by Pharr, Wayne
IN the early morning hours of December 8, 1969, three hundred officers of the newly created elite paramilitary unit known as SWAT initiated a violent battle with a handful of Los Angeles-based members of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense (BPP). Five hours and five thousand rounds of ammunition later, three SWAT team members and three Black Panthers lay wounded. From a tactical standpoint, the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) considered the encounter a disaster. For the Panthers and the community that supported them, the shootout symbolized a victory. A key contributor to that victory was the nineteen-year-old rank-and-file member of the BPP Wayne Pharr.
Nine Lives of a Black Panther tells Wayne’s riveting story of the Los Angeles branch of the BPP and gives a blow-by-blow account of how it prepared for and survived the massive military-style attack. Because of his dedication to the black liberation struggle, Wayne was hunted, beaten, and almost killed by the LAPD in four separate events. Here he reveals how the branch survived attacks such as these, and also why BPP cofounder Huey P. Newton expelled the entire Southern California chapter and deemed it “too dangerous to remain a part of the national organization.”
The Los Angeles branch was the proving ground for some of the most beloved and colorful characters in Panther lore, including Bunchy Carter, Masai Hewitt, Geronimo “ji-Jaga” Pratt, and Elaine Brown. Nine Lives fills in a missing piece of Black Panther history, while making clear why black Los Angeles was home to two of the most devastating riots in the history of urban America. But it also eloquently relates one man’s triumph over police terror, internal warfare, and personal demons. It will doubtless soon take its place among the classics of black militant literature.
WAYNE PHARR was a leading member of the Los Angeles branch of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. He has traveled throughout the country as a BPP spokesman and now works as a realtor in Los Angeles.
Jacket design: Matthew Simmons, www.myselfincluded.com
Cover photos: (Far left) Panther office destroyed by police raid, Guy Crowder, courtesy of the Institute for Arts and Media, California State University Northridge; (center and right) Pharr under arrest and weapons confiscated from LAPD SWAT raids, UCLA Charles E. Young Research Library Department of Special Collections, Los Angeles Times Photographic Archives
Printed in the United States of America
Copyright © 2014 by Wayne Pharr and Karin L. Stanford
All rights reserved
First edition
Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN 978-1-61374-916-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pharr, Wayne, 1950-
Nine lives of a Black Panther : a story of survival / Wayne Pharr, with Karin L. Stanford.
pages cm
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-61374-916-6 (hardback)
1. Pharr, Wayne, 1950– 2. Black Panther Party. Southern California Chapter—Biography. 3. Black Panther Party. Southern California Chapter—History. 4. African American political activists—California—Los Angeles—Biography. 5. African Americans—Civil rights—California—Los Angeles—History—20th century. 6. Political violence—California—Los Angeles—History—20th century. 7. Police-community relations—California—Los Angeles—History—20th century. 8. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Race relations—History—20th century. 9. African American youth—California—Los Angeles—Social life and customs—20th century. 10. Criminals—California—Los Angeles—Biography. 11. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Biography. I. Stanford, Karin L., 1961– II. Title.
F869.L89N364 2014
322.4′20973—dc23
t 2014006732
Interior design: PerfecType, Nashville, TN
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
To the memory of my elders, who survived slavery, segregation, discrimination, oppression, and so much more …
Lucille “Nanny” Doxey
Namon and Effie Pharr
Felix Prescott
Edwin Prescott
and Lillian Brusard
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
1 Showdown at Sunrise
2 Back Home
3 Fighting Integration
4 Legitimate Grievances
5 Black Is Beautiful
6 A Necessary Step Toward Justice
7 Committed to Watts
8 Leading Panthers
9 Divide and Conquer
10 Alpha and Omega
11 Serving the People
12 New Blood
13 Blood and Guts
14 Gettin’ Ready
15 Busted
16 Trying Times
17 Gangsta Style
18 Torn Asunder
19 The Promise of Tomorrow
20 The Limits of Freedom
21 Family Business
Epilogue: Honor and Sacrifice
“Was It Worth It”
Index
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Undertaking a book project is a formidable task, even when the topic is one’s own life. Thankfully, I had the help of a community of people. I am grateful for the generous help of Karin L. Stanford, who believed in this project and stayed focused and committed throughout. I also thank James Simmons, Esq., whose legal expertise was invaluable; Michele Beller, whose creativity and editorial skills were paramount; and Thandisizwe Chimerenga, who provided editorial and research support. Several faculty, staff, and students at California State University, Northridge, brought enthusiasm and technological skills to this effort: Anita Hart-Simon, Aimee Glocke, Jeffory Alexander (rest in peace), Brandy Stone, and Samantha Waul. I would also like to acknowledge Ashley Jackson, who generously contributed to this book her ideas and technological abilities.
I am wholly indebted to Ronald “Baba” Preston, who was instrumental in giving this book direction and substance. I am also deeply thankful for the work of Gregory Everett, who kept alive the memory and history of the Southern California chapter of the Black Panther Party. Gregory opened up his home and resources for this project, and for that I am grateful. I also want to offer words of appreciation to Kathleen Cleaver for her unwavering support and for reaching out to me and my family in times of difficulty. For the generous use of photos, I thank Roz Payne of Newsreel and Kent Kirkton of the Institute for Arts and Media at California State University, Northridge. I also acknowledge and thank my editor at Chicago Review Press, Yuval Taylor, who provided encouraging support and an excellent vision, and without whom this project would not have come to fruition.
