by Pharr, Wayne
For the most part, harmful gang activity involved fighting, with rank attached to skill. Being able to box and to fight with your hands was considered an asset. If a brother could handle himself in a fight, he could go just about anywhere in the city and be respected. I had a reputation as a good fighter because one of my hobbies was boxing. But I also knew how to run if necessary.
I had a strategy for handling a bunch of guys who wanted to jump me. “Look up,” I would say. They would look up and then I would run.
“You got to be fast; you can’t be no dummy,” I told Tyrone one day. “If a gang is chasing you, stop running, turn around, and toss up the guy closest to you and then run some more.”
Tyrone chuckled, but he was also taking note.
It was rare for gang members to use guns in this era. Treetop, an original Slauson, was the first person I knew who got shot and killed, in the early 1960s. We called him Treetop because he was so tall and thin. He was about ten years older than me. Treetop’s murder was the talk of the neighborhood for years to come. Little did we know that Treetop’s murder would foreshadow the volatility of gang warfare.
Although my mom and I moved a lot, I remained a Broadway Slauson. My closest homeboys in the set were Tyrone and his brother, Dwight. Tyrone was tall, chiseled, and a good street fighter. Dwight was the older of the two but slightly smaller and more intelligent than both of us. Their mother, Mrs. Hutchinson, was a very attractive brown-skinned, curvy woman who looked like she had been a party girl in her younger days. She was also down-to-earth and let us hang out at her house. She made sure we always had food to eat and were comfortable when we were there. “Boys, I am getting ready to go out. Don’t bring any girls in here and don’t tear up my house,” she would jokingly say. Even though she was smiling, we also knew she was serious about her instructions.
One day, Tyrone met this cat at the park and invited him to hang out with us at the house. But when he got there, he tried to bully Tyrone in his own crib.
We were shooting craps with him and he started losing. All of a sudden he became belligerent. “You niggas are cheating!” he screamed. “I want my money back!” He had a wild look in his eyes and started grabbing for Tyrone.
I jumped in between them and then Tyrone grabbed a lamp and hit him over the head with it. He staggered and grabbed his head. Together we tried to shove him out of the door, but one of his legs got caught in the doorjamb as I pushed the door against him. “Let go of my leg!” he screamed. But I held the door steady. Meanwhile, Tyrone ran into the kitchen and grabbed a turkey prong out of one of the drawers. Next thing I knew, Tyrone was poking him in the leg with it. The guy started screaming so loudly that we finally opened the door. Immediately, he scrambled and ran down the street.
For weeks, Tyrone and I were constantly looking over our shoulders, expecting that guy to appear out of nowhere. Amazingly, we never saw any sign of him again.
A few hours later, Mrs. Hutchinson came home. We told her what happened, expecting the worst, but she surprised us both. After looking back and forth at us in a serious manner, she finally said that she wasn’t worried about the lamp but was just glad we got him out of the house. This is why we all liked Mrs. Hutchinson so much.
The baddest guy in the Broadway Slauson set after Treetop was Ealy Bias, an OG (original gangster) Slauson. I went to school with his brother Alex, and we became close friends. He was staying with my mom and me, because his mother had kicked him out of the house. Alex lived in Ealy’s shadow. He was dark-skinned, had a gap between his two front teeth, and stuttered. Instead of pursuing the gangs, Alex was preparing himself for a different kind of future. He was a gymnast, a good student, and a hard worker. His work ethic got him promoted to checker at ABC Market on Manchester and San Pedro, and so he helped me get his old job as a box boy.
Alex was a positive influence on my life in so many ways. I stopped hanging out as much as before and decided that I wanted to become involved in sports.
“What are you doing with that shit?” Alex said to me one day, as I was lighting a joint.
“Cool out, man,” I replied. But that got me to thinking.
“You should come to work out with me,” Alex suggested.
“But I am not really sure I like gymnastics,” I replied. “I really want to sign up for football or basketball.”
“Well, you need to stop smoking either way, and besides, it’s too late for basketball or football.”
Eventually, I quit my brief experimentation with cigarettes and weed so I could focus on getting my body ready. I lightened up on smoking and drinking and signed up for gymnastics. I hadn’t been a heavy drinker or smoker anyway, so it was easy to let go of those vices. Off and on, I would steal a drink around the house or have someone buy me a Country Club or Colt 45 beer. But I didn’t like the feeling of being out of control, and I certainly did not want to be high in the streets.
I was good at gymnastics and eventually became the number-two guy on the parallel bars at Washington High. Alex had been on the gymnastics team in high school, so he was able to give me some pointers on the sport. He performed on the rings and was an expert at the iron cross. Alex and I hung pretty tight. We were always working out, working, or sometimes going out to parties and school dances. Alex stayed with my mom and me for about a year and a half, until he graduated from high school and went off to college.
As a result of holding down the job at ABC Market, I earned and saved enough money to buy my first car, a 1958 Chevrolet Impala. Overnight, I became a low-rider. My righteous homeboy Louis Wise, who I had met in church, was low-riding a 1963 Catalina at the same time. Louis’s father was an assistant reverend at the Freewill Baptist Church, which was in the neighborhood and where I would sometimes go with my mother.
