Panther Baby (5 page)

Th
ere was a Che Guevara poster that hung in the front of the Panther office, with a quote from a speech that Che gave at the United Nations. “At the risk of sounding ridiculous, let me say that revolutionaries are guided by great feelings of love.” Wow, I thought as I read that.
Th
e “love” thing. Pastor Lloyd talked about it in Sunday school and at NAACP Youth Council meetings. Noonie talked about it at home. Dr. King talked about it in his speeches, but love in the Black Panther office? What was that about? “It’s about understanding that being a Panther is about serving the people, mind, body, and soul,” Afeni would teach in political education class. “If you’re here because you hate the oppressor and you don’t have a deep love for the people, then you are a flawed revolutionary.” Hearing these words made me feel less like I was doing Noonie wrong or letting down Pastor Lloyd or my favorite teachers at school.

Being a Panther meant that I was being a real aggressive lover of freedom, and I took this part of the training to heart. “It’s love that makes a Panther get up at five a.m. on a freezing winter morning to travel across town to serve breakfast to kids that are not their own,” I would say in speeches at school and park rallies. “And it’s love that will make a Panther get off the bus on the way home and stand between a cop who has his gun drawn and the black person being arrested, someone he’s never met before.” So I learned to smile while I was being taught to cook pancakes, change diapers, and fix broken windows. I learned to be enthusiastic about asking for donations and giving away the food and clothing that we collected. I learned how to find the energy, even when I was dead tired, to help a senior citizen across the street and up the stairs with her groceries.

Guns were around, but in a drawer or a closet, and not as constant companions to Panthers on duty. Once a week or so there would be weapons safety training and military drill with the purpose of giving young Panthers the skills needed to protect the Panther office or home in the event of an attack or police raid.
Th
ere was a lot of talk in Panther literature and speeches about armed revolution, but it was made clear that the duty of a Panther was to organize and teach so that the political consciousness of the broad masses of people could be raised to the point that they were ready to engage in revolution. We were taught that the revolution could not be fought or won without the people and that if the masses were organized and unified enough that armed struggle might not even be necessary.

Th
at being said and at least partially understood, I couldn’t wait for my chance to fight and if need be to die in the people’s revolution. It’s what young Panthers talked about. Next to the poster of Che was a poster of Panther man-child hero Bobby Hutton, who was the first Panther to join at age fifteen and the first Panther to be killed at age seventeen.

I spent most of my time in the Panther office or engaged in Panther activities. I was a pretty good public speaker, with an ability to adapt the best lines from Rap Brown, Bobby Seale, Malcolm X, and Harlem Panther leaders and to make them sound like my own. I would be in lunchrooms and hallways of high schools around the city organizing students into Black Student Union chapters, a sister group of the Black Panther Party. Older Panther leaders like Lumumba and Afeni took notice of me, and I got promoted to section leader in charge of the youth cadre.

Th
e more I rolled with the Panthers, the more my grades fell off. I went from As to Cs in most of my subjects. “School is irrelevant,” I would shout at high school rallies. “
Th
e struggle is about making progressive change on the university of the streets.”

Not only was my school work falling off, I was also slacking on my home chores. Noonie would have to remind me to take out the garbage, clean the cat litter box, and help her get the groceries home on Saturday morning. She was constantly on me about making up my bed and straightening my room. One day Noonie got tired of getting after me and decided to clean my room herself. As she was changing my sheets she noticed newspapers and magazines hidden between my mattress and box spring.
Th
is is where most normal fifteen-year-old boys hide their
Playboy
magazines, but when Noonie looked at my stash she got much more of an eyeful than pictures of nude girls. It was Black Panther literature.
Th
e artwork of cops depicted as pigs and little black schoolchildren blowing cops’ brains out with guns while shouting, “Power to the people! Death to all fascist pigs!”

When I came in that night, Noonie had my Panther papers, her Bible, and a belt all spread out on the kitchen table, looking like it was an altar prepared for some secret society initiation. “Hi, Noonie,” I said as I headed for the refrigerator. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the “altar.”

“Boy, what is this?” Noonie demanded.

“What is what?” I replied, trying to play dumb.

“All of this.
Th
ese books about killing cops and hating everybody I found in your room.”

“You were going through my stuff?” I said indignantly.

“Don’t even try that,” she said firmly. “I don’t know whether to bless you with this belt or kill you with this Bible, but you better tell me where this nonsense came from.”

