My People Are Rising (27 page)

As part of organizing the Breakfast Program, Panthers were assigned to procure donations from businesses inside and outside of the community. One of the large stores we solicited was Safeway, but they refused to donate to the Breakfast Program. In response, the party ordered a national boycott of Safeway stores. The Seattle boycott of two Safeway stores in the Central District was so successful we ended up closing them down. Rather than donating to feed hungry kids, they decided to close their doors and move. There was not another Safeway store in the area for the next forty years. Their closing cleared the way for small, community-based stores to flourish instead, particularly Richland's Grocery, owned by Jack Richland, a Jewish man who not only donated regularly to the program but also became a longtime friend to the party.

Much of our attention that summer also focused on raising our distribution and sales of
The Black Panther
. We had discovered that the Northwest rock festivals were often good for selling up to a thousand papers in a matter of hours, so when a rock promoter, the husband of a good friend of Joanne's, asked if we would provide security for the Seattle Pop Festival at Woodinville, Elmer and I jumped at the opportunity. Not only would we be able to unload our weekly shipment of papers, but also Elmer and I would be paid fifteen dollars an hour for sixteen-hour days. For Elmer and me, it was a wonderful break from the intense year of being Black Panther Party members. Both of us had literally dropped every aspect of normal life as an eighteen- or nineteen-year old. We had been under constant stress from continuous battles not only with the police but also within the Seattle chapter itself. These three days at Woodinville would give us a little time, a little space, to breathe deeply, to mingle with the outside world and halfway detach ourselves from the constant battles on the revolutionary front.

On our first day, roaming through the tent city at Woodinville, Elmer and I strode through the grounds in our leather coats with our .357s tucked in our waistbands. Given that we were the only form of security for more than fifty thousand participants, it was amazing how orderly people were and how loving the atmosphere was. Throughout the whole three days, there was not one act of violence. After all, the hippie movement was based upon love, respect, communal sharing, and living freely. We also got to enjoy performances by the likes of Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Ike and Tina Turner, Chicago, Santana, and the Doors. As we strolled through the campgrounds the first day, people invited us into their tents, trailers, and campsites to share their wine, weed, and hash; they gave us mescaline and THC, which we deposited in our pockets. We even made some money on the side, selling tickets that a sister working the ticket booth had given us.

The last day, Elmer and I decided to enjoy ourselves, popping some acid, riding the roller coaster, and renting horses, which we rode through the throngs of concertgoers. Later that night, we manned the barricade separating the crowd from the stage in anticipation of the final act, Jim Morrison and the Doors. I had always been a fan of Jim Morrison, and to be so close to him as he performed “Light My Fire” was one of my best memories during this turbulent time. The crowd was going crazy, and only Elmer and I, a handful of ushers, and the wooden barricade stood between the band and the fifty thousand screaming fans.

It was the most fun we'd had together in a long time. The last year and a half had left me feeling cynical and unsure of myself. I had consumed more alcohol than was normal for me, trying to wash away the doubts, trying to bolster my courage, trying to fortify myself against the pain, the hurt, and the loss of good comrades. Yet there was never any doubt in my mind, never any second-guessing about the direction I had taken.

19

The Chairman Is Kidnapped

And if you had a choice of colors Which one would you choose my brothers If there was no day or night Which would you prefer to be right

—Curtis Mayfield, “Choice of Colors,” 1969

In August 1969
I was at the weekly party meeting at St. Augustine's Church in Oakland. Comrades from all over the country were in attendance, listening to Masai Hewitt, the minister of education. Masai had taken over for George Murray, who departed in the summer of 1968 to become a reverend in his father's church. Toward the end of the meeting, Chairman Bobby called on me to recite the ten-point program and platform, something often done at these meetings to make sure everyone was on their toes. I stumbled through the ten points, surprising even myself. Part of it was nervousness, the other part was indicative of the past year in Seattle, a year of turmoil and bad moves.

“Aaron, I want you to keep your ass down here for a couple of months,” responded the chairman.

