Following the conference, Huey made a move to establish an Ideological Institute for the party leadership, including captains, who by this time were to be called coordinators. Once a week, selected coordinators from around the country would go to Oakland in order to develop a broader, more philosophical approach to thinking. At the institute, we were introduced to the ideas of British Marxist philosopher Maurice Cornforth and his works on dialectical materialism. We learned to look at matter, history, and all other phenomena in dialectical terms. This was an attempt to expand the minds in the party to become deeper, more analytical thinkers and thus better leaders and organizers. We discussed change: the fact that nothing in the universe is permanent except for change, and how, when two contradictory forces collide, a transformation takes place.
A number of comrades were not ready for such heady dialogue. People grumbled, surprised by this development and unsure of their ability to adapt to this new way of thinking. As a matter of fact, it was the party's adaptability that allowed us to grow stronger rather than weaker under the constant government assaults. It was this philosophical approach that would allow us to continue to grow and change and adapt, yet many remained skeptical.
It wasn't long before the old and new began to clash. We all carried a tremendous amount of paranoia. We were always on alert, aware of phones being tapped, of close comrades being fingered as informants and snitchesâpeople we never would have thought of as collaborating with the police. This left lingering doubts and questions.
When Huey came out of prison in May 1970, few original members were left in Oakland. Even his right hand, Chairman Bobby Seale, was locked away in Connecticut. For an introverted personality such as Huey, the paranoia and distrust must have been immense. The party had grown from a small band of friends and neighborhood buddies to a bicoastal organization with thousands of new faces, personalities, and egos. Even before Huey was released, tensions were brewing between the New York chapter and the West Coast leadership. Without Bobby Seale on the scene as Huey's voice of reason, the party was headed for monumental internal struggle. The work of COINTELPRO had further undermined the relationships between party leaders and created distance and suspicion between East and West Coast party leadership. On top of that, the party was slowly dividing into opposite strategies: all-out guerrilla warfare versus a focus on the Survival Programs. The New York chapter leadership was advocating for armed struggle, along with working with the Weatherman (also known as Weather Underground). The official policy of the party was that the people were not ready for guerrilla warfare; they were in need of Survival Programs, and we would use these as tools to organize, educate, and politicize the people.
Over the next several months, these factors and more led to ongoing disputes involving members of the New York chapter and David and June Hilliard. The disputes eventually resulted in the expulsion of the New York 21 while their trial was still under way. Later, Geronimo Pratt, along with twenty members of the party's underground who had been traveling with Geronimo in Texas, were also expelled by the Central Committee.
Hearing of the expulsion of the New York 21 was a blow to morale, as was the loss of any leading party member. But you could not publicly show any sympathy or feelings about the loss, nor would you dare question why someone had been expelled, for fear that your own loyalty to the party could be called into question. Some of the best comrades on the East Coast were among the New York 21, very bright minds and very creative comrades such as Joan Bird, Afeni Shakur, and Michael Tabor, to name just a few. Even knowing about the conflicts, it always felt to me that we had cut off a part of ourselves. Geronimo was also a great loss. When I first met him he was brash and arrogant, without a sense of humility or correctness. After taking the helm of the Southern California chapter, he eventually centered himself and was able to develop a strong defensive strategy for the chapter, as well as directing the fortification of other chapters around the country.
To make matters worse, an issue of the party paper declared Huey “Supreme Commander.” Upon reading that, I got a sick feeling in my gut. This was not the way things were supposed to happen. Huey seemed to be moving to change his image from that of a selfless revolutionary to an all-powerful leader. I fought these feelings and thoughts, putting them away, trying to maintain my belief that the party and Huey knew best, and trying to hold on to my commitment to the struggle. I could only hope that these things would pass.
