I GO DOWN TO THE SCHOOLYARD A BIT EARLY. I want to get there in time for the morning lineup. The Panthers form ranks on the blacktop and Leroy leads them in chants.
There they stand in dark straight rows. In the rising light of morning, taking in the fresh air feels like breathing new life. I linger outside the fence, watching Leroy up on his milk crate, presiding over the ranks. Fist raised, he calls out, “Power to the people!”
The Panther columns answer back, a deep, thunderous roar like a single massive voice: “Power to the people!”
I close my eyes, pretend I’m standing among them. It feels good. Shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and sisters in arms. Feels like we can take on the world, one day at a time. One pig at a time, some days. Build a world where batons don’t crush and white doesn’t always equal right.
After being in the crowd last night, I see everything anew. The Panthers are going to change everything. I’ve known it all along, but now I can feel it all the way through me.
The convention is still going on downtown. I suppose a crew of Panthers will be going again today, but I know I can’t go back. My place is here. In the neighborhood. Not up in a whole white riot. One close call is enough for me.
I lace my fingers through the chain link, wishing I was over there with the rest of them. Fourteen isn’t old enough to be a full-on Panther, everyone says. We’re supposed to be part of the young Panthers for another couple of years. Go to The Breakfast, go to political education class on Wednesdays and the Freedom School on Saturdays with the little kids, looking smart all lined up with berets cocked this way and that. I help take care of the young ones and tell them what I know, but the real Panthers sometimes look at me like I’m also still a baby who needs to learn. But I know plenty. I’ve been around the block enough times to know the size and shape of things. I’m ready. I know it.
I look through the fence at the most familiar face in the lineup. Sam is the exception, I guess. Probably because of his brother, Steve, who was one of the first Chicago Panthers. Steve died being a Panther too. Or maybe Sam gets an exception because of his dad, who is Roland Childs. Mr. Childs is well-known around the neighborhood because he’s a civil rights movement leader like Dr. King was. He makes speeches and plans big demonstrations that Raheem used to take me to, before the Panthers came along.
From his perch on the milk crate, Leroy Jackson starts leading the ranks in a series of chants. I’ve seen it many times before. He starts them out simple, then gets them all riled up.
“Who we gonna be?”
“The Black Panther Party.”
“I can’t hear you. . . . Who we gonna be?”
“The Black Panther Party.” The echo rings loud throughout the schoolyard. It resonates. Deep. People passing by can’t help but turn to look.
So much power radiates from the Panther lineup. All this pent-up energy, so huge and so tight that you can practically see it steaming off them. That runaway feeling just come to a standstill, that terrible, terrible anger. Always in control, always just beneath the surface.
In the white newspapers, they use it against us. They make the Panthers look like we all just want to rip the throats out of some white folks for no good reason. We have good reasons, but we still don’t want to do that.
“What’s it all about?”
Fred and Leroy want to open people’s minds, is what Raheem always says. They don’t want us to kill; they want us to be willing to die.
We’re dying anyway, I can’t help but think. Remembering about Steve, and others.
“How we gonna live?” Leroy shouts.
“Gonna live for the people.”
“How we gonna die?”
“Gonna die for the people.”
“Power to the people!”
“Power to the people!”
“Power to the people!”
Patrice slips up beside me, laces her fingers through the chain link, too. “Hey, Maxie.”
To be honest, I’m not that happy to see her. I don’t want to do this now. There’s a part of me that wishes we were in an actual fight, so I could get away without speaking to her for a day or so.
“Hey.”
“So I guess everything went all right?”
Reluctantly I show her the roll of quarters, which I have in my pocket. In the daylight it looks all mangled and sweaty.
“Oh, no. What happened?”
Patrice throws her arm around my shoulders. “It’s going to be fine,” she says. “I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”
It’s a very big deal. To me. I’ve never worried before about not having what it takes to be a Panther. If I can’t carry through even the smallest task, am I also going to crumble when something real falls to me?