Panther Baby Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jamal Joseph
Tags: United States, General, Historical, History, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, State & Local, Cultural Heritage, Middle Atlantic (DC; DE; MD; NJ; NY; PA), New England (CT; MA; ME; NH; RI; VT)
attitude.
Nobody wanted to play after that. So Roger and I walked across the road to my auntie’s house. I hung around the porch, hoping to see Betty, until my aunt called us in for lunch. As we were eating sandwiches, a car and a pickup truck pulled up in front of the house and six tough-looking white men got out. My aunt went out to meet them. Th e white men seemed angry; my aunt seemed nervous. Roger and I peeked through the front door. Aunt Cleo saw me and called for me to come out of the house. As I walked to Aunt Cleo I saw Dale standing with the white men. “You hit this boy while y’all was playing ball?” Aunt Cleo said angrily. “Apologize right now!”
“But he called me names,” I protested.
Aunt Cleo grabbed my arm and shook me. “Apologize or I’ll beat the tan off you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Dale. “I didn’t mean it.” Dale nodded. Th e other white men looked stern.
“Go back in the house,” Aunt Cleo ordered.
I went inside and picked at the remainder of my lunch. Th rough the kitchen window I saw the white men’s car and pickup truck pull away. Aunt Cleo was in the kitchen a moment later. “I’m putting you on the bus today. You’re about to get yourself killed down here. Th em were the Ku Klux Klan,” she said, wringing her hands. “Dale is the Grand Dragon’s son.”
Within two hours my suitcase was packed and I was standing by the roadside Greyhound bus stop near my auntie’s house. Th e bus came. My aunt and my cousins hugged me and I got on. As the bus pulled off I saw Betty walking down the road. I knocked on the window. She smiled and waved. Damn, I thought as the bus headed up the highway, the South is crazy.
3
Finding the Panther Lair
I walked into a Panther office in Brooklyn in September 1968. Dr. King had been assassinated in April of that year. Riots and anger flared in ghettos around the country. The feeling on the street was that the shit was about to hit the fan. “Black power” was the phrase of the day, and hating “whitey” was the hip thing to do. From street corner speeches to campus rallies, whitey had gone from being “the Man” to being “the Beast.” Young black students were trading in their feel-good Motown Records for the recorded speeches of Malcolm X and the angry jazz recordings of Ornette Coleman.
I went down to 125th Street in Harlem the night that Dr. King was assassinated. Protesters and rioters swarmed the streets, clashing with cops, overturning cars, setting trash can fires, and hurling bricks at white-owned businesses. One of the storefront windows was shattered by an airborne trash can. Looters ran into the store and started taking clothes, appliances, and whatever else they could carry.
Not everyone looted—in fact, most of the crowd continued to chant “ Th e king is dead” and “Black power”—but it was enough for the cops to start swinging clubs, shooting their pistols, and making arrests. A cop grabbed me and threw me against the wall. Before he could handcuff me and put me in the paddy wagon, a group of rioters across the street turned a police car over. Th e cop told me to stay put and ran toward the rioters.
I was scared, but I wasn’t stupid. I took off running in the opposite direction. I blended in with a group of rioters and tried to figure out which way to go. A group of cops headed toward us. Some of the rioters ran into a clothing store that was being looted. I followed. Th e cops entered the store swinging clubs and making arrests. My heart pounded as I ran into the back of the store and found a back door leading to an alley. I gasped for air as I ran down the alley and was stopped by a wooden fence. Th e cops came into the alley. “Halt,” they yelled. “Put your hands up.” In my mind I froze, put my hands in the air, and turned around to face the cops with tears in my eyes. But my body kept hauling ass. I grabbed the fence and scurried over the top like a scared alley cat. Two shots rang
Nobody wanted to play after that. So Roger and I walked across the road to my auntie’s house. I hung around the porch, hoping to see Betty, until my aunt called us in for lunch. As we were eating sandwiches, a car and a pickup truck pulled up in front of the house and six tough-looking white men got out. My aunt went out to meet them. Th e white men seemed angry; my aunt seemed nervous. Roger and I peeked through the front door. Aunt Cleo saw me and called for me to come out of the house. As I walked to Aunt Cleo I saw Dale standing with the white men. “You hit this boy while y’all was playing ball?” Aunt Cleo said angrily. “Apologize right now!”
“But he called me names,” I protested.
Aunt Cleo grabbed my arm and shook me. “Apologize or I’ll beat the tan off you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Dale. “I didn’t mean it.” Dale nodded. Th e other white men looked stern.
“Go back in the house,” Aunt Cleo ordered.
I went inside and picked at the remainder of my lunch. Th rough the kitchen window I saw the white men’s car and pickup truck pull away. Aunt Cleo was in the kitchen a moment later. “I’m putting you on the bus today. You’re about to get yourself killed down here. Th em were the Ku Klux Klan,” she said, wringing her hands. “Dale is the Grand Dragon’s son.”
Within two hours my suitcase was packed and I was standing by the roadside Greyhound bus stop near my auntie’s house. Th e bus came. My aunt and my cousins hugged me and I got on. As the bus pulled off I saw Betty walking down the road. I knocked on the window. She smiled and waved. Damn, I thought as the bus headed up the highway, the South is crazy.
3
Finding the Panther Lair
I walked into a Panther office in Brooklyn in September 1968. Dr. King had been assassinated in April of that year. Riots and anger flared in ghettos around the country. The feeling on the street was that the shit was about to hit the fan. “Black power” was the phrase of the day, and hating “whitey” was the hip thing to do. From street corner speeches to campus rallies, whitey had gone from being “the Man” to being “the Beast.” Young black students were trading in their feel-good Motown Records for the recorded speeches of Malcolm X and the angry jazz recordings of Ornette Coleman.
I went down to 125th Street in Harlem the night that Dr. King was assassinated. Protesters and rioters swarmed the streets, clashing with cops, overturning cars, setting trash can fires, and hurling bricks at white-owned businesses. One of the storefront windows was shattered by an airborne trash can. Looters ran into the store and started taking clothes, appliances, and whatever else they could carry.
Not everyone looted—in fact, most of the crowd continued to chant “ Th e king is dead” and “Black power”—but it was enough for the cops to start swinging clubs, shooting their pistols, and making arrests. A cop grabbed me and threw me against the wall. Before he could handcuff me and put me in the paddy wagon, a group of rioters across the street turned a police car over. Th e cop told me to stay put and ran toward the rioters.
I was scared, but I wasn’t stupid. I took off running in the opposite direction. I blended in with a group of rioters and tried to figure out which way to go. A group of cops headed toward us. Some of the rioters ran into a clothing store that was being looted. I followed. Th e cops entered the store swinging clubs and making arrests. My heart pounded as I ran into the back of the store and found a back door leading to an alley. I gasped for air as I ran down the alley and was stopped by a wooden fence. Th e cops came into the alley. “Halt,” they yelled. “Put your hands up.” In my mind I froze, put my hands in the air, and turned around to face the cops with tears in my eyes. But my body kept hauling ass. I grabbed the fence and scurried over the top like a scared alley cat. Two shots rang