Panther Baby Read Online Free PDF

Rap could rap. “You been brainwashed. You wear white to weddings, black to funerals. Angel food cake is white cake. Devil’s food cake is black. White magic is good. Black magic is evil. In cowboy movies the good guys wear the white hats and the bad guys wear black. Even Santa Claus. I mean, tell me how in the hell a fat, camel-breath redneck honkie can slide down a black chimney and still come out white? I’m telling you, you been brainwashed.” Th e crowd of three hundred high school and college students attending the conference went wild; we cheered Rap Brown like a rock star.
    Right then and there I decided to embrace militancy. My friend Phil teased me on the way back to our cabin that night. “You can’t announce you’re going to be a black militant like it’s a career choice. It’s a belief, not a job.” But my mind was made up. Rap Brown lived in the South, but I would find other black militants to hook up with when I got back to New York City.
    I came from camp with an Afro, wearing a dashiki, and inserting “black power” in every sentence I could, even if I was ordering ice cream. (“Give me some of those black-power sprinkles on that cone, my brother.”) I started looking for a black militant organization to join, going about it the way high school seniors scope out colleges. Since I had no real political consciousness, I entertained and rejected organizations for the most subjective reasons. Th e Black Muslims? Nah, I don’t really like bow ties and I do like a piece of bacon every now and then. SNCC (Student National Coordinating Committee)? No, that sounds too close to “snake,” and my friends who love to play the dozens would have a ball with that.
    One night, while sitting on the couch watching Noonie’s old black-and-white TV, I saw a news report on the Black Panther Party. Footage was shown of the Panthers, with guns, storming a session of the California State Legislature. California was about to change its laws by making it illegal to carry firearms, and the Panthers burst into the room calling the legislature racist for wanting to take away black people’s constitutional right to arm themselves for the purpose of self-defense. Th e old white politicians I saw on the TV screen looked scared to death. Th e cops who moved in on the Panthers looked confused and subdued as the Panthers shouted, “Go ahead and arrest me, pig, or get the hell out of my face.” Since the guns were legal, the only thing the police could do was eject the Panthers from the legislative chambers.
    Th en a reporter came on the TV talking about the Black Panther Party as an ultramilitant, dangerous organization. He cited an incident earlier that day in which the police had found a trunk full of guns and communist literature in a Black Panther’s car. My jaw dropped as I watched the news report. Look at those dudes, I thought. Th ey’re crazy. Th ey got black leather coats and berets, carrying guns, scaring white people, reading communist books. Th ey’re crazy . I immediately wanted to join. I hopped around the living room, freaking out with excitement. I had found my organization, my cause. Now all I had to do was find out where the Black Panthers were in New York.
    Like a plantation slave seeking passage to freedom on the Underground Railroad, I put out the word that I was looking to hook up with the Panthers. Not that my network was particularly sophisticated, but I did ask anybody and everybody who I thought might have a lead: the bad dudes who hung out on the corner and on the basketball courts; Mr. Sunny, the neighborhood numbers runner; Mr. Pete, the neighborhood wino; and Blue, the neighborhood junkie. Word about the Panthers came back in hushed tones. Th ey were extreme militants who existed in secret. You didn’t choose the Panthers. Th ey chose you. So I walked around acting extra cool and extra militant, hoping that some Panther secret agent would tap me on the shoulder and guide me to their