My People Are Rising (24 page)

We waited until the hysteria died down and then sent a reconnaissance scout to Olympia, who reported the coast was clear. There were only about nine of us—all under eighteen except Elmer and me. After the comrades got out of the cars with their rifles and shotguns, Elmer had them assume formation on the capitol steps, spread out in a line with their weapons pointed in the air. I entered the building with the aim of addressing the legislature, but was unable to do so. The piece of legislation passed, ending our phase of carrying our weapons out in the open.

Another major development occurred in the spring of 1969, this one with much deeper implications.
Huey sent a directive from prison stating that any party member involved in or participating in any criminal activities was to be effectively expelled from the party. Thus began “the purge.”

Since its inception, the Black Panther Party had attracted a rough breed of men and women into its ranks, particularly in the early days. Some were hustlers, ex-thieves, and crooks. These men had felt the direct effects of police brutality. They had seen up close the crookedness and corruption of the police authorities. Huey and the party not only provided them with a vehicle to address their just grievances but also allowed them to play a role in building an organization dedicated to confronting the oppressor and protecting the community. The party gave them pride and confidence, a sense of power and purpose—things most of them had never tasted.

Under Huey and Bobby, strict discipline and ideological correctness enabled many of these brothers to flourish. But with Huey's imprisonment and the party's explosive growth in the face of vicious attacks from the government, it was difficult to monitor and control all the new additions to the organization. The party asked total commitment and dedication of its members, but there was no way in those early days to provide comrades with money or the essentials needed to survive. In some cases, comrades resorted to old habits, infused with the power of the party. Some comrades took what they wanted when they wanted or needed it, robbing stores or banks.

In Seattle, the situation was worse. Willie Brazier, our lieutenant of education, was arrested for the robbery of a grocery store. When he asked me where the bail money was, the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. Curtis Harris, the one who had appointed himself “assistant captain,” had secretly formed an outlaw posse of the most illegally minded comrades. Under Curtis's direction, they engaged in armed robberies of banks and businesses. He told his posse most of the loot from the robberies was for the party and that he was turning it over to me. When I learned about this I was totally thrown off guard; I had been utterly unaware of what was going on. These illegal activities went against what the party was all about.

Nationally, in response to illegal activities conducted by party members, Huey issued a decree calling for the expulsion of all members involved in criminal activity. Many people were expelled. Even Robert Bay had been involved in a holdup and was purged, to be later reinstated by Huey. In Oakland and elsewhere, the purge extended to comrades not involved in illegal activities, exiling many innocent party members due to paranoia and the uneven hand of Chief of Staff David Hilliard. Some of the decisions made by David and his brother, Assistant Chief of Staff June Hilliard, eliminated some of the best soldiers from the ranks. If you even had a close association with purged party members, you, in turn, could be purged and exiled.

One day while at the office, I received a call from Tanya that some people were waiting to speak with me in the front of the house. While approaching the house, I saw a group of former Panthers from Oakland. Three I considered my very close comrades—Matilaba, Orleander Harrison, and Tommy Jones.

We greeted each other and Tommy began to speak. “David and June and the chairman are doing some fucked-up shit. They assassinated one of our buddies who wasn't in the party, and when we spoke out about it we got expelled.”

As I listened, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I knew deep down inside these were some very good comrades, dedicated brothers and sisters. I also knew there was probably some truth to their accusations. Unfortunately for them, I had become hardened with the events of '68 behind me. I also was beginning to develop blindness to some things that did not quite seem right. I could not support their protest against the party. It was unclear to me exactly what they wanted me to do. But in the end, it was my commitment to the Black Panther Party that fueled my decision not to participate in their efforts to redress the expulsions.

This interaction was a sad moment for me. Tommy had been like a big brother to me, and Orleander, at sixteen, had accompanied Bobby and the other Panthers to the iconic demonstration in Sacramento. We had all been together that night in West Oakland less than a year earlier, backing down the cops at 7th and Wood. And Matilaba—the first woman to join the party—a sincere, soft, sweet, dedicated sister, fled Oakland, fearing for her life. She later joined the Nation of Islam in Chicago. The party would never be the same with these comrades and others dismissed from the ranks. I would never see Orleander Harrison again. Tommy and Matilaba I would see only many years later.

But I could not linger for long on these losses. I faced difficult decisions in Seattle, decisions I was reluctant to make. Section leader Buddy Yates, Curtis's right-hand man, had robbed a Safeway, jumping through a glass window in his escape, only to be captured. Curtis had even conspired with the president of Seattle's first Black-operated bank in a robbery scheme in which four Panthers robbed the bank and then split the money with the bank president. A week later they robbed another bank, which led to a wild chase and shootout, ending with the arrest of the renegades. All the participants were expelled from the party, including LewJack and Willie Brazier, at one time two of my closest friends and most trusted comrades. LewJack received twenty years and was sent away to a federal prison in Oklahoma, never to see freedom again; he died in a knife fight in prison. Willie also received a twenty-year sentence and was imprisoned at nearby McNeil Island. Oddly enough, Curtis went free, never doing a day in jail.

I sent Elmer and a goon squad to Curtis's house to administer a good ass-kicking to that fool. As they were leaving, Curtis ran out to his front porch with a pistol, ranting like a madman. A shot was fired back at him, barely missing Curtis's head. Death should have been his end. He did a tremendous amount of damage to the Seattle chapter, tarnishing our image forever in the minds of many people.

These were some of my most difficult times. Comrades I had counted on to assist me in building the Seattle chapter had either been expelled or left on their own, out of fear, or were disappointed and disillusioned. I had started drinking more, relying on the alcohol to pull me through, to give me some courage to face another day.

There was one bright light during those dismal times. On April 15, 1969, my first child, Aaron Patrice Lumumba Dixon, was born into the world.

Above left: My paternal grandparents, Elmer and Mildred Dixon (left), and two unidentified friends, dressed for swimming at the shores of Lake Michigan, Chicago, 1920s.

Above right: My maternal grandparents, Roy and Josephine Sledge, with infant Frances, Chicago, 1925.

Left: My maternal great-great grandmother, Emma, born in 1868. She is about eighty-two in this photo and lived to be ninety-four. Chicago, early 1950s.

Press conference in front of the Panther office after the murder of Welton Armstead by the Seattle police. Front row, left to right: Earl Brooks, Bobby White, Curtis Harris, me. Back row, left to right: Michael Dixon, Artis Parker, Chester Northington, Browning, LewJack. Photo credit: Vic Condiotty,
Seattle Times
, October 1968.

Pamphlet distributed after my arrest for the stolen typewriter. Photo credit: Gil Baker, 1968.

Meeting with Washington State Governor Dan Evans at the Seattle Center, 1968. That's me in the foreground.