I was born on December 27, 1951 in the city of
Los Angeles. My life mirrored the lives of 90%
of African-Americans for that time period. I
was born in the County General Hospital; the
first house I lived in was in Avalon Gardens, a
step above the projects. Later my family moved
to 29th and Central Ave.
Central Ave in Los Angeles held the memories of
the greatest Black entertainers of our time.
This street housed such famous places like The
Dunbar Hotel, Bill Robinson Theatre, and The
Sentinel Newspaper. This Central Avenue before
my time was reflective of the Harlem Renaissance
Era.
In 1958, my family moved to 46th and Figueroa
Street, the neighbors all came out to wish us
well, for my family was “moving on up”, we
finally had a piece of the “pie”.
We moved to 545-˝ W. 46th Street, in an upstairs
back house, our neighborhood was comprised of
well-to-do blacks, working class and welfare
recipients. Nonetheless, we all got alone
beautifully, we watched out for each other, we
shared and learned from each other.
What I remember most about this period in my
life was to very important events that would
later change my life and make me into the person
I am today. The first change would come through
the unveiling of my grandmother’s special powers
that gave her the ability to “see”. My
grandmother (we affectionately called Dear) sat
me down one day and told me how she had to run
out of Mississippi, because she had hit a white
man, because his mule had stepped on her foot,
she hit the mule and the man hit her. As the
story goes, my grandmother whooped his ass!
Dear told me that in our family the power of the
field Negro came every other generation, and I
would be the chosen one for my generation. The
completion of my change came when Kennedy was
assassinated. My prayers for that night were,
“God, please don’t put us back on the
plantation.”
In 1965, we left 46th street and moved to 88th
Place and Wall Street. Our introduction to this
new community came via the Watts Riot. I
remember the National Guard being camped at
Green Meadows Park on 88th Place and San Pedro.
This park stood in the middle between the Avalon
Gardens, where I had once lived, and my new
spot; I had come full circle.
I attended Bret Harte Middle School, I graduated
in 1966, and I went on to Fremont High School.
My life was somewhat unusual, My mother was very
strict, not easy to talk to, not very motherly
(in terms of emotions), and she read everything
she could get her hands on, including anything
from the Nation of Islam. My mother knew our
history here in America very well. My mother
was educated, and made sure all her children
could read, write, spell, and think before they
went to school. Unknowingly my mother lit the
fire of resistance under me, by taking me to
demonstrations and the candle light vigil for
the three murdered civil rights workers.
As a teenager I was not allowed to hangout,
party or spend the night at my friend’s house.
In 1968 my mother began to work the swing shift,
at the local Telephone Company. My mother’s job
started around 4 p.m., she left home around 3
p.m., and I hit the streets by 5.p.m. My road
dogs were Rosalie and Hattie; we were great
dancers, well liked at school and in the hood.
Our party spot was the All Nations Pool Hall on
84th and Broadway, our drink of choice was Pagan
Pink Ripple, and our drug of choice was F-40s
a.k.a. Bulletheads or Red Devils. Thinking
back, I did not enjoy getting high, but it was
in rebellion to my strict and unemotionally
connected mother.
One day as I strolled down Broadway to the pool
hall, I saw this fine brother, standing in a
door way, he beckoned me and I went smiling and
ready to get my mack on! The brother asked me
if I knew who I was, and why did I spend time in
a pool hall, when I should be learning about
black people and the injustices that we faced.
The brother was Roland Freeman, he was fine, but
he was not talking about anything I wanted to
hear, so I eased on to the pool hall. My
favorite record came on, I got up to dance, and
I froze. Roland’s words were bouncing all
through my head, for the next 2 hours, I was
unable to get my grove on. I was mad at him for
messing with my head.
I went across the street, offered everyone in
the Panther Office some wine and red Devils;
they looked at me like I was the fool of the
year. Roland invited me to partake in the
political education class that I had
interrupted. I agreed, within a few minutes he
called on me to read. I stood up and they all
watched me, expecting me to fail. I read a
page, broke it all they way down, laughed at all
of them and left. Regardless to being high,
I could read and comprehend my ass off.
On Monday I went to school, yet Roland’s words
kept hunting me. I began to drop by the 84th
Street office, once a week after school, then
every other day until I was there all the time.
A few months before my 17th Birthday, I became a
member of the Los Angeles Chapter of the Black
Panther Party.
My orientation to the Party consisted of
memorizing the 10-Point Program, basic law, and
basic medical procedures, attending the
political education classes regularly, meeting
community members, survival skills, learning the
history and ideology of the Party and being
introduced to the members of the Los Angeles
Headquarters on 41st and Central Ave.
