My People Are Rising (30 page)

Big Malcolm and I were just pulling up at this point. We rushed into the office. Within minutes the place was surrounded. Vanetta got on the phone and immediately began calling our emergency list of supporters. Elmer and Valentine broke out the weapons, bulletproof vests, and gas masks, and passed them out. Other comrades took up their assigned positions. Big Malcolm came up to me, a shotgun in his hand. He had squeezed his six foot four, 250-pound frame into one of the snug bulletproof vests, and sweat was pouring down his face, a bit of fear in his eyes.

“Aaron,” he asked, “where do you want me stationed?”

Big Malcolm had more to lose than any of us. He had played professional football for the Buffalo Bills and a Canadian team; he had also earned a master's degree in urban planning, and used his position at a local poverty program to help us get the funding to put as many as fifteen comrades on the payroll. He could have done what some others had done at the first sign of a police attack—disappear, never to be seen or heard from again. But there he was, ready to defend the office.

As more cops showed up, throngs of supporters and people from the community began to gather, protesting the cops' presence. The Black contractors whom we had supported in their fight against the racist construction industry even showed up with their guns in their cars, as did former comrades Chester Northington and John Eichelburger. The popular local DJ from KJR, John L. Scott, arrived on the scene and somehow made his way into the office—and from there he began broadcasting live. The whole situation was beginning to take on a circus atmosphere.

The cops maintained they wanted Valentine for questioning in a purse snatching. We said they could not take him. Valentine and I went outside with flak jackets on, gas masks at our sides, and told the captain Valentine had nothing to do with the alleged purse snatching. The, cops, however, refused to disband, continuing their demands that we turn Valentine over. June Hilliard called from National Headquarters. He had seen the standoff on the news and instructed us to surrender Valentine. We refused. Eventually, John Caughlan, a distinguished, white, longtime leftist attorney in Washington State, negotiated with the cops to let us bring Valentine down for a lineup. Elmer and John Caughlan took Valentine downtown to the lineup room, but the cops never showed.

Once again we were fortunate, but we were also well-prepared. The threat of an impending raid was always with us. Often we'd get a call saying, “We're coming to get you niggers tonight,” and as we prepared for self-defense, some comrade would invariably disappear. The constant pressure and continuous fear took their toll in one form or another. At eighteen and nineteen, most of us thought little about our own deaths. As time passes, though, one slowly begins to acknowledge one's own mortality. Yet, I, as many others, was still far from the idea of surrender, of throwing in the towel. We were all convinced we would not stop until we were either victorious or in the grave. We felt very strongly about having the last laugh, the laugh of victory, and the last hurrah.

22

Day-to-Day Survival

You got no money, and you, you got no home Spinning wheel all alone Talking about your troubles and you, you never learn

Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel turn

—Blood, Sweat & Tears, “Spinning Wheel,” 1969

In Seattle the summer of 1970
, things were a lot quieter than the year before. With the passing of the gun ordinance in Washington State and the launching of the Survival Programs, we were no longer carrying our weapons out in the open.

The Vietnam War had created a weak economy at home. Unemployment was high, prices had increased, social service programs and school budgets had been cut, and, as a result, many families were having difficulty making ends meet. In response, the Black Panther Party had launched the Survival Programs, intended to support, uplift, and educate the downtrodden and the working poor. We were assisting them during their time of need with the hope that they would join in the struggle to create a new America, one that would provide free medical care, eliminate hunger, educate each child equally, and put an end to all forms of discrimination. We now focused our attention on organizing the community, feeding hungry kids breakfast, and implementing the other programs.

The Survival Programs—Free Breakfast for School Children, the free medical clinics, Busing to Prisons, Free Food, Free Shoes and Clothing, and others to come—were simple, basic concepts that came mostly from rank-and-file members deeply embedded in the communities they had grown up in and now organized. These programs were the perfect vehicle for the party to address the concrete, immediate needs of the people. They were also a prime example of how the party put into practice our main philosophy, as described by Huey: Power is the ability to define a phenomenon and make that phenomenon act in a desired manner. In other words, we were able to define all the tools of oppression that besieged our communities, then transform those oppressions to the benefit of our communities. That's what the Survival Programs were about, as was just about everything we did—transforming a problem into a solution that we created and controlled.

Our community work continued to expand as we developed more programs, such as the Liberation School, the first summer program for children of the working poor. There was also an Ambulance Program that operated in New York and Winston-Salem, North Carolina, providing emergency transportation. We were now constantly working on behalf of the people.

In Seattle, we eventually moved the medical clinic out of the office to a separate building where we could serve more people. Under the leadership of Dr. John Green and Valentine, the Sidney Miller People's Free Medical Clinic was operating at a high level, focusing largely on community outreach and preventative medicine, which was not a mainstream medical practice at the time. Our first big project was the Well Baby Clinic. We wanted to address the needs of the most vulnerable members of the community, so we started with the babies and young children. Two nights a week, a pediatrician, Dr. Holzenburg, and two volunteer nurses checked babies for weight and general well-being, and the staff gave out vitamins, baby formula, diapers, and other necessities for ensuring a baby's health. Dr. Green and Dr. Holzenburg hustled up many of the supplies from the university hospital. We arranged for BSU members from the UW to give rides to patients without transportation, and the BSU members also did outreach to residents of Seattle's South End.

The second major project was sickle cell anemia testing.
The Black Panther
had reported an investigative story concerning sickle cell anemia, an inherited blood ailment predominantly affecting Black people. Most of us had never even heard of this disease. In sickle cell anemia, the body's red blood cells become malformed—shaped like a sickle instead of like a donut—and cannot deliver enough oxygen to the body's tissues. This can cause intense pain and fatigue, with severe complications, such as skin ulcerations, blindness, stroke, and, if left untreated, eventual organ failure and death. Through free clinics, the Black Panther Party began a nationwide campaign to test for sickle cell anemia and fundraise for a cure.

