My People Are Rising

by Aaron Dixon

  Worldwide distribution and local circulation of the Panther paper was handled by the distribution and circulation department. James Pharms and Sherman Wilson from Los Angeles along with Naomi Williams and Cindy Smallwood from Frisco made up the staff of this vital department.

  I ended up working with a chain of different ODs, but the one who impressed me most was Bubba Young. He dealt with comrades and problems better than anyone. Although a year younger than me, he carried himself like a wise old man, and sometimes looked like one in the body of a twenty-one-year-old. Bubba had skills in other areas that were far more valuable than what he was called upon to do as OD. It wasn’t long before he was assigned, along with his friend Omar from New York, to run one of the campaign offices.

  Comrade assignments also included the free medical clinic in Berkeley, the LampPost restaurant, the school, the child development center, and the community center, among others. The medical clinic, in addition to many other services, provided outreach testing for sickle cell anemia on a regular basis. Monday through Saturday, when not working other assignments, comrades were sent out into the field to sell the Panther paper or collect donations for sickle cell anemia research. Comrades received 25 percent of the proceeds of their paper sales and collections. Many carried a three-inch Buck knife for protection.

  And there was the weekly garbage run. Huey disliked the Mafia, who controlled the sanitation industry in Oakland, so rather than paying them to pick up our garbage, he initiated a garbage service. Using the big black truck owned by the party, we would start at 5 a.m., picking up garbage at each of the many Panther houses scattered throughout Oakland and Berkeley. We would finish around 9 a.m., shower, and go to our next assignment.

  When not working as OD, I spent most of my time in the Legal Aid Program, coordinating and revitalizing the Busing to Prisons Program, and corresponding with inmates in the Panther cadres scattered throughout the California prison system. We also prepared gift boxes for the inmates at Christmas, one of the most important and challenging times for prisoners. The party was committed to supporting inmates during the holidays as well as the rest of the year.

  Tanya and I had been estranged ever since she learned of the birth of my daughter, Nisaa. Now, Tanya had revenge on her mind. Not long after our relocation to Oakland, she began a relationship with John Seale. It was torturous for me to see her moving on, but I had brought it on myself. What made the situation even more difficult was that Tanya became assistant coordinator of the Legal Aid Program, and thus my supervisor. With our relationship already strained, this only made matters worse. For four years I had been Captain Dixon of the Seattle chapter, one of the party’s strongest chapters—at least in J. Edgar Hoover’s eyes. Now I was a line worker, a rank-and-file member. I agonized over this demotion, but had to put it behind me, put my ego aside, and do what was right for the movement and for the party. Even Gwen Fontaine, who had consoled and comforted me a month earlier, was now living with Huey. She and I would never hold each other again. We could only smile ever so politely.

  One beautiful aspect of the centralization was meeting and getting to know the comrades from other parts of the country. Each chapter seemed to have its own distinct culture, a specific way of relating—the way they talked, acted, joked, responded. The Philadelphia comrades were outgoing, sometimes comical. The Chicago comrades were often quiet, kind, and almost introverted. Detroit, Connecticut, New York, North Carolina, Boston, Ohio, and Southern California chapters were all distinct. Yet we were bound by our determination and dedication to true justice. The New Orleans comrades, in particular, stood out from the other chapters. They were as close as a family, with good organizers and a very easygoing manner of getting things done. In contrast, the Los Angeles comrades were serious, hard, and occasionally dogmatic.

  All the different faces and personalities together brought a warm feeling to the sometimes tense atmosphere. Yet, despite all the new comrades and the excitement about the move, the atmosphere was not as compassionate, close, or unified as it had been in April 1968, when I first came to Oakland. There also was a lingering air of fear, not of the pigs and raids as earlier, but a fear from within.

  In this tense and dynamic environment, many friendships blossomed from the geographical mixes. I became close to many comrades, including Allen Lewis from Philly, later called “House Man,” and Tapps from Chicago, but I became closest to Louis “Tex” Johnson, who was from Detroit. I remember the day Tex arrived in Oakland, grinning from ear to ear, showing his gold tooth, his big applejack hat covering almost his entire head. He proclaimed that he felt like he had just landed in paradise—Oakland.

  The Boston chapter was the brainiest in the country, with a few comrades recruited from the halls of MIT and Harvard; it was probably also the most efficient and organized of the chapters. The chapter coordinator was Audrea Jones, a short, serious, dynamic sister, who would be appointed to the Central Committee. Another Boston comrade was Robert “Big Bob” Heard, a former football player who stood six foot seven and weighed 350 pounds. He was as tough as they come, and was soon assigned as one of the bodyguards for Huey P. Newton. One of the best organizers from the East Coast was the effervescent Doug Miranda, also from Boston, with the perfect Afro and movie-star looks. He hit Oakland like a lightning flash—he was a potent organizer with the gift of gab. He managed to organize the Laney and Grove Street College campuses in a matter of weeks. On top of that, he had the student sisters from the colleges following him around like the Pied Piper. But Doug Miranda’s stay in Oakland was short-lived; within months he left the party and went back to Boston.