I was honored to fall under the leadership of
Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter. I rose quickly
within the Party and become one of the first
sisters to become a Section Leader in our
Chapter. The Section Leader was assigned a
large geographical area of the community, it
would be my job to educated the masses who lived
within my area, to serve them body and soul and
to be aware and resolve any form of oppression
that faced them.
The Los Angeles Chapter was instrumental in the
Free Breakfast Programs, Free Medical Programs,
Food Give-Away, Sickle-Cell Testing, Elder Care
and so much more.
The Los Angeles Panthers policed the police.
Investigated police involved murders in our
community and became victims and fatalities.
The police jailed Panthers on real and trumped-
up charges. Panthers were harassed, followed,
and killed, on a daily basis.
We carried on our work regardless, because our
mission was just. We were to be the liberators
of our people; we were to secure social equality
for all oppressed people. Our lives were a
small price to pay. It most be noted that the
rule for the Panthers was not to attack anyone,
we had the God-given right to self-defense and
we must exercise that right, by any means
necessary.
The Party was not anti-white we were anti-
oppression. Every Panther understood that the
oppressors came in all colors. Our duty was to
educate the masses, and we did by words, deeds,
and actions.
The Panthers were loved worldwide, we were
organizing the masses, we referred to each other
as “My Brother, or My Sister”. Black loved
flowed everywhere. We embraced the liberation
struggle of all people of color. The Panthers
were accepted, respected, and modeled by many
groups and individuals seeking the Liberty and
Justice that we all had recited day after day in
America’s school, during the flag salute.
It was that love that the Panthers received
from the oppressed people that made us Targets
for annihilation. WE became too popular and
too powerful, and we all paid a very heavy
price for our liberation struggle.
Soon we were under attack by every law
enforcement agency in America; our members were
killed and jailed. Many fled the country or the
state to return another day. The FBI was
heavily on our case. Cointelpro was started to
discredit and to wipe out not only the Panthers,
but an all Freedom Fighters in the United
States. Even Martin Luther King Jr. a peaceful
man that promoted non-violence was under
surveillance by Cointelpro.
My life was in turmoil, my mother thought I was
in a cult; she had me placed in Juvenile Hall.
I stayed in Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall for 3
months. I recruited two serious sisters into
the Party while being confined to juvenile hall.
The authorities at Los Padrinos told my mother
to come get me; they told her that nothing was
wrong with me. I was a very intelligent and
strong-willed person and there was no point in
keeping me confined.
My mother and my new stepfather picked me up.
They greeted me with the fact that Jackie
Kennedy had remarried. As we wrote home, I
planned my escape. Within one month I escaped
out of my bedroom window, and resumed my role in
the BPP. It would be 10 years before I would
have a relationship with my mother.
Upon my return to the 84th street office, I was
informed of all of the panthers that were
incarcerated. I took it upon myself to write
and send money to 17 of our members who were
incarcerated across the country. One thing I
did not like that I witnessed was whenever
Panthers got busted, as long as publicity was
there, so were the Panthers, when the lights
faded, the comrades were stuck in jail,
especially those who were charged with serious
crimes. So, I took it upon myself to write them
and be their runner if necessary. It would be
years later before I fully understood that what
I had witnessed was unselfish acts of
sacrifices.
In 1969, the darkest day of my life came;
members of the US Organization assassinated
Bunchy Carter and John Huggins at UCLA. I was
supposed to be at UCLA with Bunchy that day, but
a male Panther and I got into a physical fight,
I left the office and left information for
Bunchy to pick me up at my Aunt’s he never
showed. I will never forget the pain I felt
upon hearing about their murders. Some of the
Panthers got together at a small house off 84th
Place and Broadway; we poured out Panther Piss
(Dark Port and Lemon Juice) for our fallen
comrades. I cried and questioned God. I
demanded that God tell me why life in America
was so cruel to Black People.
I often wondered, if I had been there would things have
turned out differently. To know Bunchy was to know as real
man, he was immaculate, intelligent, fine, a true
revolutionary, and a great poet.
After the murders at UCLA and the shoot-out at head-quarters
on 41st and Central, we began to close down the offices and
open up Black Houses; these houses contained 10-15 Panthers
that undertook a collective lifestyle we shared all
responsibilities, and duties. There were no male or female
jobs, we all worked, struggled and if we died we all would
be dead!
Life in the Black Houses was so beautiful for
me, we were family in every sense of the word
(most of us had been kicked out of our families
homes and rejected by those who should have
understood our mission). The most amazing thing
that many overlooked about the Black Houses is
that we were all youngsters. No parents, no one
over us.