A special note of appreciation is extended to my comrades of the Southern California chapter of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, especially John Washington, Roland Freeman, and Ronald Freeman, whose help in filling in the blanks was invaluable.
To my wife, Carmen Pharr, whose patience and support has always been steadfast and invaluable, I thank you for believing in me. Without Carmen, this project would not have been completed. I also thank my children, Tammy Smith and Arron, Darron, and Dana Pharr, for nourishing my soul with their love. The same holds true for my grandchildren, Drew, Erin, Chayna, Chelsea, Yasmin, Dee-Dee, and AJ. The memory of my brother Druice Pharr sustains me. I thank him for reinforcing in me strong community and family values. I am deeply indebted to my mother, who gave me life and fought for me to stay above ground.
Most importantly, I acknowledge all the revolutionaries who have made their transition, are incarcerated, or are still facing the yoke of repression yet remain committed to the struggle. All power to the people!
1
SHOWDOWN AT SUNRISE
We were at Jerry’s house, listening to ’Trane, smoking weed, and playing chess when I told my crew that G—Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt—had given me the go-ahead to implement a new tactic of defense. We needed to find more ways to protect the Los Angeles branch of the Black Panther Party from the Los Angeles Police Department and other forces waging war against us. I had been toying with the idea of plotting an escape route through the sewers from the Party’s headquarters on Forty-First Street and Central Avenue. The sewers could serve as a hiding place and even a point of attack if necessary. “I think we can go in on 120th and Central,” I told them.
“Naw,” said Baba as he inhaled a joint. “I know a way that’s closer.” He squeezed the answer out, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.
Baba wasn’t a Panther—he was a member of the Black Student Alliance, an organization of Black Student Unions throughout Los Angeles. He also belonged to the United Front, an umbrella organization with a black-socialist orientation. Ronald “Baba” Preston was one of the most intelligent people I’d ever met. He was tall and thin, a build that contradicted his athletic strength. Like many of us in those days, he had an Afro, mustache, and goatee. On this night, he had on his “movement uniform”—light brown khakis, an army jacket, and his dark brown socks, which were an exact match to the worn shag carpet in Jerry’s house.
“We should go in by the L.A. River, over near County General Hospital in East L.A. It’ll be closer,” Baba proclaimed with assurance.
I turned and studied Jerry’s face. “What you think?”
“Sounds cool to me,” he nodded from the deep recline of his black leather La-Z-Boy.
Jerry, also a member of the Black Student Alliance, lived in a small cottage in the back of a bungalow on San Pedro and Fifty-Third Streets. His place was where lots of us—Panthers, BSA members, and even “nonaffiliated” folk—would meet and have political discussions. We took off our shoes at the door when we came in Jerry’s spot. Posters depicting beautiful women with large Afros, political prisoners, armed resistance, and other manifestations of radical politics would shepherd our discussions. Folks would stop by at various times to share food, sleep on whatever was available, or just hang out after a long day of political work.
Jerry had a routine. He would lie all the way back in his recliner with his legs crossed, his hands in a lotus-like position on the armrests, and his eyes closed, as Coltrane blew from the speakers behind him. According to Jerry, it was “the proper way to listen to revolutionary music.” But after I mentioned the sewers, Jerry’s eyes opened; he sat upright in the chair and then stood up. One thing about Jerry: when he was ready, he was ready, and when it came to movement work he did not mess around.
“Let’s go see,” he said.
Baba and Jerry both knew, like all of us who were involved with the Black Panther Party in Los Angeles, that an escape route out of the headquarters was more than just a good idea; it was a necessity.
Julius Jones, a Vietnam vet, was hunched over on the edge of his chair, scowling fiercely as we played chess. He was a dark-skinned man, short and stocky, with powerful sprinter’s legs. He had only been a sergeant in the army, but he played chess like a general, a tactician’s tactician; even so, my intensity met his on the black-and-white squares of the chessboard, move for move.
“Come on, man!” Baba pressed.
We had decided that night to ride in Julius’s Pontiac Grand Prix, so Baba was chiding him to get ready; Baba was ready to roll. I had been leaning on the edge of the couch focused on my next chess move, but I pulled myself up. Baba was right: it was time to take care of business. I grabbed my army boots and headed out the door, putting them on as I followed Jerry down the steps, Julius right behind me. I was wearing my army pants that night too—they had a pocket for damn near everything. But for some reason I couldn’t find my knife—the main thing you carry in the pocket of army pants. For a moment I wondered if I should be concerned. Never mind, I thought to myself. I didn’t expect anything major to jump off tonight.
It was around 2:00 AM on December 8, 1969, and the early morning air was cool as the four of us left Jerry’s house. We started on San Pedro and then quickly made our way to Alameda Street, heading north through downtown. We were able to find a jazz station on the radio, which helped to keep our concentration on track. Other than the music, we rode in silence.
