers were originally from Los Angeles. They had come to Eugene to play football at the University of Oregon, but they stopped playing football and instead dedicated their time to forming the Eugene branch.

It wasn't long before our little sleepy Madrona neighborhood had been transformed into a Black Panther fortress. On any given day, scores of young men and women in black berets and leather jackets congregated inside and outside our storefront office; sometimes they marched at the park, often carrying rifles and shotguns up the street. It wasn't uncommon for twelve or more Panthers to be sitting around the office, holding their weapons.

The Black community's response to us was mixed. There was fear and apprehension among many. Among others, there was a sense of pride and hope, particularly among the disenfranchised, the victimized, the hopeless. The Black Panther Party represented a proud, defiant presence in the community, something not seen since the likes of Marcus Garvey and Paul Robeson—a presence that would stand up and fight back against the racist cops and the racist institutions of the United States.

Many people felt a powerful sense of pride when viewing Panthers in action, and this was never more evident than one overcast Seattle Saturday afternoon, when more than a hundred Panthers attended the Saturday afternoon drills in full Panther uniform. Lieutenants Bobby Harding and Mike Tagawa had drilled the comrades for well over an hour, marching up and down the Madrona playfield. They looked superb and polished.

Like clockwork, the cops showed up and lined up in their cars on the side of the park. We decided we would give them something to look at. I instructed Bobby and Mike to lead the comrades onto the streets. They put on a display that day: marching out of the park, proceeding three blocks down 33rd Avenue, completely engulfing the streets, their eyes determined, looking straight ahead as Bobby and Mike barked out the cadences. They reached Cherry Street, one of the main streets coming up to Madrona. Marching on Cherry, the comrades occupied the entire right side of the street. The people in the neighborhood came out to watch, sitting on their porches, some cheering, others taking pictures, looking on with a secret pride that many of them had never felt before.

Meanwhile, the cops had stationed squad cars at every intersection. At one point the comrades marched directly toward one of the police cruisers but at the last second veered to the left. It was as if they had been marching together in formation for years. Finally, at the bottom of the hill, they turned and marched back up and into the park. That was a very proud day for the Black community. We showed that we were their protectors, their defenders.

Our phones at the office were constantly ringing with people calling for help with landlord issues, spousal abuse, or problems with the police. In one incident a single mother with a house full of kids called to report that her landlord had removed her front door because she had fallen behind in her rent. We dispatched a squad of Panthers to the landlord's house. They secured the door, carried it down the street to the woman's house, and put it back on its hinges. We got frequent calls from women complaining about abuse from husbands or boyfriends. Usually, after a visit from a contingent of armed party members, the abuse would stop, at least for the time being. And we responded to constant calls about police harassment by showing up with armed Panthers to confront surprised police.

During the last week in May, we received a call from a single Black mother whose son attended Rainier Beach, a predominantly white school located on the outer fringes of the Black community. She said her son had been having trouble with the white kids at school. They had beaten him up on several occasions and the principal refused to do anything about it.

Each week I mailed a chapter report to Chairman Bobby, and once he'd received and reviewed it, we talked on the phone. The week prior to this mother's call, the chairman had reminded me that we were not the police, and our function was not to respond to every call, as we had learned the community would often take advantage of our services. With this in mind, I told the woman we could not respond to her request.

The mother continued to call our office nearly every day. We found out that as the school year was drawing to an end, the white kids at Rainier Beach stepped up the attacks on not only this particular Black kid, but also on the other Black kids at the school. Finally, early on a Friday afternoon, she called again, crying and sounding desperate, saying that the white kids had brought knives, chains, and bricks to school, threatening the lives of her son and the other Black students. We received at least four other calls from distraught Black mothers. When I hung up the phone after speaking with the last mother, I looked around at the comrades, who sat holding their rifles and shotguns. I could tell they were wondering if I was going to give the word.

“Let's go,” I said, grabbing my carbine. We loaded up in three cars and headed south to Rainier Beach, taking back streets, past Lake Washington, past large, expensive homes and manicured lawns, finally arriving at the school. When we pulled in we spotted thirty cops lined up on the side of the building. As we got out and headed toward the school entrance, a fat sergeant, his belly hanging over his belt, met us. I recognized him—he and I had encountered each other on several occasions. He had once remarked snidely, “Oh, not the Panthers again,” when we had responded to a community call.

“Dixon,” he blurted, “you can't take those loaded weapons into the school.”

I shot back, “They ain't loaded,” rationalizing that if the carrier of the gun knew the bullet was not in the chamber, then according to the law the gun was technically considered unloaded.

We continued our way in and began looking for the principal. A man in a black suit hurried down the hallway—that was our man. Willie Brazier and several other comrades pursued him, escorting him back to an empty office where I confronted him.

“If you don't protect these Black kids, then we will do it, understand?” The words just seemed to shoot out of my mouth.

The poor guy was visibly shaken. “I promise I will make sure nothing happens again,” he replied.

Satisfied with his response, the thirteen of us left the building. We backed our way across the street, keeping our eyes on the cops, just as Huey had instructed, hopped in our cars, and headed back to the office. The cops followed but did not stop us. That evening, I received a call from Mike Rosen of the ACLU, the same attorney who had represented me, Larry, and Carl after the Franklin High School demonstration. He said the district attorney was preparing an indictment against us, but it never came.