I admitted that I had been going to “a few” Panther meetings.
Th
e truth was I had been sneaking off to Panther meetings and activities for about four months now, making up lies about extra activities at school and the Minisink community center to cover my “missions.”

I showed her the Ten-Point Program and tried to explain that their intention wasn’t much different from what she and Pa Baltimore had espoused as part of Marcus Garvey’s movement when they were young. “Oh, it’s much different,” Noonie said. “Mr. Garvey did not preach about hate and guns. And you are not going back to the Panthers ever again. I’ll kill you myself before I let white folks kill you over this foolishness.” With that, the Panther literature was thrown in the garbage and I was sent to my room.

Being the obedient grandson that I was, I went to the Panther office the next day anyway. My intention was to announce my forced retirement from the Black Panther Party and to let my Panther comrades know that I was still part of the movement in spirit and, whenever possible, in deed. “My grandmother is tripping,” I said to Afeni, Lumumba, and Yedwa in front of the Panther office. “She’s an Uncle Tom.”

Afeni practically leaped in my chest. “Don’t you dare talk about your grandmother that way,” Afeni snapped. “She’s just trying to love you and protect you best way she knows how.”

I apologized, realizing that there was a line about elders in the community that not even the Panthers would cross.

“Yedwa, you’re his section leader,” Lumumba said. “Why don’t you talk to his grandmother?”

“Yeah, that’s cool.
Th
at’ll work,” Yedwa said with a smile. “I’m gonna come by your house and rap to your grandma.”

It took a lot of pleading and a few days of doing extra chores around the house to convince Noonie to let Yedwa come by. “You can bring whoever you want to bring,” Noonie finally said, “but I’ve already spoken to the Lord about this and my mind is made up.”

Th
at evening Yedwa showed up to our apartment wearing a leather jacket but without his usual array of Panther buttons. He even had on a shirt and tie. A shirt and tie? I thought. I didn’t even think we were allowed to wear a shirt and tie in the Panthers.

Noonie sat in her favorite chair. Yedwa and I sat on the couch across from her. I was nervous, knees shaking like a man about to go on trial for his life. For the last four months I had walked, talked, and acted like a young badass revolutionary man. Now Noonie was about to sentence me to being a boy again. It was all up to my section leader, mentor, and hero Yedwa. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mother Baltimore. If I didn’t know better I would think you were Jamal’s—excuse me, Eddie’s—older sister.”

“Yes, his much older sister,” Noonie said, smiling slightly.

Yedwa got some points off the bat, not because of the attempted beauty compliment but because he referred to Noonie as Mother Baltimore, a term of respect that Noonie had earned in our church for being a senior congregant and the head of the missionary board.

“Mother Baltimore,” Yedwa continued, “if you say Jamal—excuse me, I mean Eddie—can’t come back to the Black Panther office I have to respect that cuz you’re his grandmother and you’re my elder.”

I winced at the fact that Yedwa was using my slave name Eddie, instead of Jamal. “But ma’am,” he continued, “I know that Eddie is giving you a hard time and if it’s all right with you I still would like to keep an eye on him.” Noonie looked intrigued. I was confused. Why was Yedwa giving up the fight so easily, and what was this stuff about keeping an eye on me? “Ma’am, if you set his curfew for nine o’clock and he is not in the house by eight forty-five I will take off this garrison belt buckle and I’ll whip his butt.”

By then I was really unsure. What the hell was Yedwa talking about? He was supposed to tell Noonie that I’m a revolutionary and that I need to come and go as I please. “Ma’am, I know Eddie can be doing a lot better in school. If you want him to bring you an eighty on his next math test and he doesn’t bring you a ninety, I will take these size fifteen combat boots and I’ll give him a swift kick in the rear.” At this point I was trying desperately to catch Yedwa’s attention. He was making things worse. Yedwa never looked my way. He kept a humble gaze on Noonie.

Noonie nodded her head slowly, leaning back in her chair for a moment. She glanced up at the heavens as she checked in with the Lord. “You know my mind is pretty made up about this,” Noonie said. “Eddie doesn’t have a father and it’s really hard raising a teenage boy alone. But if you’re going to look after him like you said, and make sure that he does better in school, that when he comes in the house he obeys my rules, then he can come by the Panthers a couple of times a week.”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. Yedwa had just moved a mountain and parted the Red Sea.
Th
is was unprecedented. From the time she started taking care of me when I was four to this very moment, Noonie never changed her mind about a punishment decision.