We parked near the L.A. River and entered through the storm drain. The sewer system was an underground labyrinth of tunnels and passageways to all parts of the city. It was muggy and steamy underground, and the smell was far from the sweet aroma of patchouli oil that had flowed through Jerry’s house.
Heading south through the sewer, we made it to the Black Panther Party headquarters in about an hour. As we made our way, we looked for other exits, climbing up ladders to look out of the street gutters. Near the intersection of Hooper Avenue and Santa Barbara Boulevard, I came up one of the drains to see where we were. I noticed some police activity on the streets. I didn’t think much of it, but I made a mental note.
As I climbed back down, my foot caught on the last rail of the rusted-out ladder, which sent my flashlight flying through the air as I scrambled to catch my balance. “Ain’t this about a bitch!” I grumbled angrily, a little unnerved.
Laughter erupted all around me, and I realized the guys were stumbling all over each other, amused by my reaction to the near miss. It was obvious that we were still riding our high from earlier.
As we continued our investigation of the sewers, we periodically stepped into puddles of rippling water. We walked slowly, keeping watch for the sewer rats. When they saw us, the giant-sized rats ran from us. But, unavoidably, they eventually hit a dead end and turned and headed back. Soon, they were coming straight at us, eyes glowing an ominous bloodred as they leered at us in the dark. We were uninvited intruders, gate-crashers in their underworld kingdom. This effectively ended our reconnaissance mission for the night.
Hauling ass, slipping, laughing, and looking over our shoulders, we ran through the underground sewer tunnels all the way back to East Los Angeles, about two miles. I was trying to make it back to where we first entered the sewer, but Baba was in my way. Jerry was right behind me, laughing. The wet ground beneath us didn’t help either.
But whatever we might encounter in the sewers that early morning would not stop us; we didn’t think twice about operating in a space that most people wanted to avoid at all costs. The sewers were not our problem, but a possible solution. Our work that night was meaningful because we were united. We had forged a team committed to the idea that black people in the United States were an oppressed people, and we had a duty and a right to struggle for freedom from that oppression. We also knew that our survival depended on finding new ways to defend our community and ourselves. No, we didn’t think twice.
I asked Julius to drop me off at the Black Panther Party headquarters on Central instead of at Jerry’s house because I wanted to tell G what we had found on our underground scouting mission. For some reason, Central Avenue was eerily quiet, which was an uncommon occurrence—something was always happening on Central. But now, as Julius cruised toward Forty-First, it seemed almost like a ghost town. Momentarily, I flashed back to the earlier omen of my missing army knife; something wasn’t right.
G was at the headquarters, looking out the front door when I got out of the car. Others in the two-story office building that night included longtime community activists Paul Redd, Renee “Peaches” Moore, Melvin “Cotton” Smith, and Robert Bryan, as well as Bernard Smith, one of the newest and youngest members of the Party. Upstairs were Roland Freeman, one of the first to join the Los Angeles branch, and Lloyd Mims, Will Stafford, Tommye Williams, and Pee Wee Johnson. Gil Parker, a foot soldier and stalwart of the Panthers’ Free Breakfast for Children Program, was stationed on the roof.
As I came inside, G told me he was glad to see me. His contact in the police department had told him that they were getting ready to mov
e against us. He didn’t know when exactly, but he thought it was imminent. Like G, I knew it could be at any time, especially since the police had just ambushed the Illinois chapter a few days earlier, on December 4, killing two Black Panther Party leaders, Mark Clark and Fred Hampton, as they slept.
I said to him, “I just came from checking out the sewers again, and I found another route to access them from the headquarters.” I also reported that the pigs were out in full force on Hooper Avenue.
“Right on. That’s the kind of information we need. Especially now,” G replied. He then told me who else was in the house that night.
“Cool,” I said. “We have a serious crew with us tonight. If they come, we will be ready.”
As we discussed the recent activity of the police, G walked me over to the gun room to familiarize me with the weapons at the headquarters. “Clean this and hold on to it,” he said, handing me an automatic shotgun. He then disappeared into another part of the building. I took off my bush jacket, sat down in an old recliner in the corner of the gun room, and began to clean my weapon. Soon after I finished, I fell asleep with the gun across my lap.
The next thing I knew, I was yanked from my slumber by a thunder of activity and urgent voices. “Wake up! Wake up! They’re out there!” Cotton ran into the room shouting; he grabbed a Thompson machine gun off the wall and ran back out.
“Who’s out where?” I asked groggily.
It was around 5:00 AM. I shook off my sleep and stood up with the shotgun in my hands, walking quickly out of the gun room toward the front door. I had drifted off to sleep a mere two hours earlier, and now all hell was breaking loose.
Roland, Mims, Will, and Pee Wee had been asleep upstairs while Gil had pulled guard duty on the roof. But the cops had drawn down on Gil. They put a gun to his head and pressed it so hard that it left a dent. Then the pigs tied him up. Gil began to stomp his feet to signal that he had a problem. It was that commotion on the roof that Cotton had heard when he came to wake me up.
