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On the first floor we made our way out to the main entrance on Lake Merritt Park. It was a bright, blue-sky day, just the kind of day I had wanted. Looking ahead, I could see thousands of beautiful people and a sea of hands, all of them waving. When I gave them the power sign, the hands shot up in reply and everyone started to cheer. God, it was good. I felt this tremendous sense of release, of liberation, like taking off your shirt on a hot day and feeling free, unbound by anything. Later, I did take my shirt off, but it was obvious now that we would not be able to get out the front door. A mass of cheering supporters stretched from the steps all the way across the street into the park. I had to fight back the tears. It was wonderful to be out, but even more exhilarating to see the concern and emotion of the people. The crush was so overwhelming that we turned back and went to the other exit. But the people quickly ran around to the other side, and as we went down the stairs and into the street they surged around us, shouting joyfully, carrying us along.
Walking through the streets was an indescribable experience, the closest I have ever felt to being truly free, with people walking by, recognizing me, and waving. I went everywhere, visiting people in the community, to the surprise of many who never expected to see me on the street, only on television or maybe in Hollywood after I was released. But I was determined to get back among them. I walked in Oakland, Berkeley, Richmond, and San Francisco. I went to Seventh Street, Sacramento Avenue, Potrero Hill, Hunter’s Point, Richmond, North Richmond, West Oakland, Peralta Street, Cypress Street, East Oakland, and Parchester Village. I visited several bars, where I had done a lot of recruiting. And everywhere I got the same reaction: people wondered why I had come back to them. I explained that neither news reporters nor television cameras had got me out of prison; the people had freed me, and I had come back to thank them and be with them.
All this time I was under immense pressure to give interviews, to fill speaking engagements, to appear on talk shows and television programs, but I accepted none of these for about six months. I even received a brochure from some Hollywood outfit. It contained newspaper clippings about me and a letter saying. “You’re star quality,” or something like that, which would have been amusing had it not been such an overt capitalist attempt to co-opt the revolution. Too many so-called leaders of the movement have been made into celebrities and their revolutionary fervor destroyed by mass media. They become Hollywood objects and lose identification with the real issues. The task is to transform society; only the people can do that—not heroes, not celebrities, not stars. A star’s place is in Hollywood; the revolutionary’s place is in the community with the people. A studio is a place where fiction is made, but the Black Panther Party is out to create nonfiction. We are making revolution.
For me, the theme of the convention in Washington was not a new Constitution but organization for survival, and from that time on, we began to refer to the Party community programs as survival programs. The whole idea of the community programs had been developed by Bobby Seale while I was in prison, and his brilliant organizing methods had helped to establish them. The Breakfast for Children program was set up first. Other programs—clothing distribution centers, liberation schools, housing, prison projects, and medical centers—soon followed. We called them “survival programs pending revolution,” since we needed long-term programs and a disciplined organization to carry them out. They were designed to help the people survive until their consciousness is raised, which is only the first step in the revolution to produce a new America. I frequently use the metaphor of the raft to describe the survival programs. A raft put into service during a disaster is not meant to change conditions but to help one get through a difficult time. During a flood the raft is a life-saving device, but it is only a means of getting to higher and safer ground. So, too, with survival programs, which are emergency services. In themselves they do not change social conditions, but they are life-saving vehicles until conditions change.
Upstairs in my tiny apartment, I pull a small bag of cocaine from the freezer and cut out a line, then suck the powder up my nostrils. The drugs lace into my blood. I lean back on my cheap blue sofa and stare at the white ceiling. For a moment, just a moment, the man on fire is gone and there is nothing in my mind at all. For a moment, I am cold, still, a cadaver on a silver autopsy table.
god i hate this
But out here, out west, there are endless hours of commuting, constant emails and notifications, top secret projects, impossible deadlines. Whether you’re a Believer or not, the very pressure of the atmosphere in San Francisco changes you, molds you, shapes you into a new breed of worker. It has changed me.
sooo preachy im bored
Outside, the fog is heavy, dark, thick. I still haven’t gotten used to it. The mist makes the streets look eerie, haunted, unreal.
so melodramatic i hate this
I pull out my phone and press a few buttons. Two minutes later, a black car with tinted windows pulls up. I slide into the back seat, and the driver navigates the steep hills of the city. The black hole hangs above the seat beside me.
this feels so boring
But the train jolts forward, shattering the sensation. We snake past: junkyards full of busted metal, worn-down bamboo gardens, abandoned car lots, the grinning strip mall teeth of the suburbs, the doors of coffee shops and gas stations opening for the day, capitalism in slow morning bloom.
it's just bland observation with no thrust! similar to the thing i hate about eula whatever's book
I moved the big vacuum in small patterns over the beige carpet in the living room. I did it just how she taught me. The black hole watched over me from above.
Outside, the other children emerged from their homes to play in the sprinklers that shot sparkling arcs of water into the air. It was, I realized, summer.
“Keep cleaning,” my mother said.
ok this isn't bad