Assata: An Autobiography (31 page)

I put the child care thing together. Two weeks came and went, but there was no invasion.

In addition, a lot of things were going on that i was not too happy about. Plans, priorities, and procedures changed daily, and most of the time the changes were ill-conceived. Everything had an arbitrary air to it, and i certainly did not have the feeling that we were waging a step-by-step analytical struggle. There was little internal conflict in either the Harlem branch or the New York Chapter. For the most part Panthers were a friendly, open group of people who really went out of their way to be kind and helpful and, in spite of all the pressure and hardships they had to deal with, managed to be principled and to fight as hard as they knew how for our people. We had a bit of a leadership problem with Robert Bey and Jolly, who were both from the West Coast. Bey's problem was that he was none too bright and that he had an aggressive, even belligerent, way of talking and dealing with people. jolly's problem was that he was Robert Bey's shadow. Bey later became Huey Newton's bodyguard, a job for which he was much more suited.

Cotton had come to Harlem from California. Everybody loved him. He was everybody's main man. He had known Bunchy Carter, Lil Bobby Hutton, the chief (David Hilliard), and, of course, the rage (Eldridge Cleaver). Cotton had been sent to New York and put in charge of fixing up the brownstone the Party had bought on 127th Street. According to the grapevine, Huey wanted to move BPP headquarters to New York and Cotton was to prepare the security for the house. He used to mosey over to the Harlem office with a bottle of cheap pluck in his back pocket and tell war stories. He would sip his wine and talk about what had gone down on the coast.

The first time i went over to inspect the 127th Street house, Cotton gave me a guided tour. He explained the whole futuristic security plan. He was going to hook up the security system so that if so much as a foot was put on the front steps of the building an alarm would alert the security officer inside. If it was the pigs, huge floodlights would be turned on, blinding them. Thick metal doors would glide into place and a lot of other fantastic things would happen that i don't remember. I kept my mouth shut because i knew absolutely nothing about security, but i silently wondered why he didn't put in stuff that was more conventional, like a closed-circuit TV. I had a special interest in the building since the ground floor and the basement were designated to be the free health clinic. At the time, the basement was a disaster, with no plumbing, no heat, no electricity, and a mountain load of bricks, powder, and debris. Cotton assured me that the basement would be fixed up within six months.

Next he showed me Huey's room. It was the only room in the house somewhat fixed up. He had put up wooden paneling. There was a small table and a single bed which, he carefully explained to me, was made up in military style, ready at all times for the minister. I looked at him like he was crazy. Of all the things i could imagine Huey doing, sleeping in that freezing house on that Spar tan bed was not one of them. Cotton talked about Huey with this eerie reverence that made me sick. And it sounded sure enough weird, how Cotton talked about the minister's bed.

I visited the house on 127th Street many times over the next few months. Hard as i tried, i could not find one shred of progress. I came to the conclusion that Cotton was a big mouth and a drunk. But everybody kept telling me how hard he was working, so i figured he was working on something secret they had obviously decided not to tell me about.

During one of my trips to the house, Cotton's assistant told me he didn't feel well. I made an appointment with the doctor and called to tell him the time. A few days later, when i came into the office, everyone looked at me like i had committed some crime against the people.

"What's wrong?" i asked.

"Cotton says that the brother who works for him is sick and that you refused to do anything for him."

"What?" I was completely surprised. "That's not true." "Cotton says that's what happened."
Fired up mad, i tried to get Cotton on the phone, but it was

out of order. It took me several days to get the thing straight, but finally the assistant confirmed that i had made the doctor's appointment for him but that he had neglected to keep it and had gone home instead. I tried to figure out why Cotton had made such a fuss. The only conclusion i could come to is that he was annoyed with me because i kept pushing him to get the clinic in order.

Several years later, after the Freedom of Information Act was passed, it was revealed that Cotton had been working undercover for the police.

Things seemed to be going from bad to worse. Although there wasn't much dissension in the New York branch, there was beau coup dissension and disunity on the national level. Every other weekend somebody was going out to the West Coast to deal with "contradictions." Everybody was uptight and miserable. And then everything started to happen at once. First there was an article stating that Huey was living in a $650-a-month apartment in Oakland. The Harlem branch was shocked because, in those days, that was a whole lot of rent and it contrasted sharply with the living conditions of the Panthers in New York. Panthers who owned little more than the clothes on their backs were out in the street in the freezing cold weather selling papers, with big pieces of cardboard in their shoes and with flimsy jackets that did nothing to hold back the hawk. The party issued a statement that Huey was living in the apartment for "security purposes," but a lot of Panthers were not at all convinced. I wanted to believe the security story, but it didn't fit my sense of logic. Then came the long series of expulsions, which proved to be the last straw.