In Seattle, we undertook a massive testing operation at Walla Walla State Penitentiary. Valentine met with a friend and supporter of the party, a wealthy, prominent, Jewish attorney, and asked him if he could help us get into Walla Walla. This friend of the party had connections in the Washington State attorney general's office and had helped us on a number of occasions. He wrote a letter to the warden on behalf of the Sidney Miller People's Free Medical Clinic, and several weeks later, we were approved for mass testing for sickle cell anemia. The doctor who worked with us on the testing was a geneticist and Greek WWII freedom fighter by the name of George Stamatoyannopoulos. He trained Valentine in the use of an electrophoresis machine, which was able to determine from a blood sample if a person had the sickle cell disease or was a carrier. The electrophoresis technique allowed us to test many more patients than conventional blood testing equipment would have. We were fortunate that Beckman Medical Supplies donated two electrophoresis machines and an x-ray machine to the clinic.

In February 1971, we did our first mass testing at Walla Walla State Penitentiary. The warden was shocked to see that most members of the medical staff were not just Black but also Black Panther Party members. The trip to Walla Walla was a complete success: we ended up testing 278 Black prisoners and gave out two hundred copies of
The Black Panther
. Valentine was also able to take photos of inmates in the infirmary who had bedsores due to inadequate medical care, in order to advocate for improving conditions. Walla Walla State Penitentiary was the first site ever to conduct mass testing for sickle cell anemia.

Valentine also recruited a beautiful sister, Rosita Holland, to work in the medical cadre. She was a dead ringer for Angela Davis. Valentine and Rosita made a very good team, recruiting and training a cadre of medical workers who traveled to prisons throughout the state to test for sickle cell. Valentine later was able to share the electrophoresis technique with the party clinic in Berkeley.

Our prison work was a vital part of our Survival Programs. We viewed the prison population as a potential force in assisting us with the revolution. We saw promise in the inmate who was a victim of circumstances and American racism. No one fit that bill like Comrade George Jackson, arrested and sent to prison at seventeen as a result of a gas station robbery. Handed an indeterminate sentence, with dim prospects of release, he went on to become the premier political prisoner in America. Through his organizing of Black inmates and reaching out to Latino and white racist inmates as well, he soon posed a major threat to the prison system. In 1970, George Jackson and two other Black inmates were accused of murdering a security guard who had shot and killed three inmates. The accused became known as the Soledad Brothers, and their cause inspired support from activists around the world. George Jackson's book,
Soledad Brother
, a collection of letters to his younger brother, Jonathan, became an international sensation that catapulted George to the world stage and led to his being appointed by Huey to the office of field marshal in the Black Panther Party. George Jackson had a tremendous impact on the prison rights movement and helped build support for prison reform.

On a day-to-day basis in the community, we often received pleas for help from upset mothers concerning their teenaged daughters and the pimps in the area. The Seattle-Tacoma region boasted Fort Lewis, one of the largest military installations on the West Coast, two air force bases, and several naval bases, all of which contributed to the big business of prostitution. Elmer and I knew a number of the young girls who stood on the corners, soliciting. We had grown up with them, attended school with them. Whenever we saw any of the underage sisters down on the “Ho Stro,” where the prostitutes strolled on Yesler Street, we sent them home. And, because our community center was near the Ho Stro, many of the prostitutes took refuge in our office when the police came down on them. Sometimes, at the request of mothers, we went out in search of their daughters on the streets of Seattle or at pimps' houses; on occasion pimps kidnapped young women and sent them to Utah to “break them in.”

One day a couple of the comrade sisters came in from selling papers and told us they had been harassed by some pimps, so we sent a squad to the apartment where the pimps lived. The comrades broke down the door and administered some revolutionary justice. About a week later, we held a fundraising dance to benefit the medical clinic. Toward the end of the event, Elmer, Anthony, Jake Fidler, and Valentine were doing a security check of the perimeter when Valentine spotted a young girl sitting in a gold Cadillac, crying, while a pimp with a big floppy hat sat at the wheel. Valentine leaned in and asked the girl what was wrong. He got into the car as she scooted over.

“He won't let me leave,” she said quietly.

“You want to leave, you can leave,” responded Valentine. “He won't do nothing—watch,” Valentine said, taking out his knife and beginning to slice up the leather interior of the car.

The pimp showed no reaction because Elmer, on the other side, had a 9mm pointed at his head. Valentine took the young girl home to her mother.

The next day, five Cadillacs of various colors pulled up to the community center. James Redman, Valentine, and I met them as they pulled up. We exchanged words as they voiced their anger at our interventions. I advised them to look up at the office windows, where they saw some heavy artillery looking down upon them. They took off. Shortly afterward, the troublesome pimps moved to Tacoma. 

In addition to strengthening our ties with the community, we also worked to solidify our relationships with other organizations. The Communist Party in Seattle had helped us fortify the office, and our two organizations came together to develop a secret underground passage to Canada for revolutionaries or draft dodgers needing to get out of the country. It consisted of safe houses on both sides of the border, drivers to take the refugees to the designated location, and a contact to take them across the border. Using this passage, we managed to smuggle several draft dodgers into Canada. It was a great safety valve that we never had to use for BPP members.

Most of us in the party lived communally, pooling our resources and money from paper sales to pay for rent, feed ourselves, and meet other needs. After Elmer and I put our last university financial aid checks toward the fortification of the office, we also bought two .30-caliber assault carbines, which we spray-painted black, carving our initials into the stock along with the words “All Power to the People.”