24
Seattle: Riot 18
Beware, beware of the handshake That hides the snake I'm telling you beware
âThe Temptations, “Smiling Faces Sometimes,” 1971
It was one
of those
perfect early fall Saturday afternoons in Seattle. All the comrades were out in the field, trying to unload the last stack of Panther papers. Poppy had called to say he was making me some barbeque and Mommy was making my favorite apple pie.
Big Malcolm and I had some special work to do that day. We had to take the weapons out for testing, to make sure all the technical equipment was in proper working condition. As we drove Big Malcolm's big green step van through the sunlit woods, we puffed on some hash, marveling at the tall evergreen trees. When we reached our destination, a secluded area with a dirt hill, we climbed out and unloaded the weapons from the van, one by one. We fired ten to twenty rounds from each rifle, taking turns as we went along. Finally, we were left with the Riot 18, a beautiful weapon I had bought in an El Cerrito gun shop near Oakland, the same weapon Big Malcolm had clutched as we prepared for the aborted raid during Valentine's run from the pigs.
“Here, it's yours,” said Malcolm in his deep, gruff voice. He sat down on a stump. I glanced down at my wrist at an expensive, gold-and-jade
watch given to me by Beverly, one of the young prostitutes we had befriended. She had taken it from her pimp and given it to me to show her appreciation for our trying to help her get off the streets. For a moment, I marveled at the glistening gold, jade, and the intricate jewelry work.
As I put the shotgun up to my shoulder, a slight voice whispered on the wind,
Don't fire it from your shoulder
.
I had learned to listen to my inner voice in these uncertain times. Lowering the shotgun to my side, I pulled the trigger. As the firing pin hit the primer in the middle of the shell, a tremendous explosion occurred. Malcolm would say later that the blast had lifted me off the ground as it blew my left arm almost in two. I stood there in unbearable pain, screaming in shock, as I attempted to hold my damaged arm together, blood shooting everywhere, my arm a tangled mess. I looked down. Blood was bubbling and veins, arteries, and bones were sticking up. It was a gory sight and we knew we had to get to a hospital
fast.
Two white teenage boys in a white '69 Ford Mustang had just pulled up to see what was going on. Malcolm commandeered their car, knowing his van would have been too slow and too bumpy on the uneven country road. We hopped in and desperately tried to find a hospital. At one point, we pulled up to a park, where a group of elderly white women were gathered, all dressed in white.
“Do you know where a hospital is?” Big Malcolm frantically asked.
As they looked inside the car at my badly mangled arm, they shrieked in horror, eventually giving us directions to the nearest hospital. We arrived at the one-story, small country hospital, running inside only to find out there was no doctor on duty. My brown corduroy jeans were covered in blood. I immediately demanded the nurse give me a shot of morphine.
“I'm sorry, I can't give you any morphine,” said the black-haired nurse.
“You better give me some fucking morphine now!” I shouted.
Patients and staff poured out into the hallway to see what all the commotion was about. I must have looked pretty crazy with my big Afro, holding my badly injured arm, and blood all over the place. The nurse eventually gave me the morphine and prepared me for the doctor's arrival.
I was taken by ambulance to the University of Washington Medical Center, where I was admitted to surgery. I remember lying there late that night, sedated, trying to figure out what had happened. I could vaguely make out Poppy in the background. As a soldier in many bloody battles in World War II, he had witnessed much worse, but I imagine seeing his son wounded was extremely difficult for him.
I heard the doctor talking to Mommy, telling her he might have to amputate my arm, and my mother saying angrily, “No, you're not going to amputate his arm!” They finally gave me some sodium pentathol, a pain drug used by the Nazis during World War II and CIA in later years. It was called the “truth serum” because it made you want to talk. As the drug's effects began to take hold, I became relaxed and very talkative, finally slipping into unconsciousness. The next morning I woke up, and as I tried to fight the pain, I reluctantly looked over at my bandaged arm, blood seeping through the gauze. The doctor said that had I not smoked the hash beforehand, I probably would have bled to death. The hash had lowered my blood pressure and heart rate, so the heart was pumping less forcefully than usual.
