My People Are Rising (23 page)

In December, without my knowledge or approval, Panther Sidney Miller, a Chicago transplant, was ordered by Curtis Harris to rob a West Seattle store for what Sidney had been told was Panther business. In the process, Sidney was shot in the head by the store owner, dying instantly. At the time, the circumstances leading to his death were unknown, but eventually the details would all come to the surface. It was a travesty that should not have happened. Sidney was a gregarious, happy-go-lucky comrade with an infectious smile. Everyone loved Sidney and his dedication, yet it was this same blind dedication that led to his death.

Not long after Sidney's killing, a young man named Larry Ward returned from Vietnam. A year older than me, during high school Larry Ward ran with the fast crowd. He was one of the sharp dressers and his hair was processed. I was surprised to learn that after returning from Vietnam he was interested in the revolution at home. Larry Ward reconnected with some of his old buddies who had joined the party and asked how he could join; unfortunately, a couple of those old buddies were suspected of being police informants.

Determined to put an end to the party's firebombing campaign, the Seattle Police Department had put out a $25,000 contract on my head, and since their attempts on my life had failed, they settled for setting up Larry Ward. Someone told Larry that if he firebombed Hardcastle Realty, he would be able to join the party. The people who set him up told him that the Molotov cocktails would be waiting for him in the bushes.

When Larry arrived, prepared to carry out his mission, the pigs came out of nowhere. A startled Larry raised his hands and the pigs opened up, shooting and killing him instantly. The pigs used one-inch deer slugs, solid pieces of lead used mainly for hunting large wild animals. Larry never had a chance to play the role of the revolutionary—instead he became a sacrificial victim.

To make things worse, LewJack was wounded accidentally by another party member, resulting in the paralysis of his left arm. It was becoming more evident to me that there were many things happening in the Seattle chapter of which I had no knowledge, and many of these were extremely serious, life-and-death matters. Around this time I began to feel a tremendous amount of pressure and to question the decisions I was making. I started drinking more often as I tried to sort out the problems in our chapter.

I took another trip to Oakland, which always seemed to give me the strength to carry on. While meeting with Chairman Bobby, I mentioned my upcoming speaking engagement in Chicago that the Socialists had set up.

“Aaron, when you go back there, I want you to check on some brothers who are starting a chapter,” he said. “Their names are Fred Hampton and Bobby Rush. Betty will get you their number.”

In early December, Bobby Harding, Jimmy Davis, and I were off to Chicago, where we stayed at my grandmother DeDe's house. Our first speaking engagement was at a high school near Cabrini-Green, a housing project in the southwest part of the city. The place was packed and there was a lot of excitement in the air about the party. The next day we spoke at a small college north of Chicago, and a few days later we found ourselves at the University of Chicago on a chilly Wednesday evening.

The auditorium was filled nearly to capacity with mostly Black students and others. I was pleasantly surprised to find I was sharing this speaking engagement with one of the brothers organizing the Chicago chapter, Fred Hampton. After I spoke, Fred Hampton, Bobby Rush, and about eight other very rough-looking brothers took the stage. One of the brothers, Chaka Walls, carried a large African walking stick. The brothers assumed positions around the stage and secured the doors as Fred Hampton, a large, husky brother with uncombed hair, wearing an army fatigue jacket, began to speak.

He began, “Ain't nobody leavin' this mothafucka until we finish.”

Fred Hampton spoke for the next thirty minutes. It was a rough, sharp speech that expressed the end-of-the-road mentality that most young urban Blacks shared at that time. He said it was time to put the rhetoric and the analytical bullshit behind us, and be prepared to pick up guns and fight.

My speech paled in comparison to the powerful words of this young Black man, my same age. I had no idea—nor did any of us at the time—that we were witnessing the next Malcolm X, the next Martin Luther King. In essence Fred Hampton was poised to become the next great leader of Black America.

He and I talked briefly afterward and said we would try to hook up before I left, but a snowstorm prevented that from happening. We returned to Seattle to await my trial.

17

The Purge

People say believe half of what you see, Son, and none of what you hear. I can't help bein' confused If it's true please tell me dear?

—Marvin Gaye, “I Heard It through the Grapevine,” 1968

After I returned
from Chicago, I began preparing for the stolen typewriter trial. It was fortunate for me that a young, smart, dashing, white attorney, a rising star in the legal community, came to my aid. William Dwyer was gaining a reputation as one of the smartest trial attorneys in the state. He came by the office in a dapper gray suit and offered his services to fight my case pro bono. He was not a political attorney like Mike Rosen, but he was very interested in making sure that justice prevailed. He invited Tanya and me over for dinner at his house. His beautiful Greek wife prepared many delicious meals to fuel our legal discussions.

I went to trial in December 1968. The prosecution in the case called two detectives who testified that they had observed me seven days a week, in the rain, the snow, the summer heat—and they were certain they had seen me, from almost a block away, carrying the typewriter into the office. Bill Dwyer brought in a weather expert from out of state who nullified their testimony. However, the prosecutor's case hinged on the testimony of a secret witness. We were all waiting for this secret witness to show up. We knew there were some spies in the party, but we did not know who they were. The court took a two-hour recess to give the prosecution enough time to present the secret witness. I was facing seven years, and with Tanya nearly seven months pregnant and the movement facing mounting attacks, I was not prepared to leave the streets.

Well, the secret witness never materialized, and I was found not guilty. We were all relieved at the verdict. But the identity of the secret witness remained a question. Bill Dwyer had saved me from almost certain prison time. He would go on to prove himself as one of the most important individuals in the fight for human and environmental rights in the state of Washington, eventually rising to a federal judgeship.

