My People Are Rising Read online

  Contents

  Foreword

  Acknowledgments

  Our Family Journey Begins

  Ancestors

  Our Family Journey Begins

  The Search for Home

  Rumblings in the South

  Sticking Together

  The Tide of the Movement

  Slow Awakening

  Stokely Comes to Town

  The Tide of the Movement

  The Death of Martin Luther King Jr.

  The Panther Emerges

  7th and Wood—April 1968

  July 1968, Seattle

  The Panther Comes to Seattle

  Huey and the UN

  July 1968, Seattle

  The Unromantic Revolution

  Death in Winter

  The Purge

  COINTELPRO Is Unleashed

  COINTELPRO Is Unleashed

  The Chairman Is Kidnapped

  The Resurrection of the Seattle Chapter—Se

  The Murder of Fred Hampton

  Day-to-Day Survival

  Huey Is Set Free

  Seattle: Riot 18

  A Party Divided: The Split

  A Party Divided: The Split

  Centralization—March 1972

  The Campaign—1973

  The Godfather on Lake Merritt

  Elaine’s Rise to Power

  The Other Side of the Coin

  The End of the Line

  The Death of Deacon

  Oakland Is Ours

  Huey’s Return

  The Richmond Incident

  The End of the Line

  The Last Hurrah

  Not Forgotten

  Appendix 1

  Appendix 2

  Appendix 3

  Appendix 4

  Appendix 5

  About the Author

  Praise for My People Are Rising

  “Dixon has that uncanny ability to convey to his readers the feelings that came along with the party’s triumphs and defeats. Most readers will be amazed to discover what it took to create and then sustain the Black Panther Party’s many community service programs. They will be equally shocked at how close party members were to the ever-present threat of death. Unlike previous autobiographies of BPP leaders, this one does not sugarcoat the organization’s shortcomings, nor does it glamorize its hard-fought and often well-deserved victories. It does, however, provide a valuable, though painful, reminder of the high price of real change in these United States.”

  —Curtis Austin, associate professor of history, The Ohio State University

  “My People Are Rising is the most authentic book ever written by a member of the Black Panther Party. Aaron Dixon does a superb job of presenting life in the party from the perspective of a foot soldier—a warrior for the cause of revolutionary change and Black Power in America. He pulls no punches and holds nothing back in writing honestly about those times as he successfully presents a visual picture of the courage, commitment, and sometimes shocking brutality of life as a Panther activist. This is an unforgettable, must-read book!”

  —Larry Gossett, chair, Metropolitan King County Council

  “There have been many books about the Black Panther Party but never has there been a Panther book as illuminating as this memoir by Aaron Dixon. It’s the story from a different perspective than we’ve ever seen: the former member who has remained a long-distance runner for revolution. It’s indispensable for anyone with an interest in Black politics or the politics of change in the United States.”

  –Dave Zirin, the Nation

  My People Are Rising

  © 2012 Aaron Dixon

  Published in 2012 by Haymarket Books

  PO Box 180165

  Chicago, IL 60618

  www.haymarketbooks.org

  773–583–7884

  ISBN: 978-1-60846-179-0

  Trade distribution:

  In the US, Consortium Book Sales and Distribution, www.cbsd.com

  In Canada, Publishers Group Canada, www.pgcbooks.ca

  In the UK, Turnaround Publisher Services, www.turnaround-uk.com

  In Australia, Palgrave Macmillan, www.palgravemacmillan.com.au

  All other countries, Publishers Group Worldwide, www.pgw.com

  Cover design by Erin Schell. Cover image is a portrait of Aaron Dixon that appeared on the cover of Seattle magazine in October 1968.

  Published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation

  and the Wallace Global Fund.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication data is available.

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  Foreword

  Aaron Dixon has written an extraordinary book that is grounded in the ordinary. He tells the story of a boy’s journey into adulthood. Born in the heartland of America, Dixon takes the reader on a trek that begins in Chicago, travels to Seattle, and takes a detour to the Bay Area, with stops in Texas before finally returning to the Pacific Northwest many years later.

  My People Are Rising is filled with heart-pounding stories and gripping accounts of Dixon’s life both as a civilian and as a member of the Black Panther Party in Seattle and the Bay Area. The product of a healthy, two-parent home, Dixon experienced a supportive and loving home life of the type that many kids, regardless of race, long for. To understand how Dixon became the leader of the first chapter of the Black Panther Party outside of California, one must have an appreciation for the history of activism within the Dixon family. Dixon’s father was an admirer, student, and follower of both Paul Robeson and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Hence, neither Dixon’s parents nor his friends were surprised when, as a teenager, he decided to join the Black Panther Party. Even if Dixon surprised himself at times, he could not escape the fact that activism was in his gene pool; it was a part of who he was. Dixon’s two younger brothers followed suit and also joined the party, making their commitment to the Black Panther Party a family affair.