Yedwa stayed for dinner. After home-baked apple pie and hot chocolate, he hugged Noonie like she was his grandmother. Noonie let me go outside to take out the trash and to chat with Yedwa. “
Th
at was cool, brother,” I said admiringly, “the way you laid it down with Noonie was really something.”

“Well, in case you didn’t realize it, I was dead serious. You need to do better in school and you need to stop worrying this woman or I’m gonna be getting in your ass. In the Panther Party we say that we are motivated by our undying love for the people. Isn’t your grandmother part of the people?” Yedwa turned and walked away. I watched him for a few minutes and headed back to our apartment. When I got inside I hugged Noonie and told her that I loved her. For the first time in many tumultuous adolescent months I really meant it.

5

Busted with the Big Cats

A
pril 1, 1969. It was a
Th
ursday night and there was a big rally for the Harlem Five at a public school there.
Th
e Harlem Five was a group of five young black men who were community organizers in the Lincoln projects in the heart of Harlem. Hannibal, Sayid, Wallace, David, and Mustafa were college students and community counselors who preached black nationalism in the spirit of Malcolm X.

Th
ey worked with tenants organizing rent strikes, and they set up after-school programs where kids did homework and learned black history and the martial arts. Because of their efforts, gang violence and drug dealing was reduced to almost zero in the projects. But in 1968 they were arrested and jailed for conspiracy to declare war on the cops. Many people in the community felt they had been framed, and on that April Fool’s night the school auditorium was packed with their supporters.
Th
e Panthers had worked side by side with the Harlem Five on tenants’ rights issues, community safety patrols designed to protect the elderly, and efforts to get to get rid of drugs in the neighborhood. Members of the Harlem Tenants Council, the Republic of New Africa, the Revolutionary Action Movement, and the Black Student Union, along with parents, grandmothers, and neighbors from the projects, were all part of the standing-room-only crowd.

Th
at night’s gathering was more than a political rally—it was a cultural event.
Th
ere were African dancers, a jazz quartet, and a concert by the Last Poets, a group said by many to have invented rap.
Th
eir lyrics and poems performed over jazz riffs, bass licks, and African drum beats were both incendiary and highly entertaining.
Th
e men in the group, Felipe, Abiodun, Kain, and Yusef, were stars of the black movement.

I had heard of the Last Poets, but this was my first time seeing them perform. Since I was sitting with the Black Panther contingent, I had a front-row seat.

Th
e Last Poets were awesome, and listening to their rap poems like “New York, New York” and “When the Revolution Comes” made me feel not only revolutionary but so damn cool. In between the acts, various speakers took the stage to talk about the plight of
th
e Harlem Five. None was more powerful than Lumumba Shakur, the captain and the leader of the Harlem and Bronx branches of the Black Panther Party. “In order to get the Harlem Five back on the streets, brothers and sisters, we may have to take it to the streets. Frederick Douglass said, ‘Power only concedes to power.’ But we have to take the power of the people to the courtrooms, and if they don’t free these brothers, we have to take the courthouse down.” We all cheered and pumped our fists while chanting, “Power to the people. Free the Harlem Five!”

After the rally, a group of fifty Panthers stood in military formation outside the school. I was now a section leader and stood in front of a group of fifteen young Panthers from the Bronx.

Captain Lumumba walked up and inspected our formation. “Looking good, brothers and sisters,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”
Th
en Lumumba waved me over and asked me if I could open the Harlem Panther office on the way to school the next day.

I stuck my chest out and said, “Of course.” He smiled, handed me the keys, and walked off.

Th
is was a great honor, I thought, to be given the trust and responsibility of opening the office. What Lumumba didn’t know was that my school was in the Bronx.
Th
ere was no way I would make it to school on time. What the hell? Playing hooky for the revolution and the Panthers seemed like an easy choice.

By the time I got off my subway stop in the Bronx and jogged home, it was past midnight. I tiptoed in the house and almost made it to my room.
Th
en Noonie opened her bedroom door. “Why you coming in the house so late?”

“
Th
ere was a big rally and then the trains were running late. I didn’t want to call and wake you up.”
Th
e excuses streamed out.

Noonie shook her head. “You think I can sleep when you’re out running the streets?”