One day I ran into Louis on the way out of Fellowship Hall. “Man, I just got a new ride,” I said to him. “You should come by and check it out.”
Louis looked excited. “Sure, and I’ll bring tools.”
When I purchased my car it was black, but I had it painted sky blue. I was running six-and-a-half-inch rims, which was something else back then! We put bucket seats in the front, and in the back we had tuck-and-roll rear seats. I had an AM/FM radio with a cassette tape player and a “doughnut” steering wheel. The windows were tinted black, and the springs made the car lift in the front and drop in the back. This car had a great effect on my life. It was more than something cosmetic or just a toy. Even though it was what young folks today called tricked out, that car got me out of the neighborhood and gang mentality. It was my escape.
I really understood the need for having my own transportation one night as I was leaving my grandmother’s house. I saw several brothers from Broadway—Tyrone Hutchinson, Snake, and Arthur Huey—riding in three or four cars. “Hey Wayne, we going up to the park,” Tyrone called out. “And then, we gon’ fight these Manchester fools, the Park Boys. Get in the car. Come on!”
“Sure. I’ll follow you right over there,” I said. They drove off, and I went the other way.
The wheels not only got me out of the neighborhood but also gave me access to others. My car gave me another type of access too—as my friend Louis would say—to girls and more parties. Instead of hanging in the neighborhood and getting into fights, we could now travel to catch some girls. We partied at the Kappa House, the Omega House, and other places all over the city. We even traveled to other cities, like Long Beach. We were on a roll.
Eventually, I quit my job at ABC Market. My aunt helped me get a job at Trans World Airlines (TWA) in fleet services, cleaning planes. The planes would land at the Los Angeles airport, refuel, and then head on to their next destination. Our job was to run in and clean them quickly so they could be on their way. I was feeling quite high by then—I had a job, money in my pocket, and a low-riding car. I couldn’t wait until the upcoming Watts Summer Festival so that I should show off my car. But by the time the summer festival rolled around, I had contracted ptomaine poisoning from ea
ting those dinners on the plane, so I couldn’t go.
While I was sick in bed, Louis came by my house one day during the festival. “The police just shot up Will Rogers Park.” Louis was talking so fast, I could hardly understand him.
I shook my head. “Why, what happened?”
“The police rolled up like the military, shot a few people, and then closed down the festival.”
I was stunned. “But why?”
“Man, they’re retaliating against us,” he said. “It’s because of the Watts Riots and black pride.”
I recognized the names of the people injured that day, but I didn’t know any of them personally. Still, I was infuriated by the police action. I realized that it could have been me at the park that day. The shootings conjured up flashbacks of the murder of Leonard Deadwyler, a twenty-five-year-old who had been shot and killed by the police while taking his pregnant wife to the hospital two years earlier. Images of his bloodied body slumped over his wife, while his little girl looked on from the backseat, pissed me off. It was the case that made Johnnie Cochran famous when he sued the city for wrongful death.
I sat up in my bed, still feeling queasy, and gave Louis a hard look. “I think it’s time we talk about serious protection.”
“What do you have in mind?” Louis asked.
“These pigs are trying to exterminate us. We have to arm ourselves.”
“I’m down with that,” he nodded.
“I can talk to Joe and Rudy—my barbers,” I said. “I know they can tell us where to go.”
After talking things over with some people at the barbershop, I began my senior year at Washington High armed and, if necessary, ready. I had a .45, a .38, and a shotgun too. I paid $100 a pop for each one.
Our house had a large backyard and a basement; it was the perfect space to work on survival skills. I had my guns hidden where I knew my mom wouldn’t find them. I invited my homeboys over to lift weights in the backyard. We’d put on our boxing gloves to perfect our fighting skills.
At school, I excelled in my business and political education classes. Those classes became the foundation for my entrepreneurial endeavors and my political activities later in life. Mr. Whyte, my political education teacher, issued a challenge to the class, which was basically, if you do not support what is happening in society, especially with government, then you owe it to yourself and community to get involved.
“How many of you heard about what happened at Will Rogers Park during the summer?” Mr. Whyte said at the opening of class on Monday.
I looked around and saw a sea of hands—everybody in class had their hand up.
“How many of you knew at least one of the six individuals who were shot?”
I left my hand up and so did several other kids.
“What happened?” Mr. Whyte pushed. “Explain to me what you think occurred that day.”
The whole class erupted.
“It’s because the cops hate black people!” one girl exclaimed.
“Yeah, and they know they can get away with it!” another kid added.
“Most of them are KKK anyway,” someone else finished.
The more I sat there, the angrier I got.
Mr. Whyte left his desk and walked solemnly to the middle of the room, forcing us to really pay attention. “So, here is your challenge,” he said. “The police and the government are organized forces, so that means you need to be organized too.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, really interested now.
“It’s impossible for an individual to effectively challenge an organization, especially a strong one,” he replied.