Many long-standing, loyal Panthers were being expelled by Huey. One of the first to go in Huey's private purge was Geronimo Elmer Pratt. Geronimo was widely respected, somewhat of a Panther folk hero. When i heard about it, the first thing i did was go to someone who would know and try to find out the real deal. Although paranoid and upset, the person broke down the story to me, just enough to let me know the expulsion was probably unjust. I couldn't imagine Geronimo being an enemy of the people, any more than i could imagine myself being one. Then came the expulsions of the Panther 21, supposedly for writing an open letter to the Weathermen that was somewhat critical of BPP policies. I had read the letter and could find nothing in it to merit such extreme action, especially since it might prove prejudicial to their ongoing trial. I was becoming more and more critical of what was going on in the Party, but i loved it nevertheless and wanted to see it functioning on the right track.

For the first time i questioned whether i could continue within the Party. Almost every project i was working on was frustrated and barely able to get off the ground. The Saturday liberation school, the free health clinic, and a lot of the student work were all on hold. I felt frustrated and a bit demoralized. This Party was a lot different from the Blank Panther Party i had fallen in love with. Gone were the black berets and leather jackets (because of police harassment, Panthers had been ordered not to wear the uniform, except for special occasions). Gone were the Panther marches, the Panther songs. Gone were the "Free Huey," "Free Bobby" songs sung to the tune of "Wade in the Water." Gone were the big Panther buttons and big Panther flags flapping in the wind. Everything felt different. The easy, friendly openness had been replaced by fear and paranoia. The beautiful revolutionary creativity i had loved so much was gone. And replaced by dogmatic stagnation.

It was around this time that Zayd and i had our big falling out. I had made a list of the criticisms of the Party, along with a list of things i thought were positive and a lot of suggestions i thought might correct some of the problems the Party was facing. I called Zayd and told him i needed to talk to him. When he arrived, i bared my heart and soul to him. I must have talked for a good two or three hours, raising all of the political and tactical concerns i had. Zayd listened to everything i said without taking any position one way or the other. Then he told me he had to leave and would talk to me another time. I was furious. I felt he was acting in his role as "leadership" and using our friendship to gain information about how i thought, to gauge the level of dissension within the ranks. Throughout my days in the Party i've always been outspoken and blunt. Zayd and i had always been frank with each other, and i interpreted his silence as a declaration that he supported and de fended policies i considered unprincipled and politically incorrect. After that, we didn't see or speak to each other for a long time. I had no way of knowing the thin tightrope he was walking or the pressure he was under.

Zayd was acting as peacemaker between Huey and the Panther 21, furiously trying to get Huey to rescind his expulsion order. Zayd felt that to take any position in reference to problems within the Party might jeopardize his role and result in dire consequences for the Panther 21. Cetewayo and Dhoruba, who had not been expelled because they were out on bail and had not signed the letter, were also attempting to get the Panther 21 reinstated. They were under a lot of pressure from both sides. Huey wanted them to support the expulsion and the expelled Panthers wanted them to criticize Huey's actions. Like Zayd, Cet and Dhoruba honestly believed they could straighten out the madness. And were it not for the FBI, they probably could have. Nobody back then had ever heard of the counterintelligence program (COINTELPRO) set up by the FBI. Nobody could possibly have known that the FBI had sent a phony letter to Eldridge Cleaver in Algiers, "signed" by the

Panther 21, criticizing Huey Newton's leadership. No one could have known that the FBI had sent a letter to Huey's brother saying the New York Panthers were plotting to kill him. No one could have known that the FBI's COINTELPRO was attempting to destroy the Black Panther Party in particular and the Black Liberation Movement in general, using divide-and-conquer tactics. The FBI's COINTEL program consisted of turning members of organizations against each other, pitting one Black organization against another. Huey ended up suspending Cet and Dhoruba from the Party, branded them as "enemies of the people," and caused them to go into hiding, in fear for their very lives. No one had the slightest idea that this whole scenario was carefully manipulated and orchestrated by the FBI.

When they brought the Black Panther newspaper to the office, the one that branded Dhoruba, Cet, and Cet's wife, Connie Matt thews Tabor, as enemies of the people, i refused to sell it and attacked it as an outright lie. I had been so outspoken about my criticisms that i knew it was just a matter of time before i, too, would be expelled. Sick and disgusted, i decided it was time for me to leave the Party.