  My People Are Rising is neither a tell-all work nor a sensational or score-settling diatribe, elements that have characterized a number of autobiographical accounts during the last twenty years or so, especially where the Black Panther Party is concerned. Nowhere in the book does Dixon denigrate or speak ill of anyone inside or out of the Black Panther Party. Instead, Dixon’s book is a rich, down-to-earth story of his life, much of which chronicles the day-to-day goings-on in the most widely known of the Black Power groups and arguably the most effective Black revolutionary organization of the latter half of the twentieth century. As a member of the Black Panther Party, Dixon spends the better part of his young adult life as a soldier on the front lines of the Black Power Movement. The decision to do so, however, comes with great personal sacrifice.

  Dixon puts a human face on the many young people who, like him, left the secure confines of home, risked their lives, and devoted themselves to the struggle for Black liberation. Dixon is particularly effective in enabling the reader to visualize the many women Panthers who not only helped keep the party afloat but also played an integral part in the Black Panther Party’s success. The book introduces us to a number of vivid characters and stand-up men and women who have heretofore not gotten much attention from previous writers, including Leon “Valentine” Hobbs, one of the party’s unsung heroes.

  I would especially encourage young people to read this book, as it provides a perfect illustration of the impact that young men and women made in Black communities throughout the country during the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s.

  Dixon also paints a more complete portrait of the Black Panther Party than have most writers. The Black Panther Party consisted of more than just patrols of the police and the Free Breakfast for School Children Program. By discussing the Panthers’ broad array of community-focused Survi
val Programs, Dixon provides the reader with an accurate and balanced depiction of the party’s activities generally and in Seattle specifically.

  Dixon, a stand-up guy, has written a stand-up book about his life before, during, and after the Black Panther Party. My People Are Rising deserves a broad hearing. This is a book that will, in fact, appeal to readers of all ages, regardless of their political persuasion or their opinions of the Black Panther Party, the most maligned and misrepresented organization of the twentieth century.

  Judson L. Jeffries, PhD

  Professor of African American and African Studies, The Ohio State University, and author of Huey P. Newton, The Radical Theorist; Comrades, A Local History of the Black Panther Party; and On the Ground: The Black Panther Party in Communities Across America.

  Acknowledgments

  On August 27, 1989, Huey P. Newton was gunned down on a lonely street in West Oakland, not far from one of the old National Headquarters of the Black Panther Party. Three days later a memorial service for our embattled leader was held in Seattle. At the service I was approached by Anna Johnson, the former owner of Open Hand Publishing. She asked me if I would be interested in writing a book about my experience in the party.

  And thus began a journey of more than two decades, as I attempted to tell my story and the stories of so many others regarding one of the most significant, most intriguing, and brightest moments in modern American history. Writing this memoir has not been an easy task for a single parent suffering from some form of undiagnosed PTSD, raising not only my own kids but also the kids of others because the traditional family system had collapsed. It took a lot of support and encouragement, at times seemingly an entire village, to bring this project to completion. So I must acknowledge and thank all those who have helped along the way.

  During the earlier years, a number of people helped the manuscript get off the ground. My first typist was from Pike Place Typing Service, which kindly provided discounted typing service, and later, my friend Pam, who worked for the City of Seattle, donated her time to typing my handwritten pages. My good friend Virginia Wyman stepped up to provide valuable assistance and support. Dean Patton worked with me as a writing coach. Deborah Green, the widow of Dr. John Green, volunteered her time to edit the first draft of the manuscript. And I am thankful to my good friend Gilda Sheppard, faculty at Evergreen Tacoma, for reminding me that I had a lot to say.

  I thank all my Panther comrades. If not named directly here in these acknowledgments, my gratitude and love for my Panther comrades are in the pages of this memoir. Bill Jennings of the website It’s About Time BPP fielded my constant questions and gave me ongoing reminders to finish this book. Bobby Seale had long phone conversations with me, discussing details. Emory Douglas provided steady encouragement, as did Leila McDowell. My good friend Valentine Hobbs and I had daily conversations about our years in the party. I am amazed how the memories of those days are fresh in our minds. I’d also like to thank original BSU members Larry Gossett and Gary Owens, who have become my close friends over the years.

  I want to express my appreciation to Anthony Arnove and Haymarket Press for recognizing the importance and value of My People are Rising. I could not have asked for a better editor in Caroline Luft, who seemed to know about everything from football to music to politics. Her patience and commitment to the project were invaluable.

  I thank my family for always being available for information as well as inspiration. My mother allowed me to call her day and night to ask her questions—at times redundant—about our family history and her memories of the turbulent years of the ’60s and ’70s. My brothers, Elmer and Michael, and my sister, Joanne, provided ever-present support. My cousin Mark shared so much valuable information about my father’s side of the family. I thank my children—Aaron Patrice, Nisaa Laketa, Venishia, Aziza, Asha, and Zain—for their joyous curiosity about their dad’s writing a book, and for their love and strength. Also in my heart are my grandkids Fela, Iyanna, Grace, Natasha, Daisia, Syrena, Miko, and Taliyah, and my great-grandchildren, twins Xamaria and Xavier, for the hope and peace they bring into this world of uncertainty.