“I wasn’t in the street. I told you I was at a rally.”

But Noonie was too frustrated to care about rallies versus streets. “Keep messing up. You hear me? Keep messing up.” And with that she closed her door. I knew I was on thin ice, but I decided to let the situation be. I took a quick shower, slipped on my pajamas, and climbed in bed.

It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when I realized Noonie was shaking me. “What? Okay. I’m getting up. I’m going to school,” I said groggily as I hopped up.

“
Th
ere’s somebody banging on the door,” she said. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.” As my head cleared I heard the doorbell ringing and the sound of pounding on the front door.

“
Th
ere’s a gas leak!” a man’s voice roared from the other side of the door.

“All right, I’m coming,” I yelled as I descended the flight of stairs that led to the door.

“Gas leak,” the muffled voice said again.

I pulled up my droopy pajama bottoms and peered through the peephole.
Th
ere were a dozen or more cops standing there with rifles, shotguns, and bulletproof vests. I stumbled back in shock like someone kicked the air out of my stomach. “
Th
ere’s no gas leak in here,” I said. My adrenaline was pumping as I turned to head back up the stairs. My thoughts raced: Get dressed, you’re half naked and vulnerable. Get to your grandmother and protect her, make a phone call to the Panthers for help, dive out of the second-story back window and run!

Th
e door flew off the hinges as I reached the third step. Cops in SWAT gear tackled me and threw me against the wall. I was blinded by the glare of flashlight they shone in my eyes.

“Eddie Joseph, you’re under arrest,” a cop shouted.

“My name is Jamal,” I replied through clenched teeth.

“
Th
at’s all right,” the cop sneered. “We got a warrant for him too.”
Th
ey clamped on a pair of handcuffs so tightly that they started cutting into my wrists.

Noonie peered over the top of the staircase. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you doing to my son?”

“He’s under arrest,” a detective snapped, “and you stay back!”

“Watch how you talk to my grandmother!”
Th
e anxiety I felt for myself was superseded by the protective love I felt for Noonie. I lurched toward the detective.
Th
e other cops instantly slammed me back into the wall.

“I’m all right, son,” Noonie shouted. “Don’t fight them.” I looked up at Noonie. I could tell she was upset and confused, but her voice and eyes were calm. It helped me to cool down.

Th
e cops took me upstairs to my room and held me at gunpoint while they let me put on a pair of pants and a sweater over my pajamas.
Th
en they recuffed me and asked, “Where are the bombs and the guns?” I knew from the legal-aid classes I took in the Panthers that when dealing with the cops I shouldn’t make any statements, so I said nothing.

Th
ey began turning my room upside down.
Th
ey found a .32-caliber revolver and a military training manual.
Th
is made them tear shit up even more.
Th
en they yanked my Order of the Feather sweater from the closet, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Besides my Panther beret, the sweater was one of my prized possessions. “Don’t step on my sweater, motherfucker,” I said, lurching forward. Again, I was roughly restrained.

“Get him out of here,” the detective barked.

“Call the Panther office, Noonie,” I said as the cops whisked me by her. “Ask for Dhoruba or Lumumba.
Th
ey’ll get me out.”

Dawn was breaking as I was led onto the street in handcuffs. I stopped in my tracks when I saw a dozen cop cars lined up in front of the building. More cops with rifles and combat gear stood poised to attack. My heart fluttered.
Th
ey’re ready to kill me, I thought. If I had leaped out a window, they would have gunned me down like a dog.
Th
e cops shoved me along and placed me in the backseat of an unmarked detective car. Detectives sat on either side of me.

An older detective showed me pictures of various Panthers. First Lumumba Shakur. “Do you know him?”

“No,” I replied.

Next they showed me a photo of Afeni Shakur. “Do you know her?”

“No,” I mumbled.

Th
en they showed me a mug shot of Eldridge Cleaver. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

Th
e detective pointed at Eldridge. “You don’t know Eldridge Cleaver, minister of information of the Black Panther Party?” Now I said nothing.

Th
e detective closed his photo folder and spoke to the uniformed cop behind the wheel. “Let’s go.”
Th
e car pulled out.