Most of the Panthers understood why i left, and i stayed on good terms with them. They would call me and ask if they could drop by or sleep over at my crib. Almost daily i got a blow-by-blow description of what was going on in the Party. The tension had increased even more, the differences between the New York cadre and the West Coast leadership growing even wider. I tried to stress to the comrades what i saw to be the importance of everybody sitting down and resolving their differences. No such thing occurred. In fact, a group came to my house jumping for joy. They had split from the West Coast leadership. It really saddened me that they had not been able to sit down together and mend their differences.

After i left the Party, my life became more and more impossible. Everywhere i went it seemed like i would turn around to find two detectives following behind me. I would look out my window and there, in the middle of Harlem, in front of my house, would be two white men sitting and reading the newspaper. I was scared to death to talk in my own house. When i wanted to say something that was not public information i turned the record player up real loud so that the buggers would have a hard time hearing. It was so weird. I still hadn't received a telephone bill and months had gone by since i'd paid the last one, yet the telephone was always working.

Strange people visited my neighbors, asking questions. I hated to move from my apartment because the rent was so cheap. I was paying something like $65 a month and, if you could get used to the fifth-floor walkup, it wasn't at all bad. It was one of those rent controlled buildings right across the street from City College, where i was enrolled. I had no choice but to leave. It was impossible to live amid all those bugging devices. I decided to donate the apartment to the Panthers and look for somewhere else to live, and to spend time with some friends, passing a few days here and a few days there, until i found another place.

One day, as i was zipping up the avenue, on my way home, a friend called me over.

"What's up?" i asked.

"Don't go home.”

"What do you mean, don't go home?”

"Your place is crawling with pigs. They're waiting for you.”

I walked around for a while, trying to get my head together.

What could they do to me if i went home? I hadn't done anything. I thought about the Panther 21. They hadn't done anything either. Anyway, they can do anything they want. I thought about my crib. Maybe they had been taping my voice and hooking up pieces of conversation to make it seem like there was a conspiracy to do something. Maybe they would charge me with harboring a fugitive or with conspiracy to harbor a fugitive. Everybody said they were tailing me so tough because they thought i would lead them to Cet, Dhoruba, or some other comrade that had been forced into hiding. Maybe they would try to interrogate me, beat and torture me until i signed some phony confession or something. I decided one thing right then and there. I definitely wasn't going home, and i definitely wasn't answering anybody's questions about anything. I thought of going to Evelyn's but i figured that as soon as i showed, the pigs would be there waiting for me. I decided the best thing i could do was lay low until i found out what was going on and could come to some decision.

My initial image of the under ground was pure fantasy. When Zayd talked about the underground i actually pictured people in some base ment, passing through some hidden bookcase door and disappearing into thin air. I had pictured all kinds of elaborate "I Spy" kinds of hookups, outrageous disguises, false panels, stuff right out of "Mission: Impossible." I was shocked when i ran into a brother i knew in a supermarket. I knew the pigs were looking for him. He had shaved all the hair off his face, but he looked almost the same. I had to catch myself to keep from calling out to him. I just kept walking, feeling that, somehow, seeing me would make him nervous. Even though i had always thought that someday i'd probably be involved in clandestine struggle, i had never given any serious thoughts to going under ground. I had, more or less, thought of a clandestine struggle in terms of leading a double life. I thought the ideal way to struggle was to have a regular job or whatever as a front and then go out at night or when ever and do what needed to be done, careful to leave no trails. I still think that is the best way, but you have to anticipate being discovered and be prepared for whatever might happen.

At the end of the sixties or the beginning of the seventies, it seemed like people were going under ground left and right. Every other week i was hearing about somebody disappearing. Police repression had come down so hard on the Black movement that it seemed as if the entire Black community was on the FBI's Most Wanted list. The repression had come down so fast that many people had no chance whatsoever to get organized. I was kind of in limbo, slipping back and forth between above and below. As far as i could tell, i was only wanted for questioning. I hadn't done anything and i didn't feel that the situation was too grave. I had to be discreet and change some of my habits, but i felt relatively free to move around aboveground and underground without too much problem. I had no intentions of answering anybody's questions, and so i figured i'd just lay low until the heat was over.

There were so many things that needed to be done. Basically, i was working with the railroad (support network) stations, trying to find the basic necessities for people and trying to help them get to where they wanted to go. It was a job that required real caution and a lot of concentration on detail. Over a short period of time, i found that my powers of observation had increased many times over. I had to keep my eyes on everything that was going on, looking ahead and, at the same time, glancing over my shoulder. The work was interesting and well suited to my restless, active temperament. But i found it kind of hard to change my way of relating to people. I had always been open and trusting and i was finding it really hard to change. It took my almost getting killed for me to develop a more suspicious nature.