  Another of the dynamic organizers also came from the East Coast, “Big Herm” from Philadelphia. He was a heavy-looking brother, but he was the only person I ever met who had more energy than Sam Napier. Big Herm became Bobby Seale’s campaign manager as well as the coordinator of the LampPost. With his knack for business, he turned the LampPost into a money-making machine. Big Herm developed plans for an entire array of potentially lucrative businesses for the party, but many of his suggestions fell on deaf ears.

  I often chatted with Billy “Che” Brooks, one of the brothers from Chicago. He had been onstage with Fred Hampton back in December 1968, when Fred and I spoke on the same program. Che had been through jailings, beatings, and the deaths of six Chicago comrades. He found himself assigned to the newly formed security squad of the party and sometimes worked as bodyguard to Bobby Seale.

  While working at Central Headquarters, I developed a friendship with Ericka Huggins. She and Chairman Bobby had been released from a Connecticut jail three or four months earlier. Ericka had endured a tremendous amount of suffering since the death of her husband, John Huggins, in Los Angeles. After his death, she had gone back to Connecticut to organize the New Haven chapter, and not long after was arrested and imprisoned on murder conspiracy charges, forcing her to leave her daughter, Mia, with her parents. Ill in health yet strong in spirit, she had endured a long confinement. When I first met Ericka, she seemed so soft and fragile. But slowly she became a nurturer for many comrades in need of comfort and consolation. She and I started making birthday cards for comrades, together providing a little compassion for overworked, emotionally spent party members. She sauntered around Central with her long, curly hair, looking mystical and writing poetry.

  One day Ericka sized me up and said, “Aaron, why are you walking around holding your arm like it’s still broken? You need to stop!”

  I was surprised by her comment. I thought about it that night and realized she was absolutely right. I tended to unconsciously hold my damaged left arm, clutching it to my body. I had been walking around like a wounded puppy, looking for sympathy. From that day forward, I stopped holding my left arm. I started writing left-handed and driving with just my left hand, using it more than my right, slowly letting the memories of the shotgun explosion subside. The pain remained constant and the nightmares vivid, but Ericka was right. I had to put it behind me. Ericka and
I definitely felt some kind of connection. Maybe it had to do with our both being Capricorns and needing a lot of quiet, introspective time alone. She and I never got involved in a physical relationship, though. She only related to one brother, James Mott.

  The party had an open sexual relationship policy, meaning that brothers or sisters could have sexual relationships with as many partners as they wanted to. This policy seemed to work mainly because there was so much uncertainty from day to day. On any given day you could suddenly be on your way to prison, or to another party assignment across the country, with no guarantee of returning. You might be sent underground, or, worse, you might be killed. Life for us was so uncertain that we wanted to enjoy love when the opportunity came. Of course, there were some comrades—mainly men, and mainly in leadership positions—who abused this policy.

  Because so many comrades were congregated in close quarters, it was necessary to implement a “sexual freeze” whenever a sexually transmitted infection was diagnosed in the party clinic. A freeze order meant no sexual relations until the infection was stamped out.

  One morning I was lying in bed in my living quarters at the Fulton Street house, one of several Panther houses. I had been on guard duty most of the night, so I was allowed to sleep in. Most of the other comrades were gone for the day, except for a very attractive comrade sister named Brenda. Before I knew it, we were in her bed kissing, caressing, our passions heating up. Since first laying eyes on this comrade sister, I had wanted to make love to her. She was relating to one of the leading members of the party, so thus far I had kept my distance, but now we were in each other’s arms. As I gently got on top of her to consummate our desire, she whispered in my ear, with that Eartha Kitt voice of hers, “Aaron . . . don’t forget the freeze.” With those words, my passions cooled and I slowly moved off. We got dressed and left for our assignments. I was not always the most principled comrade, but on this occasion I decided I should be.

  Another freeze had to do with the increasing number of babies in the party. During and shortly after the most heated periods of attacks against the party, pregnancies would rise. This phenomenon has repeated throughout history—during times of war and great stress, humans have sought comfort and release through sex. The big house in Berkeley, where Tanya and I had stayed along with Chairman Bobby and Landon Williams back in August ’69, now served as the party’s child development center. Eight to twelve party members were assigned to look after the babies and toddlers, who required round-the-clock care, because their parents were all working in various other party capacities. It took a lot of people and resources to care for all the babies born in the party over the previous two years.

  The freeze order stated that no party members could have any more children until further notice. So, if a sister became pregnant, she was required to have an abortion from a private doctor. The Panther clinic tested for sexually transmitted diseases and provided birth control but did not perform abortions. Some people also got birth control through private doctors. This freeze lasted almost six years, from 1972–1978, with only one exception: Ericka Huggins and James Mott were granted a special exemption and allowed to have a baby.