On January 17, 1969, the Black Panther Party suffered one of its greatest losses. Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter, deputy minister of defense of the Southern California chapter, and John Huggins, the deputy minister of information, were murdered inside Campbell Hall on the UCLA campus, in a conflict over student leadership of the Black Studies Program at UCLA. The two party ministers were lending support to the BSU in its fight with Ron Karenga's
United Slaves Organization (US) about the direction of the Black Studies Program. US was one of the organizations that had come about after the Watts Uprising. Its platform was based on Pan-African cultural nationalism and was opportunist in nature. Reportedly they had even received money from the mayor of Los Angeles. The US plan for the Black Studies Program had been voted down, but they continued to threaten the BSU, who asked the party for assistance.

Before joining the party, Bunchy Carter—“Mayor of the Ghetto,” as he was known—was the leader of the five-thousand-strong Slausons, one of Los Angeles's biggest gangs. John Huggins was a bright and dedicated UCLA student who had moved with his wife, Ericka, from Connecticut. Bunchy and John, along with others, had built the first chapter outside the Bay Area into one of the most powerful in the party. With a cadre of former gang members and bright college students, the Southern California chapter was positioning itself to change the ratio and political balance of power in Los Angeles. The danger they presented to the status quo was immense. There was no way the bastion of right-wing conservatism that was the Los Angeles Police Department would allow this to happen. The stakes were too high. The tactics they had used for decades to keep the Black and Latino communities in check were in danger of being turned against them.

I had met Bunchy briefly at National Headquarters during the summer. An intense, sharply dressed sister named Elaine Brown had accompanied him. I remember how serious they both looked. I also remember how immaculately dressed Bunchy was, almost princely in his walk and mannerisms. Though I had never met John, his important contributions to the molding of the Southern California chapter were well known. Bunchy and John were allegedly gunned down by the Stiner brothers, who were (also allegedly) members of US. US and the Southern California chapter were rival forces, and we would later learn that the FBI had been using tools of provocation—forged death threats, degrading political cartoons, and more—to stoke the hostilities between the two groups, leading up to the murders of Bunchy and John. When, later that day, the Los Angeles comrades tried to regroup and retaliate, the pigs were there waiting for them in the alleyway of a comrade's home, arresting almost thirty Panthers and confiscating their weapons.

National Headquarters ordered West Coast chapters to bring as many comrades as we could down to Los Angeles for the funeral and to serve as reinforcements. We left in three cars, one of which was a station wagon borrowed from Dr. Bodemer, my advisor at the UW. I was traveling in the station wagon with five other Panthers, three of us in front and three in back, with no suitcases or bags. We drove straight through without stopping, except for gas and food, taking speed to stay awake. As we passed into Southern California, we ran into a massive rainstorm on a stretch of highway known as “the Grapevine” that goes through the Tehachapi Mountains. All of a sudden, one of the tires blew out. The car began to swerve and the driver lost control. We careened all the way to the other side of the freeway, into oncoming traffic. We covered our faces, certain we would be hit. Instead, the car continued sliding off the road and went backward over a cliff. About twenty yards down, the car got caught on a pipe sticking out from the rocks, and came to a halt. We all got out of the car without saying a word and climbed up the hill to the side of the freeway. In total shock and disbelief, we said very little if anything for a few minutes. It was another reprieve from certain death. Some Panthers driving from Denver to Los Angeles, whom we had passed earlier, picked us up.

We finally made it to the funeral. Many Panthers from the West Coast were in attendance. I remember that Panther Baby D from Marin County gave a eulogy for Bunchy. It was a very sad day, especially for those in the Southern California chapter, who knew Bunchy well and recognized his significance to the party. It rained for the next seven days, and some speculated that this was the gods' way of expressing their anger over the death of one of the most respected Black men on the streets of Southern California.

Bunchy wrote this prophetically haunting poem, dedicated to his mother, shortly before his assassination.

Black Mother

I must confess that I still breathe

Though you are not yet free

what could justify my crying start

forgive my coward's heart

But blame not the sheepish me

for I have just awakened from a deep deep sleep

and I be hazed and dazed and scared and vipers fester in my hair

Black Mother I curse your drudging years

the rapes and heartbreaks, sweat and tears

—but this cannot redeem the fact you cried in pain

I turned my back and ran into the mire's fog

and watched while you were dogged

and died a thousand deaths

but I swear I'll seize night's dark and gloom

a rose I'll wear to honor you,

and when I fall the rose in hand you'll be free

and I a man

for a slave of natural death who dies

can't balance out to two dead flies

I'd rather be without the shame

a bullet lodged within my brain

If I were not to reach my goal

let bleeding cancer torment my soul.

The Southern California chapter never recovered from this loss. There would never be another Bunchy or another John. Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt, a Vietnam vet, was named the new deputy minister of defense. And Elaine Brown was named the new deputy minister of information. Geronimo and Elaine continued to uphold the Southern California chapter as one of the most important in the party. After the funeral, the party arranged for the six of us to fly back to Seattle—as we had no car—to face whatever the state had in store for us.

In early spring of 1969, Washington State legislators had proposed a gun law aimed at preventing us from carrying our weapons out in the open. The legislation, largely a response to the Rainier Beach High School incident the year before, stated that it was illegal to carry a weapon capable of producing bodily harm in an intimidating manner. In protest, the Seattle chapter planned to send an armed delegation of Panthers to the capitol in Olympia. At the time, my youngest brother, Michael, was working in the capitol as a page for State Representative David
Sprague, the father of our childhood friends Mark and Paul Sprague. In a phone conversation, Michael warned me, “Man, the highway patrol and National Guard have set up .50-caliber machine gun nests and bunkers, and troops have been deployed to wait for you guys.” They thought it was going to be a Panther invasion.