I was running into quite a few people, some of whom i knew and others whom i didn't: different collectives, members of different organizations, from different parts of the country. I was surprised at how disorganized many people were, and i was all for seeing them organize themselves in a much more disciplined manner. I was straining to understand some of the things i saw, but people were moving so fast it was hard to keep track of what they were dong. The whole situation was new to me and i guess all of us were trying to make heads or tails out of it, trying to get a good grip on what was happening and where we fit into it.

I had heard it on the radio, had seen some of the reports on lV. My reaction was WOW! The tables were turning. As many Black people as the New York Police Department murdered every year, someone was finally paying them back. The media were filled with countless adjectives: senseless, brutal, vicious, deadly, bloody, etc. On May 19, Malcolm X's birthday, two police had been machine-gunned on Riverside Drive. I felt sorry for their families, sorry for their children, but i was relieved to see that somebody else besides Black folks and Puerto Ricans and Chicanos was being shot at. I was sick and tired of us being the only victims, and i didn't care who knew it. As far as i was concerned, the police in the Black communities were nothing but a foreign, occupying army, beating, torturing, and murdering people at whim and without restraint. I despise violence, but i despise it even more when it's one-sided and used to oppress and repress poor people. But i was still in a state of shock, the shit was so real. I mean, it was happening. Somebody was doing what the rest of us merely had fantasies about.

I had an early morning meeting. My friend went to the corner to pick up the papers and something to munch on. He came back, all excited.

"Look at this, sister. I think you should look at this."

"I don't want to look at anything right now. I want something to eat. What did you buy to eat?"

"This is serious, sister. Will you come over and look at this?"

"Man, i don't wanna read no paper, i'm starving," i said. Nevertheless, i went over and picked up the papers. "Oh shit. Oh shit!" was the only thing that would come out of my mouth. Hungrily, i read every word of the article. I stared down at my picture on the front page of the Daily News. The paper said i was wanted for questioning in relation to the machine-gunning. "Shit!" I walked aimlessly around in circles. I couldn't believe it, but i was looking at it.

"You've got to get out of here, sister," my friend said.

"Where am i supposed to go?”

"I don't know, but we've got to get you out of here. Maybe you can go and hook up with the people.”

I knew that i had to hook up with some people in the underground, but this was no time to go around hunting for people. Strangely enough, i felt calm and i wanted to stay that way. I asked my friend to go and get me a wig and some other things to enable me to move around a little bit. While he went to get the things i needed, i went though my address book and made mental notes of the people who the pigs could easily trace me to. I had to stifle the desire to call my mother and tell her that, at least for the moment, i was relatively safe and that i loved her.

Once i got out into the street, i could feel the tension in my body. I walked down the street searching for signs on people's faces. I walked a few blocks before i realized that not a soul in the world was paying me any mind. I heard some feet running behind me and swung around, only to find it was a bunch of children. I had planned to go to my girlfriend's house and decided i'd still head that way. She lived alone, in a quiet neighborhood, and i knew that it would be damn near impossible for anyone to trace me to her. Her life consisted almost completely of working and going to school at night.

I was a little nervous when i got to her door. Maybe i was doing the wrong thing, getting her hooked into all of this. Maybe she would be angry at me for coming at all. I decided that i wouldn't stay. I would just stop by to explain to her why i was late and to tell her good-bye. She answered the door with a towel wrapped around her head.

"What the hell took you so long?"

How did i begin? A funny thing happened to me on the way to your house? "There's something i've got to tell you," i began. "I just stopped by to say good-bye. The police are looking for me. My picture is plastered all over the Daily News. I don't believe this is happening, but it is."

"I know. I know," she told me. "What I want to know is, what took you so long to get here?"

I stared at her, completely surprised. I didn't understand. If she knew what happened, why was she expecting me? "I just dropped by for a minute to let you know what happened and to let you know that i'm okay."

"Are you okay?”

I told her that i was.

"Where are you going?”

I told her that i was going to try to hook up with some people i knew.

"Where do you have to go? Do you have any money? Do you know how to contact these people? Do you need any help?”

I told her that i had just found out what was happening and that i was just going to have to play it by ear, slipping and sliding for a while until i could make contact.

"Girl, are you crazy? You militants ain't got no sense! Would you take that shit off your head and sit down so I can talk to you!" She always referred to me and my comrades as "you militants." She was a militant too, but at the moment she was not active, not out on Front Street, as she called it.