I had seen the chairman come down on a lot of people. He was pretty much a fair and compassionate person in his dealings with party members, but if someone was bullshitting or fucking up, he would come straight out and say it in no uncertain terms. I was stung by his rebuke, yet his words rang true.

In April 1968, I had jumped right into the fire. I had not been fully equipped for what was asked of me. More recently, National Headquarters had begun requesting that newly appointed chapter heads spend some extended time in Oakland. But I'd had only the one week in April 1968, along with the weekly meetings, for which I would stay only a few days. I desperately wanted some time away from Seattle. I needed to be around the seasoned comrades in the Bay, and hoped that some of their wisdom and experience would rub off on me. When I got home, I spoke with comrades and family about the prospect of an extended stay in Oakland. A few weeks later, Elmer drove
Tanya
, little Aaron Patrice, and me down to National Headquarters and headed back to Seattle.

Early in 1969, National Headquarters had relocated to a new office in Berkeley, which was quite an improvement over the old one on 45th and Grove in Oakland. This office was a spacious, two-story brick structure with a large glass window on either side of the entrance. The new office would be able to accommodate all the visiting officers from chapters around the country. Inside, toward the back of the office, was a big, comfortable chair where the officer of the day (OD) sat. The OD ran the daily operations of the office, among many other things. On the left side of the office was a long counter with posters and books and papers. There were several smaller offices in the back. On the second floor was a large room in which John Seale, the chairman's brother, had constructed two long drafting tables. This was where the layout for
The Black Panther
took place. In the back of the second floor were several more offices and a large kitchen.

On one of the office walls was a large map of the United States with scores of red pins indicating the locations of Black Panther Party chapters and branches. Chapters and branches, as well as the new Communities to Combat Fascism centers, were required to send people to National Headquarters for months at a time, and some stayed much longer. In contrast, with Seattle being the very first chapter to open outside of California, I had never spent more than a week at National Headquarters. There were many things to learn, things I'd had to learn on the fly. I was now prepared to stay and soak up all that was required of me in order to learn how to more effectively perform my job.

The first couple weeks I spent out in the field, selling papers, passing out leaflets, sometimes at designated spots, sometimes working with another person, going door to door, house to house, block to block, often talking with people, educating them, befriending them, connecting them to the party and its ideology. Wednesday nights, Panthers throughout the Bay gathered at the distribution office in Frisco at 7 p.m. to work on the folding, wrapping, counting, and boxing of the weekly newspapers, shipping them out to chapters throughout America and the world, and also sending out rolled individual orders to persons in England, Europe, Japan, and India, often in the most unlikely places. We worked through the night, finishing up early in the morning, taking breaks to smoke some Brother Roogie or drink some Bitter Dog, talking about the latest attack or what was happening on the political scene, or hooking up with a sleeping partner. Some days we were assigned to work at the Breakfast Programs, to leaflet union-organizing sites, or to attend rallies, selling papers and organizing people.

At the office, little Aaron Patrice sat in his bassinet in the middle of the floor, watching John Seale, Shelley Bursey, and the other newspaper staff as they laid out the paper. John Seale gave Aaron Patrice the nickname of “Moonbaby,” because of his round head and the quiet, serious look on his face. Tanya sometimes stayed at the office to look after our son. Other times, she went out into the field with the others.

I met wonderful comrades like thirteen-year-old Madeline, mature and wise beyond her years, curly-haired Kathy Kimbrow, and a high-strung young brother named Poison, from New Orleans, one of the most energetic and compassionate brothers you could imagine. I befriended a brother named T. C., who did a lot of organizing at Laney and Grove Street Colleges. Sometimes I assisted the OD, a post that alternated between Robert Bay and Charles Bursey. In addition to running the daily operations of the office, the OD coordinated rides for Panther operations in the Bay Area as well as the pickup and drop-off runs to the airport, which seemed constant. The OD was also responsible for office security, not just from the police and agents but also from enemies in the community—those who didn't agree with the party, held a grudge, or had a bone to pick.

