My People Are Rising. Aaron Dixon
the earlier years, a number of people helped the manuscript get off the ground. My first typist was from Pike Place Typing Service, which kindly provided discounted typing service, and later, my friend Pam, who worked for the City of Seattle, donated her time to typing my handwritten pages. My good friend Virginia Wyman stepped up to provide valuable assistance and support. Dean Patton worked with me as a writing coach. Deborah Green, the widow of Dr. John Green, volunteered her time to edit the first draft of the manuscript. And I am thankful to my good friend Gilda Sheppard, faculty at Evergreen Tacoma, for reminding me that I had a lot to say.
I thank all my Panther comrades. If not named directly here in these acknowledgments, my gratitude and love for my Panther comrades are in the pages of this memoir. Bill Jennings of the website It’s About Time BPP fielded my constant questions and gave me ongoing reminders to finish this book. Bobby Seale had long phone conversations with me, discussing details. Emory Douglas provided steady encouragement, as did Leila McDowell. My good friend Valentine Hobbs and I had daily conversations about our years in the party. I am amazed how the memories of those days are fresh in our minds. I’d also like to thank original BSU members Larry Gossett and Gary Owens, who have become my close friends over the years.
I want to express my appreciation to Anthony Arnove and Haymarket Press for recognizing the importance and value of My People are Rising. I could not have asked for a better editor in Caroline Luft, who seemed to know about everything from football to music to politics. Her patience and commitment to the project were invaluable.
I thank my family for always being available for information as well as inspiration. My mother allowed me to call her day and night to ask her questions—at times redundant—about our family history and her memories of the turbulent years of the ’60s and ’70s. My brothers, Elmer and Michael, and my sister, Joanne, provided ever-present support. My cousin Mark shared so much valuable information about my father’s side of the family. I thank my children—Aaron Patrice, Nisaa Laketa, Venishia, Aziza, Asha, and Zain—for their joyous curiosity about their dad’s writing a book, and for their love and strength. Also in my heart are my grandkids Fela, Iyanna, Grace, Natasha, Daisia, Syrena, Miko, and Taliyah, and my great-grandchildren, twins Xamaria and Xavier, for the hope and peace they bring into this world of uncertainty.
And the one person who, above all, helped me and cajoled me in making this book worthy of publication is my partner, Farah Nousheen. For the past seven years we have worked together on this project as if we were one, even while she was immersed in completing her BA and master’s degrees, and in post–9/11 activism in the South Asian community.
Lastly and very importantly, I express my utmost gratitude to all my friends, comrades, and the people of Seattle, especially those who kept on asking me, year after year, “Hey, Aaron, when’s your book comin’ out?” At last, I have an answer.
Our Family Journey Begins
The Dixon family. Back row, left to right: Mommy, Poppy, Joanne. Front row, left to right: me, Michael, Elmer. Chicago, summer 1964.
1
Ancestors
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
—Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit,” 1939
On a hot, muggy night during the tumultuous and wild summer of 1968, I crouched in waiting, along with three comrades, clutching my carbine tightly with sweaty hands. We were silently waiting for our prey. No, this was not Vietnam; it was Seattle. The riots had raged for three nights, much like the other rebellions that scorched across America that summer, from Newark to Chicago to Los Angeles. These rebellions would leave hundreds of people dead, wounded, and imprisoned, as well as endless blocks of burned-out, ravaged buildings, standing as a lasting memory of the anger of Black America. I did not know, nor did I care, whether I would survive that night or, for that matter, the many other nights we took to the streets to seek our revenge.
It was only a few months earlier that Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated, and just a few years since the assassinations of Malcolm X and Medgar Evers. These deaths were still fresh in our minds and hearts, as were the countless deaths of the lesser-known victims of American racism. For more than three hundred years, Black people in America had been denied basic civil rights, first when they were ripped from their African homelands and sold into slavery in the New World, then, after Emancipation, under the racist system of Jim Crow laws and segregation. The uprisings of the ’60s, erupting with volcanic force throughout Black America, sent a loud and clear signal that the time of silence and complacency was at an end. Taking up arms against the racist power structure was a powerful move toward liberating our streets, our cities, our communities, not only for Black Americans in our time but also for those who had come before, and those who would follow.
Thus, my story, and the stories of so many others, begins not in 1968 but hundreds of years earlier, when the first Black slaves set foot on this sacred land of the red man. Yes, the ashes of our ancestors are long gone, and memories of them have long since dissipated. Yet their struggles, their strength, their courage, and their wisdom, along with their failings and flaws, will always be with us, pushing us, encouraging us, and watching over us as we navigate our way through the life ahead. For most of us whose ancestors were dragged ashore, shackled, bewildered, and despairing, it is difficult to tell where our stories begin or end.
I know very little of my slave ancestry, and even less about Mariah, a small, bowlegged Black slave woman in Durant, Mississippi, where she lived, toiled, and died thousands of miles away from her ancestral homeland. In 1858, under the old slave laws that did not legally recognize marriage between enslaved people, she married Frank Kimes, a half-Irish and half-Black mulatto man, as he was described by the census. They officially remarried after Emancipation. Mississippi, like most Southern states, was an inhospitable place for most newly freed slaves. Many remained in bondage or worked as indentured servants under the Black Codes, laws enacted after Emancipation by the Southern states to restrict the rights of Black people, keeping them in servitude. Worse developments were to come with the reign of terror under Jim Crow laws, starting the 1870s, which included mandatory segregation, the elimination of the rights to vote and to bear arms, forced imprisonment, and hideous acts of lynching.
My maternal great-great-grandmother, Emma, one of Mariah’s four daughters, was born August 2, 1868, three years after the end of the Civil War. Emma grew up in a small house in Durant under the watchful eye of Mariah, now a free woman, free to raise her five children according to her own will. When I was a little boy, Emma would tell us stories of her childhood, such as how her mother would sit on the porch and keep an eagle eye on her children as she instructed them in the art of doing laundry. Emma also told us how, when she was a young child, the local Cherokees attempted to kidnap her, thinking she was one of their own because of her long black hair. Emma left home at eighteen to marry Mr. Joseph Ely, who worked as a brakeman for the railroad. Emma worked as a laundress, one of the few occupations available to a Black woman during the late 1800s in Mississippi. In the early 1900s, her husband died a tragic death on the job in a railroad accident. Emma went on to live a very long life, surviving uterine cancer, and she gave birth to eight children, only four of whom lived beyond childhood.
One of Emma’s surviving girls was Mabel, my great-grandmother, who according to many was very beautiful. Mabel did the unthinkable—she had an affair and became pregnant by a German-Jewish man, Mr. John William Brown. This affair and pregnancy led to her being ostracized from her family and community, and resulted in the birth of a daughter, Willy Joe—my grandmother. Named after her father, later she was raised as “Josephine.” Mabel departed this world far too early, at the age of twenty-three, dying of “consumption,” the earlier name for tuberculosis.
Josephine was only three years old when her grandmother Emma took her in. The fact that Josephine looked more