My People Are Rising (21 page)

We initially headed to Washington Park Arboretum, a heavily wooded park not far from the office. Before we had taken our position, one of the comrades, high on speed, inadvertently fired at a passing police car. Luckily, he missed, but we decided we had better find a more suitable place for an ambush.

We finally located a ridge on a hill that faced a main street. Cars had to stop at the oncoming intersection below. Behind us was a densely wooded area that led down to Lake Washington. Trails crisscrossed each other, trails that Elmer, Michael, and I had hiked on overcast days, playing war, ducking in and out of bushes, hiding from invisible enemies behind trees. The comrades and I settled in on that ridge for several hours. Many times during that night I felt the urge to call off the operation. But there was no turning back. I knew I had to follow this through. We lay on that grassy spot for hours, swapping stories about experiences in Vietnam and the wild ghettos of New Orleans, about the fine women who got away and those we hoped to catch. For that time it seemed we were brothers, and our purpose a united one.

Looking down from our little knoll, we could see across the street. Out of nowhere, cutting through the silence of the night, it appeared—our enemy, our prey, the very bane of our existence—a lone police cruiser. No one said a thing. Almost simultaneously, we all took aim and fired. As I had the only semiautomatic, I tried to get off a second round, but my rifle jammed. We jumped up and hurried down the steep embankment to the narrow path below, running in the dark as fast as we could. I tripped over a rock, flew up in the air, and landed on my shoulder. I grabbed my carbine, and we continued toward a long, steel staircase separating the forest from a thick patch of blackberry bushes. We climbed over the staircase, unsure whether to go up or down, then we saw two cop cars pull up in the cul-de-sac below. We climbed over the other side of the steps, thrusting ourselves into the thick brush, trying to blend into the trees and bushes, all of us hoping we were black enough not to be seen. The cops got out of the car with shotguns and flashlights, sweeping the forest, trying to spot the raiders. The four of us stood motionless. Slowly LewJack lowered his .357 and cocked it, preparing to fire. I put my hand on his revolver and shook my head. We all thought for sure we were dead. But the cops, unable to detect our whereabouts, got into their cars and left.

We didn't know what to do, but we could not stand there in the bushes much longer. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard a familiar voice calling. We hurried up the steps toward the voice. It was Tanya
with little Kathy Jones. Tanya lived nearby, and when she heard the gunshots she and Kathy came out to investigate. We ran quickly through several backyards to get to her place. A dog started barking wildly, and again I had to stop LewJack from discharging his weapon. Reaching Tanya's apartment, we ran up the stairs to safety. Throughout the night we heard sirens. We would learn later that hundreds of police, armed with machine guns, had marched through the woods looking for the attackers. Had it not been for Tanya and Kathy, we might not have made it to safety. Of the three units sent out that night, only ours had been able to engage the enemy.

The riot was over, leaving in its wake hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage and scores of young people arrested, many of whom would go to prison for years. The riot marked the beginning of a war in Seattle between the cops and the Black Panther Party. Across the country, that summer of '68 was seen by some as the beginning of the revolution. Elmer and I were named on the front page of the
Chicago Sun-Times
, along with a picture of Elmer addressing a crowd. Upon seeing this, Ma, my grandmother on my mother's side, who had dreams of Elmer becoming a doctor and my becoming a minister, claimed to want nothing more to do with Elmer or me.

That summer we sent out teams of firebombers and snipers with the purpose of closing down known racist establishments. One such establishment was the plush Seattle Tennis Club on Lake Washington, the same tennis club that had treated our Black and Jewish tennis team like pariahs during the summer of '65. Another was Lake Washington Realty, which over the years had refused to do business with Blacks and Asians. Each time they reopened, we firebombed them again until they moved to a different location and completely boarded up their windows. And there was Bluma's, the Jewish deli around the corner from Garfield High. For years, the two fat brothers there had cursed at Black students, talking to them in a very disrespectful manner; later, they took to selling drugs along with the maple and jelly bars and pastrami sandwiches. At first we proposed to picket them, positioning a ring of Panthers around the perimeter of the store. That proved too time-consuming, so we firebombed it.

