THE TRUCK INCHES ALONG. EVERY SQUEAK of the worn brakes sounds like seagulls. Hamlin’s trying to get us close to the park, but the traffic is something else. Roads closed and cars sent around the long way to make room for the protesters flocking toward the park. We watch them squeezing among the cars to get to where they’re going, dragging their signs and flyers and friends and tripping along their way. They form a fast-rushing stream that seems neverending, a thousand faces like so many white-capped waves.
I start to worry about what’ll happen when we get out of the car, because it’s just the six of us right now. Will we be swept into the flow, and drown?
Hamlin thumps the steering wheel, mutters something that sounds like “Is this even worth it?”
But it’s already been decided. I was in the Panther office last week when Leroy Jackson and some other guys were arguing about whether or not the Panthers should have a presence at the Democratic National Convention.
“There’s no place for us there.”
“We gotta take a stand against the war.”
“It’s a white protest. They don’t care about us at all.”
“We need all the allies we can get.”
Leroy, who’s in charge, decided that it would be worth sending people to the protest, partly to sell copies of The Black Panther, our community newspaper, but mainly just to be a presence in the crowd. I really hope the others get here soon.
“We’ll be okay,” I say out loud. Maybe I’m answering Hamlin. Maybe I’m reassuring the girls. Emmalee’s fingers still grip my locked fist.
Hamlin glances at us. “Yeah. Just stick together,” he says. “No matter what happens.”
“We will.” He doesn’t need to tell us. It’s how we survive.
I’m still amazed that the girls and I are being allowed to come along. We’re assigned to help Hamlin and the guys set up, and then we’re supposed to leave, but I’m planning to stay as long as possible. At least long enough to hear Bobby Seale speak.
“What time does Bobby come onstage?” I ask. Now that the silence is broken, it’s going to be hard for me to keep my mouth shut. Talking stops me from thinking, and when my thoughts are all about how I hope I don’t die today, that’s probably a good thing.
“Sometime this afternoon,” Hamlin answers. “He’s flying in from Oakland now.”
Emmalee stirs a little. She wants to meet Bobby too, I know. She likes reading his writings, almost as much as she likes reading Huey’s. Huey Newton and Bobby Seale are the Black Panther Party founders. Huey is the Panthers’ minister of defense and Bobby’s the general chairman of the party, which was started in Oakland, California, but stretches across the whole country now.
“Is Bobby coming to the office later too? I can’t wait to see him in person,” I blurt. “I want to hear him speak up close. It’s so exciting.”
“Yeah,” Hamlin says. He’s all cool about it because he’s met Bobby in person lots of times. Hamlin had been out in Oakland for the past few months, learning about how the Panthers operate out there, and came back to help get the Chicago chapter up and running smoothly. So far, so good.
“How much farther?” I ask. The truck has moved less than half a block in the whole time we’ve been talking.
“I don’t know,” Hamlin says. “Might be as close as we’re gonna get.”
Raheem knocks on the back window. “We can hoof it from here,” he calls. “This is taking forever.”
Hamlin tosses him a thumbs-up and begins a several-minutes-long ease over to the right-hand side of the street.
We’re closer to the center of things now. Through the gaps between the buildings, the crowd teems. From our slight distance their heads bob in a small swirling mass. The chanting and roaring rolls toward us in waves. Up close will be . . . I still don’t know what it’ll be like, just that I have some wrong feeling about it all.
“Okay, girls,” Hamlin says as the tires skim the curb.
Patrice levers open the door and we pile out onto the sidewalk. We stand at the edge while Raheem and Gumbo unload the boxes, pausing every couple of minutes to let Hamlin roll the truck forward with traffic. Raheem stands in the back handing boxes down and Gumbo’s on the street with us, stacking them on the hand truck they borrowed from someone’s job.
When the hand truck is full, what’s left in the pickup’s bed are some loose bags and the Black Panther Party banner we’ll be carrying. Raheem starts handing things to us.
Emmalee slings all the cloth bags over her shoulders. She looks like a horse with saddlebags out of some cowboy picture. Patrice and I kind of laugh.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.” Patrice grins, all sweet and innocent. Emmalee narrows her eyes, not a bit fooled. We’ve been friends too long for any kind of wool to be pulled.
“Neigh. Neeeeeigh.” I paw the ground with my toe. Patrice busts up. Emmalee glares.
Then Raheem hands down the tall poles we’re gonna use to hang up the banner. Patrice takes them in her hands, straightens up, and turns real serious all of a sudden. It’s like—zap—called up for duty.
Emmalee gets in on the joke. “Spear carrier,” she whispers. Patrice’s mouth twitches, but she holds the smile off, makes a fierce warrior face instead.
“Aieee.” She pounds the poles on the ground.
Laughing lets the nervous ache in my stomach ease up for a second. Maybe we all feel the same, ’cause for a minute we get to grinning.
Raheem jumps down from the truck bed and dumps the banner into my arms. It’s heavier than I expected. I clutch it tight, nearly bending forward under the weight of it, and wait for the girls to make a joke on me. But they’re staring at something behind me, and they aren’t smiling anymore.
A clump of policemen—six, no, eight—marches along the sidewalk, right toward us. They’re half a block away, but their presence pushes out around them like a cloud. Clad in their pale blue shirts with helmets to match. Batons dangling from their belts like little warning flags.