Similar messages were coming from other adults as well. My English teacher motivated us to read more, become informed, and act on our ideas. And of course, I was still in touch with my stepfather, Mr. Morgan, who continued to instill in me the importance of community service. It was because of the information and encouragement from these mentors that I began to work with other students to establish the first Black Student Union at Washington High School.
We were part of a trend. Students throughout California were working to establish BSUs on high school and college campuses, and we had a lot of support among our peers. Our new BSU held weekly meetings of about forty people. Shortly after we were established, we organized a strike in support of having a black studies class included in the curriculum. Most of the students walked out of school to force the school administrators to negotiate with us. I was a part of the negotiating team, and we succeeded. The school agreed to teach a black studies class, but it wouldn’t begin until the next year. That would mean that the students coming after me would benefit from the class, but I would not, because I was graduating. Still, I was glad that we were helping them gain some knowledge about their history and culture.
In the midst of the political turmoil, there was some beauty in my life. During my senior year, I met Sharon Alford, who became my girlfriend and lifelong friend. Sharon was beautiful, a chocolate girl. She was sprinkled with freckles and quick to laugh, with a pleasant disposition.
I met her at the ABC store while I was at work, boxing groceries. She saw me talking to her brother Marzel. She stood there watching us for a while, and then she turned to Marzel. “You should introduce us,” she smiled.
Marzel stood there and looked back and forth at us. Hesitantly, he finally said, “Wayne, this is Sharon.”
I took the pen out of my pocket and ripped a piece of paper from a grocery bag. I asked her for her phone number.
Our first date was a Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I took her to the Century Drive-In, the perfect venue for a first date. Sharon and I were a good couple. Not only was she fine and smart, but she also accepted my politics.
The month of April started out full of optimism and bustle. We were still riding high from the success of the BSU and our upcoming black studies class. I had Sharon in my life now, and I was busy planning for my graduation.
But then on April 4 I learned that Martin Luther King Jr. had been murdered. I was at school when I heard the news. It was a sobering moment. But I wasn’t surprised at all. I actually couldn’t believe he lived as long as he did, especially considering the violence and racism in the United States.
Louis and some of the other guys, however, sat around on the lunch benches in a fatalistic mood. Biting his lip, with his jaw clenched and tears streaming down his face, Louis slammed his hand down on the table and stood up. “Man, I can’t believe he’s dead!”
“But I can,” I replied glumly. “It only proves to me that nonviolence is a dead-end theory.”
They all turned and looked at me with gloomy faces.
“Here was a man,” I continued, “who had said to the white racists in the country, just give us some basic equality and we will not be a threat to this unfair system. Despite the hundreds of years of slavery and discrimination, we can start over. But instead of receiving support, he was shot and killed on a balcony of a motel.”
“Right on, right on,” they all exclaimed in unison.
King’s murder had resulted in the opposite of what he had preached. Cities throughout the country blew up, and uprisings occurred everywhere. A lot of people died. But there was also a growing militancy in the streets. The antiwar movement picked up steam, and Stokely Carmichael began calling for black power. Malcolm X’s message of Black Nationalism was being embraced from coast to coast by various organizations: Robert Williams and the Republic of New Afrika, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), the Us Organization, the Community Alert Patrol, the Deacons for Defense, the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, and the United Front. These were the organizations on the opposite end of the political spectrum, as opposed to more mainstream organizations like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, the Urban League, and the Congress of Racial Equality.
I knew at some point I would hook up with one of the Black National
ist organizations. In my view, if Martin Luther King Jr. could be assassinated in broad daylight, then nobody was safe.
6
A NECESSARY STEP TOWARD JUSTICE
Militancy in the streets was growing. Almost everywhere I turned, my homeboys were joining organizations set up to fight for black people. And many of the guys who became activists had previously belonged to gangs. Ron “Crook” Wilkins, a former member of the Slausons, became a leader of the local SNCC branch and of the Community Alert Patrol, an organization that monitored the cops. Kumasi, who was the leader of the Baby Slausons, eventually joined the Black Panther Party and became a leader in the California prison movement. I was still trying to make up my mind about which organization to join, but I knew that I wanted to play some sort of meaningful role in the fight for black liberation.
I was no believer in fate, but the events of my life seemed to orient me toward the Black Panther Party. The pivotal year was 1968. That year I graduated from Washington High School, and my mother and Nanny proudly attended the ceremony. I then immediately made plans to take the Greyhound bus up north to visit the family my mom and I left behind when we moved to Los Angeles.
My cousin Donald Pharr took me to a house party in Oakland to hang out and possibly meet some young ladies. The party was nice. There was some good music and dancing, and the DJ played one of my favorite songs, “Stay in My Corner” by the Dells. I was having a good time. At one point, I noticed these real serious-looking brothers in slacks and leather coats, holding down intense conversations in the corner. I realized that they were members of the Black Panther Party and that they were recruiting. These were not the leaders I had heard of, like Huey Newton or Bobby Seale, but rank-and-file members. I listened to some of their dialogue but decided not to engage them at the party. However, it was that night that I really began to check them out.