  And the one person who, above all, helped me and cajoled me in making this book worthy of publication is my partner, Farah Nousheen. For the past seven years we have worked together on this project as if we were one, even while she was immersed in completing her BA and master’s degrees, and in post–9/11 activism in the South Asian community.

  Lastly and very importantly, I express my utmost gratitude to all my friends, comrades, and the people of Seattle, especially those who kept on asking me, year after year, “Hey, Aaron, when’s your book comin’ out?” At last, I have an answer.

  Our Family Journey Begins

  The Dixon family. Back row, left to right: Mommy, Poppy, Joanne. Front row, left to right: me, Michael, Elmer. Chicago, summer 1964.

  1

  Ancestors

  Southern trees bear strange fruit,

  Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

  Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze,

  Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

  —Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit,” 1939

  On a hot, muggy night during the tumultuous and wild summer of 1968, I crouched in waiting, along with three comrades, clutching my carbine tightly with sweaty hands. We were silently waiting for our prey. No, this was not Vietnam; it was Seattle. The riots had raged for three nights, much like the other rebellions that scorched across America that summer, from Newark to Chicago to Los Angeles. These rebellions would leave hundreds of people dead, wounded, and imprisoned, as well as endless blocks of burned-out, ravaged buildings, standing as a lasting memory of the anger of Black America. I did not know, nor did I care, whether I would survive that night or, for that matter, the many other nights we took to the streets to seek our revenge.

  It was only a few months earlier that Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated, and just a few years since the assassinations of Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. These deaths were still fresh in our minds and hearts, as were the countless deaths of the lesser-known victims of American racism. For more than three hundred years, Black people in America had been denied basic civil rights, first when they were ripped from their African homelands and sold into slavery in the New World, then, after Emancipation, under the racist system of Jim Crow laws and segregation. The uprisings of the ’60s, erupting with volcanic force throughout Black America, sent a loud and clear signal that the time of silence and complacency was at an end. Taking up arms against the racist power structure was a powerful move toward liberating our streets, our cities, our communities, not only for Black Americans in our time but also for those who had come before, and those who would follow.

  Thus, my story, and the stories of so many others, begins not in 1968 but hundreds of years earlier, when the first Black slaves set foot on this sacred land of the red man. Yes, the ashes of our ancestors are long gone, and memories of them have long since dissipated. Yet their struggles, their strength, their courage, and their wisdom, along with their failings and flaws, will always be with us, pushing us, encouraging us, and watching over us as we navigate our way through the life ahead. For most of us whose ancestors were dragged ashore, shackled, bewildered, and despairing, it is difficult to tell where our stories begin or end.

  I know very little of my slave ancestry, and even less about Mariah, a small, bowlegged Black slave woman in Durant, Mississippi, where she lived, toiled, and died thousands of miles away from her ancestral homeland. In 1858, under the old slave laws that did not legally recognize marriage between enslaved people, she married Frank Kimes, a half-Irish and half-Black mulatto man, as he was described by the census. They officially remarried after Emancipation. Mississippi, like most Southern states, was an inhospitable place for most newly freed slaves. Many remained in bondage or worked as indentured servants under the Black Codes, laws enacted after Emancipation by the Southern states to restrict the rig
hts of Black people, keeping them in servitude. Worse developments were to come with the reign of terror under Jim Crow laws, starting the 1870s, which included mandatory segregation, the elimination of the rights to vote and to bear arms, forced imprisonment, and hideous acts of lynching.

  My maternal great-great-grandmother, Emma, one of Mariah’s four daughters, was born August 2, 1868, three years after the end of the Civil War. Emma grew up in a small house in Durant under the watchful eye of Mariah, now a free woman, free to raise her five children according to her own will. When I was a little boy, Emma would tell us stories of her childhood, such as how her mother would sit on the porch and keep an eagle eye on her children as she instructed them in the art of doing laundry. Emma also told us how, when she was a young child, the local Cherokees attempted to kidnap her, thinking she was one of their own because of her long black hair. Emma left home at eighteen to marry Mr. Joseph Ely, who worked as a brakeman for the railroad. Emma worked as a laundress, one of the few occupations available to a Black woman during the late 1800s in Mississippi. In the early 1900s, her husband died a tragic death on the job in a railroad accident. Emma went on to live a very long life, surviving uterine cancer, and she gave birth to eight children, only four of whom lived beyond childhood.

  One of Emma’s surviving girls was Mabel, my great-grandmother, who according to many was very beautiful. Mabel did the unthinkable—she had an affair and became pregnant by a German-Jewish man, Mr. John William Brown. This affair and pregnancy led to her being ostracized from her family and community, and resulted in the birth of a daughter, Willy Joe—my grandmother. Named after her father, later she was raised as “Josephine.” Mabel departed this world far too early, at the age of twenty-three, dying of “consumption,” the earlier name for tuberculosis.