For us, this was what putting on the Panther uniform was all about—standing up strong, refusing to be brushed aside and marginalized. We were dead serious when it came to the rights of the people. One thing was certain: if we had to die in the process, most of us were ready for that, too. The Rainier Beach school incident was one of the most significant moves we made during that summer of 1968, and it would set the stage for upcoming battles with the police.

During those early days of the Seattle chapter, everything was happening so fast, and without a blueprint or methodology to guide us, we often had to learn how to operate on the fly, following our instincts. We had many recruits, yet we lacked a clear understanding or model of exactly what we were supposed to be doing on a daily basis and also in the long term. In response to the constant stream of requests from the community and beyond, we organized a speakers' bureau to give talks on the Black Panther Party and what it was all about. Gary Owens, a college student in his early twenties, along with Willie Brazier and others, took the bulk of the speaking assignments. Eventually, we started getting deliveries of
The Black Panther
newspaper from Oakland once Eldridge Cleaver got out on bail following the April 6 shootout. The paper had lain dormant until the return of the minister of information.
The Black Panther
was the most important and immediate mechanism the party had for educating people about what the party stood for and what was truly going on in the United States and the rest of the world. Sales of the paper also provided us with a much-needed source of revenue.

Since the death of Martin Luther King Jr., my life and the life of many other Black youth throughout America had taken on an overwhelming sense of urgency. The movement was accelerating and transforming. We were now consumed with the fight for justice and the right to determine our own destiny. For me, school took a backseat to the emerging struggle.

When I got back from Oakland after that first trip as a Panther, I immediately went through my closet, taking out all my suits and the Italian knit sweaters I had bought with my work money. I no longer had any need for those fine clothes. They would be replaced by green army fatigue pants, blue jeans, fatigue jackets, leather jackets, and combat boots. I gave my suits to Elmer, a futile decision on my part, because Elmer had no need for them either. We had both plunged in the lake of rebellion together.

Despite my plunge, I was still subject to the lure of spontaneous adventure. The Urban League program that had supported my entrance to the UW sponsored a summer internship program that kicked off with a five-day orientation trip to New York City, filled with workshops and field trips, all expenses paid. Going to New York is something many young people dream about, and it had certainly been my dream before the revolution took over my life. Mr. Page, the program director, called me on several occasions, attempting to convince me to go. I resisted until the last minute, when I caught a red-eye flight to New York City. I knew there was a lot going on in Seattle with our chapter, but I felt the other leading members would be able to handle things in my absence.

On the bus ride from the airport into the city, dressed in my Panther attire, I marveled at the forest of tall, concrete buildings as my nose burned from the coffee smell of big-city pollution. I finally arrived at my stop in Manhattan and made my way to the New Yorker Hotel, where Black students from around the country had converged, including several of my friends from Seattle. After an initial presentation we were assigned to our lodgings, with the men staying at the YMCA and the women at the New Yorker Hotel. The following day, when I called the office in Seattle, I was told that Chairman Bobby Seale had called for me. Upon hearing I was in New York, he left a message for me to meet him on Saturday morning at Brooklyn College in Flatbush, Room 104.

The next morning, I caught the subway to Flatbush. When I opened the door to Room 104, there were forty or fifty Black men and women dressed in Panther black with berets and leather jackets, directing their full attention to the front of the classroom. Chairman Bobby, along with David Hilliard, now the party's chief of staff, stood before the blackboard, giving a precise and thorough explanation of the theory behind the 10-10-10 organizing tool. The Panthers gathered in the classroom were the recruits of the new New York chapter of the Black Panther Party. After the session, I went with Chairman Bobby, David Hilliard, and Captain Ron Pennywell, who had been sent from Oakland to organize the New York chapter, to the pad where Ron Pennywell was staying. Chairman Bobby asked why I was in New York. He did not register any anger. But at the end of the conversation, he told me, “Get your ass back in Seattle!”

The next day at the Urban League conference, we received our assignments to cities throughout the United States, where participants would be doing community work for the summer. Even thought I had no intention of going, I was assigned to Houston, Texas, and given a plane ticket. At the airport, I changed my flight from Houston to Seattle and flew back to Seattle. One of the brothers in the program, from North Carolina, was assigned to Seattle. Instead of working for the Urban League, though, he ended up working with the Seattle BPP chapter.

Amid all this activity, for a while I was still able to write a bit. Finding a little time and a quiet space in someone's empty apartment or my quiet room at home, with some heavy jazz and a bottle of cheap wine, I could forget my role as captain, and write about lost love or the difficulties of being Black in America. But that period lasted only a very brief time. There were just too many things happening too fast.

My draft card came in the mail. I was to report to the induction center. Just a few years earlier I had told Poppy I was going to join the Marines. The expression on his face had changed immediately to indignation. “No son of mine is going to Vietnam. Those people over there haven't called you a nigger,” he responded, echoing Muhammad Ali. That was all he had said, and all he really needed to say. From the tone of his voice and the look on his face, it had not been a time to question or challenge him. I had mumbled to myself, feeling stupid, not quite sure what to make of Poppy's response.

I had grown up on American patriotism just like Poppy and the thousands upon thousands of other young men eager to go off to war and kill the enemy. Historically, going off to war was a rite of passage for a young man. Poppy had done it. He was more gung-ho and patriotic than I could ever be. But after the war was over, with its bloody battles and great loss of life, to face the rebuke by your own country, the slap in the face that says, “Yeah, nigger, you can fight for us, even die for us, but when it's over, you're still just a nigger”—Poppy was not going to let that happen to his sons.