Unfortunately, some establishments were hit that should have not been, like Brenner Brothers Bakery and the Chinese neighborhood grocery store on Yesler. They became innocent victims of payback rage. We also sniped at the fire station around the corner from the office to keep the fire trucks from going out to douse the blazes from the firebombs. We even used the brick fire station for target practice, and, oddly enough, at times the police did not respond. A block from our office was an empty, unkempt lot with bushes and trees that we used to ambush police cars.

That summer,
Time
and
Newsweek
published charts of the ten cities with the highest rates of firebombing and sniping. We were proud that Seattle was ranked number one in firebombing and number two in sniping. Detroit beat us out in sniping, but in the firebombing category we were unsurpassed, beating out New York, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, and others. The Panthers had put Seattle on the map.

15

The Unromantic Revolution

Hang onto the world as it spins, around Just don't let the spin get you down Things are moving fast Hold on tight and you will last

—Donny Hathaway, “Someday We'll All Be Free,” 1973

The revolution did not pause
or slow down. There was no time for reflection or regrets. It was sometimes difficult to distinguish right from wrong, or truth from falsehood.

Tensions between the Seattle chapter and the police had reached dangerous levels. When darkness fell, Madrona Hill became a no-man's-land. The cops would only come up to the hill in three-car caravans, four cops deep, with shotguns protruding out of the windows. Madrona Hill was dubbed “Pork Chop Hill,” after a famous Korean War battle.

One cloudy Saturday afternoon, party members had gathered at the office for the weekly political education classes. I was en route to the meeting in a car with Willie Brazier, Buddy Yates, and LewJack, when we found ourselves behind a police cruiser driven by a sergeant. He stopped in front of the office and peered in.

Suddenly Willie Brazier jumped out of our vehicle, ran up to the cop car, yanked open the door, and began tugging the shocked cop out of his car, yelling, “Pig, what are you doing here?”

The sergeant must have pushed an emergency button, because within seconds cop cars descended on the scene from every direction. Buddy, LewJack, and I had gotten out of our car. Willie let go of the cop and the four of us retreated across the street toward the office. The cops stayed in their cars, shotguns sticking out of their windows. Had they decided to start shooting, there was nowhere for us to go. For a few seconds we stood looking at the cops while they looked at us, all wondering what would be the next move.

The sergeant finally spoke. “This is a warning to you guys. We're ready for anything.” After that the cops split.

Another afternoon, we were in the office, preparing for a meeting. There happened to be a bus stop right in front of the office. We had instructed the bus drivers to park about five feet back, so as not to block the front of the office. Most complied, but every now and then there would be a dissenter.

A dark-haired bus driver pulled in front of the office and sat there, blocking our entrance. Elmer and Steve Philips boarded the bus and commanded the driver to move.

“No, I'm not moving,” he replied. Suddenly, Elmer and Steve pounced on the driver and grabbed his bus phone, ripped out the wires, and threw it onto the roof of the office building. The bus driver finally drove off.

Eventually, the transit company sent some managers over to negotiate on the bus stop issue. We still refused to allow them to fully block the front of our office. Meanwhile, a warrant was put out for my arrest for assault on the bus driver. The driver swore on the witness stand that I, not Elmer, had attacked him. Even though Elmer got on the witness stand and testified that he had done it, I was the one found guilty. Luckily, Judge Stokes was presiding over the proceedings. Judge Stokes was one of the few Black judges in town at that time, and I had gone to school with his daughter. Yet, even with the connections, I think we were all pleasantly surprised when he gave me probation and relieved me of jail time.

Plenty of people were supportive of our chapter. People dropped off money, office equipment, and supplies, sometimes even weapons. Thus, when Jack, a short, stocky, blond, Scandinavian-looking dude showed up, we were inquisitive, in spite of our skepticism. He was decked out in a three-quarter-length black leather coat and a black beret, and had on a button of Che Guevara. “Hey, my name's Jack,” he said, extending his hand and giving me a firm handshake. “I belong to the Communist Party on Mercer Island.”