I just looked out the window as we raced through the streets, sirens blasting—cop cars in front of and behind us. I was a little shook up, but I was proud too. Being arrested at sixteen or any age for being a Panther was a mark of honor. It meant that you had become enough of a thorn in the system’s side for them to come after you. Typically, it would be a gun charge, disorderly conduct, or a trumped-up robbery charge. You would stay in jail for a few days or a month while the Black Panther Party raised your bail.
Th
en you would come out to a hero’s welcome at the Panther office. Brothers and sisters would applaud and embrace you. You would give a little “struggle continues” speech and then go to a reception at someone’s house complete with home cooked food, Motown on the stereo, and dancing into the wee hours.

As we pulled up to the Tombs (the Manhattan House of Detention), I wondered what I had done to grab the pigs’ attention. Maybe I was being charged with inciting a riot for the Eldridge Cleaver/Rap Brown cloned speech I gave in a high school assembly one day. I got suspended from school for two days after calling the principal a fascist swine. Maybe he reported me to the police. Maybe one of the Uncle Tom students told them about the time my .32 revolver slipped out of my book bag and fell to the floor during the Black Student Association meeting. I took it as a cue to recite a Panther quote: “An unarmed people are subject to slavery at any time” and sheepishly picked up the pistol and put it away.
Th
e Panthers lent me the gun because I had received death threats on the phone and in the mail.
We’re gonna shoot, lynch, and burn your little Black Panther nigger ass,
one note read,
and then we’re gonna kill that black bitch grandmother of yours.

Maybe it was because I was a section leader now, which was the Panthers’ equivalent of being a sergeant.
Th
e
senior
Panthers (the ones who were pushing twenty-four) had taken a real liking to me. I had the responsibility of running the youth cadre (the twenty or so other Panthers in high school), and I was now helping to teach some of the political education classes and technical equipment classes, including military drill, basic hand-to-hand combat, and weapon safety. Once or twice a month there was a rally or a big “central” staff meeting where several hundred Panthers from around the city got together, usually in the auditorium of the Long Island University campus in Brooklyn. Now that I had been arrested, I would be asked to stand and speak at the next central staff meeting. I might even get a Panther girlfriend out of this.

Th
e cops led me to the Manhattan DA’s office. When they walked me into the squad room I saw Brother Dhoruba, one of the top leaders of the New York Panthers. I was overjoyed and impressed. He must have gotten Noonie’s call and dashed down to get me out.

“Right on, brother,” I said as I gave the black-power salute. “You made it down here already.”

“Very funny,” Dhoruba replied as he gave the cop standing next to him his other hand to fingerprint. It hit me then that Dhoruba was under arrest too.

Th
en I looked around and saw a dozen other key New York Panthers in handcuffs or in holding cells. Lumumba Shakur and his wife, Afeni; Joan Bird (a nineteen-year-old nursing student who had been arrested and severely beaten by cops two months earlier); Bob Collier; Dr. Curtis Powell (who had a PhD in biochemistry); Clark Squire (a computer expert); Baba Odinga; Ali Bey Hassan; and the youngest Panther (next to myself), Katara, a high school senior.

Th
e mood was almost festive with the Panthers shouting greetings to one another and taunts at the police. “
Th
is ain’t nothing but pig harassment,” Dhoruba told a detective once we were all placed in a huge holding cell. “Our lawyers are going to have a field day with you.” Everyone seemed confident that this was a giant sweep meant to shake up the New York chapter. “We’ll all be out by the weekend,” said Lumumba. He should know, I thought. He’s already out on bail on three other Panther-related cases.

From my cell I thought I caught a glimpse of Yedwa and of a quiet Panther named Gene Roberts. Gene was his usual quiet, almost mournful, self. Gene was a navy veteran who was a member of the security section. He taught me about handguns and standing post should I ever be given bodyguard detail. We passed the time doing push-ups and joking about the different ploys the cops used to get into our respective homes. Some of the SWAT teams yelled “Fire.” Others used the same gas leak line that was tried on me.

Th
en we were handcuffed, surrounded by cops, and walked through the dark maze of corridors and barred gates that led to the courthouse. We were placed in another large holding cell, and they started taking the others away one by one. I didn’t see anyone return. I wondered, as our numbers dwindled, if they were taking us out to be shot. Finally they came for me. I was led into a courtroom that was filled with Panthers, supporters, cops, court guards, and lawyers. An older man with long hair walked over to me and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Bill Kunstler. I’m your lawyer.”
Th
e cops guided me to the defense table. Bill Kunstler and a young lawyer named Gerald Lefcourt stood on either side of me.