  The older children, three years and up, were housed in dormitories. There were two large houses in Berkeley around the corner from each other, and another large house on Santa Rosa Street, where some Central Committee members also stayed along with the school staff. The staff cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, took kids on field trips, helped with homework—everything a parent would provide and more. There was also a huge house on 29th Street, where some children stayed along with their parents. In the morning, vans picked up the kids for school. On weekends, the kids in the dorms went home to their parents. Aaron Patrice, who was now four, stayed with me on weekends and occasionally during the week. It was an extremely difficult arrangement for both parent and child, but it worked to some degree.

  The party’s paper, renamed The Black Panther Intercommunal News Service, was gradually becoming one of the finest alternative newspapers in the land. The centralization had brought the party’s best writers, photographers, and editors from around the country to Oakland. The party even hired the talented journalist David Du Bois, stepson of W. E. B. Du Bois, as editor in chief. Under Huey’s orders, the party also hired a top-flight typist to work with the newspaper staff. Roderick also happened to be an out-of-the-closet, flamboyant homosexual.

  Huey was a proponent of freedom of choice and expression, and he wanted the sometimes macho men of the party to embrace those concepts. It was interesting to see how the male comrades of Central Headquarters responded to Roderick, who stood over six feet tall and was well-built, with a long, brown perm, earrings, and makeup to boot. Some of the comrades were intimidated by his presence. However, in the party, accepting change was not only important to accomplishing our goals, it was also an integral part of being a Panther, and accepting change went hand in hand with accepting others. Save for a few rough moments, before long Roderick had become a part of our family.

  Huey and the Black Panther Party helped pave the way for the emergence of the gay liberation movement. As the vanguard, the party influenced and gave direction to many emerging movements in the United States—the white radical movement, the Latino revolutionary movement, the Gray Panthers, the women’s movement, and eventually the gay rights movement, which had been in the shadows, waiting to raise its voice. The historic Stonewall Uprising in New York City in the summer of 1969, when dozens of gay men and women resisted arrest and fought back against the police, put the gay rights movement on the scene. Shortly afterward, in 1970, Huey wrote an article from prison on the importance of gay people having the same right to freedom as all Americans, advocating that the party have a working coalition with the gay rights movement and other revolutionary movements. Soon after that article, with the support of the party and the momentum from Stonewall, the gay rights movement in New York became a revolutionary force to reckon with.

  At its core, the party was made up of lovers. We loved life, we loved each other, we loved the people, and we embraced our mission and our responsibilities, so it was easy for us to embrace others, particularly if they were not embraced by society as a whole. However, there was still an undercurrent of fear I sensed in a very subtle way, and I was about to find out more about it firsthand.

  With David Hilliard on his way to prison for his participation in the shootout on April 6, 1968, June Hilliard assumed the responsibilities of chief of staff and John Seale became assistant chief of staff. Under Huey’s direction, the party also created the “security squad,” composed of party members from around the country who were considered the toughest and most vicious, most of whom had been handpicked for the squad by Huey himself. The security squad’s main function was to protect Central Committee members and provide overall security for the party and its facilities. They also were involved in enforcing whatever the party wanted to enforce, whether on the streets or within the party. This included physical discipline of party members, which was new to me as well as many other comrades.

  Valentine had been recruited to this newly formed wing of the party. Squad members, including John Seale, had lobbied for me to be recruited, but for some reason Huey denied this request. John Seale often strode through the office with his black leather coat draped over his shoulders, sometimes followed by one or two members of the security squad.

  One day John Seale and his comrades asked me to come into the photo department, and closed the door behind them. Calmly, John said, “Tanya told me that you had disrespected her.”

  As I was sitting on the corner of a desk, explaining to him why I had cursed at my estranged wife and supervisor during a disagreement over some procedures, I was blindsided and knocked to the floor. Darren “The Duke” Perkins and Carl Colar pounced on me and began pummeling me. It was over within minutes. For the first time as a party member, I had been physically disciplined. They did not really hurt me physically, not because they couldn�
��t; they were probably ordered not to. But my ego and my pride were bruised. That night I left Central Headquarters angry and uncertain as to whether I would ever return.

  I took a long ride on the 43 bus line to Berkeley and spent the night with a friend, a Berkeley student from the Bahamas. She comforted me, tended to my mental and emotional wounds, while I tried to understand my feelings of hurt and betrayal. I could not share with her my larger dilemma. That was something I dared not divulge. After a few drinks of rum, I finally went to sleep.

  The next day I headed back to Central Headquarters. I had been through many trials and tribulations since joining the party. I had witnessed the many successes of our Seattle chapter, and I had felt the pain of losing comrades and the sting of humiliation, arrest, and harassment by the pigs. I did not know the reasons behind my demotion and mistreatment. I only knew that while many former captains were getting high-profile assignments, I remained at Central mainly as the OD during the entire mayoral campaign. However, I was determined not to allow these things to drive me away. It would take more than a bruised ego to send me packing. I was in this fight to the end.

  27

  The Campaign—1973

  We got to stop all men

  From messing up the land