Nonetheless we keep our morals and principles in
tact, it was not about sex or getting high, most
of the time, sisters, and brothers agreed that
the revolution would be first, then you and I as
individuals. Very few babies were born, and of
those who were the parents were married, or very
true to one another.
I married a brother by the name of Paul Redd,
who was involved in the shoot-out at
headquarters; he was sentenced to 6 years in
Soledad Prison. His mind was soon messed up and
it was believed by many that a Lobotomy had been
preformed on him while being incarcerated. This
was an experiment that was supposed to remove
part of the brain to leave one non-violent. The
marriage ended 2 years before he was released.
Somehow mentally he was transformed into a
playboy. So, I bowed out gracefully.
In 1971, the split came between Huey and
Eldridge Cleaver, the Los Angeles Chapter choose
to follow Eldridge, soon the entire party had
collapsed. The government when about their hunt
to wipe us out.
Many informers had came into the party, death
and incarceration came via the police and lies
by informers. A select group of panthers that
were always tight in the party consisted of Long
John Washington, Harold Taylor, Roland and
Ronald Freeman, the Mobley Brothers and myself
agreed to separate as a matter of survival,
until we could pinpoint the informers, we would
come together some years later. Remaining as
family and loyal to one another.
Years later I married Harold Taylor, while he
was incarcerated and facing 10 years to life.
It took four long, hard years for he and his co-
defendants John Bowman and Ray Bordeaux to be
found not guilty. This trio was part of the
first group of Political Prisoners.
While out on bail the trio fled to Louisiana,
they were captured, and tortured in Parish
Prison. Harold would later tell me of cattle
prods being put on his genital organ, volts of
electricity raged through his body, painful and
humiliating. Plastic bags were tied around his
head until he vomit and passed out, nearly
choking to death on his vomit.
He was forced to sleep standing up in a small
closet, with large rats biting him. For months
they endured the torture, they were not allowed
to contact anyone and the legal system turned a
blind eye and deaf ears to their torture.
Harold and his co-defendants were found not
guilty of the original charges in Los Angeles,
of conspiracy to murder police officers, they
were not allowed to sue. But for Harold it was
not over, he suffered a serious form of Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder from his torture, his
screams would wake me up in the middle of the
night, many times I would find him staring
blankly. He became very violent and hard drugs
became his savior.
Harold did not seek help, who could analyze what
Panther had gone through when no one would
believe that America would treat it’s oppressed
citizens this way for fighting for the freedom,
justice and equality that was supposed to be so
freely given to them.
Harold and I had one daughter; Rashida is now a
teacher. We divorced when Rashida was 2 years
old, the divorce was necessary to dave my life
from his violent attacks caused by the tickling
down of violence that he endured in Louisiana,
and because of his drug use to slow down the
effects of his stress disorder. Harold was
first my friend, then my comrade, this system of
brutality did not allow him to remain my husband
or my daughter’s father.
I went on to become and Eligibility Worker for
the Department of Public Social Services, I
later earned an AS Degree in Electronic
Engineering, a BA Degree in Child Development.
a MA in Multicultural Education and a Teaching
Credential.
Through all of this my concerns were focused
mainly on the comrades that were/are
incarcerated, their treatment in the belly of
the beast, and why so many people hailed them as
heroes without giving them time to heal. Our
comrades were tortured, experimented upon,
dehumanized, murdered, maimed, locked away like
animals; all rights denied, deserted by friends,
family, and community, and loved ones.
Yet! They were expected to get out and become
the shepherds of the very people that they stood
up for, suffered for, never receiving counseling
for the tortured they endured, and women
expected them to come out being their man or
husbands.
How could that be? How can we continue to
expect so much of them, when we did not/do not
have a healing system in place for them? We
welcome them home and them demand that they
stand up for us again. Never stopping to think
of what they endured, the emotional effects of
prison, the fact that they were young, and under
the threat of death 24/7.
When will you understand that we jumped over so
many bodies until we did not have time to mourn
our own. There is no healing in place for those
who survived the People’s Revolution of the 60s
and 70s here in America.
Inside we are the walking wounded some of us
worse than the others. When we are alone, the
tears come; we are still searching for the
answer to why we are still in the condition that
we are in today as a race of people.
I am currently a teacher with Los Angeles
Unified School district. I am still dedicated
to making the public aware of the plight of our
Political Prisoners. I am currently working on
a Ph.D. in Holistic Nutrition, and I hope that
others will follow in pursuing some type of
healing system to help the incarcerated in
particular and the public in general.
What would I say now, given the opportunity to
stand on the world stage? I would thank Huey,
for my education and dedicate this poem to all
our fallen comrades.