In one such instance, I was talking with Charles Bursey when a bearded brother began arguing with Robert Bay inside the office. Robert called for Bursey and me: “Aaron! Bursey!”

Bay nodded his bearded, chubby face toward the troublemaker. We escorted him outside to the side of the building. Robert Bay hauled off and hit the brother in the back of the head. Bursey and I joined in. We pummelled him to the ground and sent him on his way.

“He was a pig,” said Robert Bay afterward. I never knew whether that was true, but it was not my place to question my superiors.

The OD was also responsible for feeding the troops when they came in from the field. On certain days Chairman Bobby barbecued, spending hours preparing elaborate, delicious Southern dishes, talking party business as he cooked. Some evenings we had political education classes. Other evenings we just hung out drinking, smoking weed, talking with new comrades from faraway places. One night I had a long conversation with a brother from North Carolina about the meaning of the song “Choice of Colors” by Curtis Mayfield, as we tried to decipher the true meaning of the lyrics, coming to the conclusion that Curtis was trying to say some progressive political stuff in that song.

Tanya, little Aaron Patrice, and I were assigned to a big house in Berkeley on 10th Street, where Bobby and Artie Seale were also staying, along with Randy Williams and the woman he was relating to, Lauren Williams, who happened to share the same last name. Assigned drivers were responsible for picking up comrades scattered throughout the Bay to get them to headquarters by 8:30 a.m., then dropping them off at night, usually around midnight.

Cotton,
one of the military experts from the Southern California chapter, had come up to National Headquarters to work on digging a tunnel beneath the office in the case of a police attack. We spent many long hours digging that tunnel, but there were just too many pipes in our way, so the project was eventually abandoned. Cotton spent much of his time traveling with Geronimo Pratt to chapters throughout the country, helping with the fortification of offices and the construction of tunnels.

One morning we received a copy of the
Berkeley Free Press
, a paper put out by hippies and white radicals. The front page revealed a detailed plan by the Berkeley Police Department to launch an attack on National Headquarters with assault squads, using Stoner rifles—weapons that could shoot through brick. When Chief of Staff David Hilliard was alerted, he immediately called a press conference, exposing the scheme before the pigs had time to carry out their assault. David also ordered increased nighttime security inside National Headquarters. For several weeks, there were about twenty armed comrades, alternating in two shifts, stationed around the office.

I remember a San Francisco Panther named Fred Knowland walking around the security perimeter, checking on the watch. He warned me, “Comrade, if I catch you fallin' asleep, I'm going to put this .357 upside your head.”

When it came time for me to check the perimeter, I found Comrade Fred had fallen asleep. I did not hesitate in hitting him upside his head with my piece.

A few days later we began to prepare for a “Free Huey” rally in East Oakland at Arroyo Viejo Park. David Hilliard would be speaking and the Mad Lads were scheduled to perform. The Mad Lads had been on top of the charts before two of its main members were drafted to serve in Vietnam. The original group had not performed live in more than two years. It was good to see the Mad Lads back together, and it certainly was a joy for me and many others to be experiencing them live in a free concert in East Oakland.

Again, I was with a security detachment that formed a semicircle around the stage. It was another hot, muggy day in Oakland. There were many different types of people at the park that day. Some were political—some were not—and under these circumstances, you never knew what might happen. Of course, throw in a red devil epidemic and you automatically increase the likelihood of trouble. Red devils were little red pills that made you high as hell, but also made you crazy and ornery. It wasn't long before a fight broke out between some brothers with Doberman pinschers, the dog of choice of brothers in the streets. We moved in to break up the fight, unintentionally roughing up some of the combatants in the process. One brother separated himself from us and pulled out a gun. Randy Williams, who was in charge of security, told everyone, “FREEZE!” and began walking toward the brother. Slender, unemotional Randy looked the brother in the eye with that Clint Eastwood fearlessness and slowly walked toward him while everyone watched in silence. When Randy got five feet away, the brother turned and ran. From that day forward, Randy was known as “Cold Steel.”