"Do you have this address written down anywhere or this phone number?"

"No, nobody even knows who you are or that we even know each other." Luckily, i had never made a habit of writing too much down, and since things had gotten so hot, i had put most of the numbers that i had for contacts in code. I knew all of my friend's numbers by heart, so that was no problem. I had never even called her from the 138th Street phone at my last place. I told her that as far as i knew there was no way i could be traced to her.

"Then relax, fool. It don't make no sense for you to be out there in the street moving around right now. You've got to relax and get your head together.”

"Look," i told her. "I don't want to impose on you. This is my thing, not yours, and i don't want to involve you in my stuff."

"Woman, will you please shut up? This ain't your thing, this is our thing. You done involved me in it already, and if I didn't want to be bothered, I wouldn't have opened my door. I'm your friend and I trust you and love you. I'll hide you out any old time. Where did you think you were gonna hide out, anyway? On the moon?" I stared at her in amazement. I had never really known her. A real sister. Tough, critical, a bit too cynical, but a real stand-up woman.

"Here," she said, handing me a knife and some onions and potatoes, "make yourself useful. Even y'all militants got to eat.”

I just sat there grinning. Grinning and peeling potatoes. Talk ing and feeling really at home.

It's early in the morning. I have to move. The move has got to be made with care since my picture has just been plastered all over the newspapers. Wanted posters of me are everywhere, and somebody had told me that the police have a photograph of me in the space over the glove compartments of their cars. Carefully, i arrange my disguise. It has been designed not to stand out, something that will help me blend in with the other people who will be on the subway early in the morning. I stare at myself in the mirror, debating whether to look like a secretary or a maid. It's too early in the morning for secretaries. I decide to look like a poor Black woman. Thick, ugly stockings, run-over black oxfords, beat-up plastic pocketbook, hand-me-down-looking plaid jacket, and, of course, lord-have-mercy-looking wig. My puffy morning face, smudged with a dab of awkward-looking eyebrow pencil and lipstick, are perfect for the look.

I walk down to the subway, stopping to buy the paper. I stand on the platform waiting for the train. I thumb the news papers, making sure that no familiar photographs appear. I skim the headlines to find the usual assortment of right-wing half-lies, distortions, and scandal stories. The headlines, as usual, are offensive: "Commies Land in Outer Space." "Cops Nab Lightbulb Bandit." "Hubby Ties Knot with Country Gal." Finally, the train comes. I scan the cars as they pass, looking for the transit cop. Seeing none, i move toward the front of the train. I plop down in a vacant seat and immediately stick my head into the newspaper. Carefully, i look around to see who is riding in the car with me. In an instant i'm reproaching myself for leaving too early in the morning. I have an eerie feeling that something is wrong, but i can't put my finger on it. The subway car has a twilight zone air to it. With the exception of a few white men who look like they are going to factory jobs, the rest are Black women. One has on a nurse's uniform, another looks like she is going to church, hat and all, and the rest of them look more or less like me. I keep staring at. them. And it registers. Without one exception, every one of these sisters is wearing a wig. It feels so spooky. I am hiding my beautiful, nappy hair under this wig and hating it, hiding my stuff to save my life. I, who have had to give up my headwraps and my big, beaded earrings, my dungaree jackets, my red, black, and green poncho, and my long African dresses in order to struggle on another level, look out from under my wig at my sisters. Maybe we are all running and hiding. Maybe we are all running from something, all living a clandestine existence. Surely we are all being oppressed and persecuted. I imagine the headlines: "Nigger Woman Nabbed for Nappy Hair." "Afro Gal Has Tangled Hair." "Militant Mom Bares All." It is really too much to comprehend. Such horrible things have been done to us. A whole generation of Black women hiding out under dead white people's hair. I have the urge to cry, but i don't. It would draw attention. I keep from getting up until my stop comes. I pray and struggle for the day when we can all come out from under these wigs.

CURRENT EVENTS

i understand that i am
slightly out of fashion.
The in-crowd wants no part of me.

Someone said that i am too sixties
Black.
Someone else told me i had failed to mellow.

It is true i have not
straightened back my hair.
Nor rediscovered maybelline.
And it is also true
that i still like African things,
like statues and dresses
and PEOPLE.

And it is also true
that struggle is foremost in my mind.
And i still rap about discipline-
my anger has not run away.

And i still can't stand ole
el dorado.
And i still can't dig no
one and one.
And i still don't dig no
roka fellas.
And i call a pig a pig.
And a party, to my thinking,
happens only once in a while.

Anyway, i'm really kind of happy
being slightly out of style.