We nodded and looked on, trying to size up this cat. He continued, “Yeah, I fought with Che and Fidel when they landed in Cuba.”

After we had listened with interest to several of his stories, he left and promised to come back, which he did. He took us out to his house, where he lived with his two wives. He taught us revolutionary tactics, including how to make time bombs with a stick of dynamite and an alarm clock in a shoebox. Learning of his access to dynamite, we made arrangements for two cases of dynamite with nitroglycerine. The Molotov cocktails had served their purpose. Now it was time to move on to something more effective.

The plan was set: Jack would get the dynamite from his contact. Gary Owens and I would meet him near University of Washington campus. We picked him up without incident and headed to the office. When we got near, a cop car that had been tailing us for a while put on its flashing red lights and siren. We were all nervous, but Jack was sweating like a madman as he waited while the cop checked his ID. We were sure we would get busted. Luckily, a platoon of Panthers had seen us get stopped and ran down from the office to investigate, which spurred the cops to let us go. That was a close call.

We buried one of the cases of dynamite in a wooded area and took the other case to the basement of my apartment, where we left it in the care of two comrades who volunteered to stand watch until we decided what to do with it. When we came back to check on it several hours later, the two comrades informed us that the cops had come by and confiscated the case of dynamite—a very fishy story, but somehow we overlooked it at the time.

As a matter of fact, one night a week later these same comrades, along with Curtis Harris, decided they would escort me home from the office, which I found unusual. I usually walked by myself or was accompanied by LewJack. Besides, I knew these guys from high school, and they didn't have a political bone in their body—they pretty much hung out with the thug crowd. When we turned a corner, a slow-moving police cruiser appeared. Suddenly Curtis pulled out his .45 and fired in the direction of the cop car. A moment later, when I looked around, Curtis and the other two had disappeared and I was alone. Knowing full well the place would quickly be covered with cops, I ran up the stairs of the Melinsons' house nearby and into the backyard. Within minutes I could hear cars filling the streets, doors opening and closing, and the voices of desperate, angry white men getting closer.

The backyard was completely enclosed by ten-foot-high, thick, green bushes. There was no escape, and I could hear the voices getting louder, quickly coming my way. I pulled out my 9mm and braced for the worst. Just then, the back door of the house opened, and out stepped Mr. Melinson. He silently motioned me inside. I ran in with my piece in my hand just as the cops were entering the yard with guns drawn. Mr. Melinson drew me into the living room, where we sat in the darkness with his family, watching the action out the windows. We could see the cops frantically searching for me, under cars, and behind buildings, but I was nowhere to be found.

Elmer, Michael, and I had grown up with the Melinsons. The family had seven kids. Their daughter, Wanda, had a strong crush on me in the sixth grade. My brothers and I had played football, basketball, and tennis with Wayne and Gary. However, when Elmer and I joined the party, Mr. Melinson ordered his children not to have anything to do with us, which was understandable. I had observed Mr. Melinson for many years. He was a very light-complexioned, conservative Texan who seldom smiled and was known for his strictness. He worked hard and sent all his kids to Catholic school. He was the last person I would have thought would risk his position and family to save a crazy young revolutionary, but he did, and he will forever remain in my heart. After the cops gave up, I ran home, thankful that I had been spared another day.

It was unsettling, to say the least, that Curtis and the other two would fire at the pigs without letting me know, and then disappear. I was still of the mind that if you were Black and down for the cause, you were unquestionable. But, in reality, there were far too many men and women who looked and acted the part who were willing to compromise themselves as human beings for a few dollars, for a shorter prison sentence, or just for the thrill of playing both sides. Informants had infiltrated just about every party chapter, quite heavily in some places, and Seattle was no exception. I heard later from sources on the streets that the cops had a price on my head. They thought that killing me would bring an end to all their worries.