The bones in my left arm had been shattered, and the nerves and arteries almost destroyed. They put a steel rod in my arm and two plates on the wrist to hold it together. The comrades came in with posters of Fred Hampton, Chairman Bobby, and Little Bobby Hutton, turning the room into a Panther den. Later that day, Poppy and Elmer came by. They had taken the shells from my bandolier to a lab to have them tested. The shells had been tampered with. The gunpowder had been taken out and replaced with a high explosive. Similar tactics had been used by the Vietcong against American soldiers who carried shotguns into battle, even though it was against the Geneva Convention to use shotguns in war.
That night I lay in bed in pain, trying to put my finger on who had set me up. Who was the informant? Who was the agent? Who was the pig that participated in this scheme that could have led to my death? When I kept thinking about Big Malcolm and others, I knew it was best to try to put this behind me, not to waste time thinking about who had done this awful deed. There was too much work to do. If anything, this near-tragedy only strengthened my resolve. This was not something I had expected, but in war the unexpected always happens. I could only hope that my arm would someday be okay. After three days in the hospital, I was back at the office with my arm in a cast past my elbow and a sling with some rubber-band gadgets that attempted to keep my fingers straightened. Despite the constant, piercing pain, I could not afford to be away from duty.
Over the next six months, I underwent four operations in an attempt to repair my badly damaged armâskin grafts, a bone graft, and a nerve graft. They took skin from both my thighs to replace the skin of my arm. For the bone graft, which was extremely painful, they took bone from my hip and used it to reconstruct my shattered radius bone. After the surgery any movement or even a slight cough sent immense pain emanating from my hip. I even had to walk with a cane until my hip healed.
The strangest and most terrifying experience was in preparation for the nerve graft. I remember slipping into my hospital bed late that night after going out and drinking with my old friend Mike Dean. The next morning the nurse gave me a shot of something to “relax” me for the procedure. The orderly came up and wheeled me down to the operating room, placing my gurney in a corner until they were ready for me. It seemed that I lay there waiting for a long time. When I decided to ask a question regarding the start of the procedure, to my shock and horror, I realized I could not speak or move. It was unbelievably frightening. I was totally defenseless, and for an enemy of the state, it was about the last situation you wanted to be in. After I had lain there, watching scores of nurses and doctors passing by without acknowledging my existence, and struggling mightily to say something or to catch someone's attention, the orderly reappeared and took me into the operating room. The anaesthesiologist held up a gigantic needle-like contraption and told me he was going to stick the needle into a bundle of nerves in my neck in an attempt to deaden the main nerve leading to my left arm. He must have stuck me four or five times until he gave up on finding the nerve. They wheeled me back up to my room. My face was completely numb but they had been unable to find the nerve to my left arm. Later they made another attempt and succeeded in stitching the nerves back together. The chief physician was a short, bespectacled Austrian man with an accent. He was one of the best orthopedic doctors in the country. I have him to thank for saving my left arm through his innovative surgery.
In the spring, we were contacted by a congressional committee member regarding a hearing that the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was conducting on the Black Panther Party. I sent Elmer to meet with him, and from that meeting, the congressman surmised that Elmer would be a cooperative witness. As a result, Elmer was subpoenaed to Washington, DC.
We contacted National Headquarters to inform them of Elmer's subpoena. John Seale connected Elmer with a party attorney in DC. Elmer flew to DC and spent the night at Panther headquarters. The following day, after meeting with the party attorney, Elmer appeared before Strom Thurmond and the other members of HUAC. After giving his name, Elmer took the Fifth Amendment fifty times, frustrating and angering Strom Thurmond, who banged his fist and yelled after Elmer's every reply according to the attorney's instructions. The hearing went on for months as they investigated other chapters around the country, trying to find reasons to proclaim the Black Panther Party a dangerous and un-American organization.