At the premiere for the movie Panther, written by Mario Van Peebles and starring Marcus Chong as Huey P. Newton. Chong’s strong resemblance to Huey was noted by many Panthers. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
It was, unfortunately, just a matter of time: Huey’s love affair with crack cocaine ultimately proved too great for him to overcome. Huey Newton, the cofounder of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, died on August 22, 1989, gunned down by a drug dealer outside of a crack house in Oakland. The Party’s minister of defense was only forty-seven years old when he was murdered. The killer wanted to score points with the Black Guerilla Family—a prison group that began as political before some members turned to criminal activity—by offing Huey.
Before Huey’s death, the Party leaders most loyal to him bore the brunt of his out-of-control, drug-induced, violent, and paranoid behavior. Among other things, he expelled David Hilliard, viciously assaulted Bobby Seale, and had one of his goons pistol-whip Masai. Before he was expelled, David Hilliard developed a crack cocaine habit that had become just as bad as Huey’s. David had started calling me for cash. “This is Chief of Staff David Hilliard. I need you to send money to the Party,” he would say. But I wouldn’t do it. Other than being desperate to feed the demands of his addiction, I’m not sure why David would call me anyway, considering that I had sided with Eldridge and not Huey. David did at least finally sober up, joining a substance abuse treatment program.
It took years for me to get over it, but I wasn’t mad at Huey or David anymore. Addicts do crazy things, and those with power are worst-case scenarios because their subordinates will aid irrational behavior. After Huey was released from prison, the contradictions were apparent to anyone who bothered to look. The Southern California chapter of the Black Panther Party was labeled by Huey as a bunch of “out-of-control gangsters,” and that part of the lumpen that couldn’t be saved; but at the same time, our national leaders had goon squads beating people on a whim. Then, after our entire chapter had been expelled from the Party and our offices shut down, Panther leaders in Oakland started shooting prostitutes and pistol-whipping tailors. It was ironic that the Los Angeles Panthers proved our commitment to the revolution while the leaders of the Party, who were calling themselves revolutionaries, were acting like gangsters. We in L.A. put in serious work, and that is what vindicates us.
In 1975, a few years after the Southern California chapter was shut down, Eldridge Cleaver returned to the United States. He did a year or so in prison for his involvement in ambushing the cops when Bobby Hutton got killed. I never learned what Eldridge had to do or say to get back into the country, and it didn’t really matter to me. Eldridge, like many of us, did what was necessary to stay alive and hopefully avoid living his final days in prison. As with Huey and David, I held no grudge against Eldridge, although many of us in the Party had risked our lives to support his leadership instead of Huey’s.
After returning, Eldridge went through a lot of changes, ultimately metamorphosing into someone I didn’t recognize. First, he started using crack cocaine, and then got busted in Northern California. He cleaned up his act and then publicly committed to Christianity. On the issue of Eldridge’s drug addiction, he was no different than so many other black people trying to survive while living on the edge. At the time Eldridge returned to the United States, black communities were being flooded with hard-core drugs—a planned assault intended to quash the black liberation struggle. At the same time, jobs for blacks were scarce, which made it all the more easy to succumb to those dangerous substances.
Every black leader, if not every individual, would be well-served to read the “Report of the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders,” written in 1968 in response to the urban uprisings in the 1960s led by black people. The study called for jobs and better education in the cities as solutions to the crisis. But, despite what the report advised, little changed: few opportunities for employment appeared, and the educational system went from bad to worse. Crack cocaine and heroin distracted many in our community, and we stopped pushing the system to negotiate our demands for opportunities, rights, and respect. Tragically, the dope trade filled the economic vacuum and became the provider of some economic opportunities, which were so lacking in the inner cities. Then a “war on drugs” was instituted throughout the country and included harsh penalties, such as “three strikes,” which locked up our people.
The so-called war on drugs has been a veiled war on black people. I truly believe that drugs were put in our neighborhoods to destroy leaders like Huey and Eldridge, along with thousands of young black men. Drugs destroyed our will to fight as a community against oppression. Imagine how many Malcolm Xs have been locked up or killed because of the drug trade. The highly addictive nature of crack cocaine began destroying our family structure: black men were in jail, black women hooked on the drug began selling their bodies and sometimes their children for a hit. Those of us living in the cities in the early 1970s witnessed the transformation.
In the 1980s, Congresswoman Maxine Waters exposed the link between the Central Intelligence Agency and the international drug trade. When right-wing groups in Nicaragua, called the Contras, sold cocaine in black communities to fund their war against the Nicaraguan government, the CIA and the Reagan administration turned a blind eye. Ricky Ross, a Los Angeles dope dealer, purchased the drugs at cheap prices and trafficked them in major cities, thus contributing to the crack cocaine epidemic. Drugs were so plentiful and lucrative that the local gangs became major players in the dope game. The next thing I knew, community youth had gone from aspiring to be the next Malcolm X, Bunchy, Huey, or Eldridge to bragging about living a thug’s life. Becoming a gangster became more prestigious than being a freedom fighter.
At the premiere for the movie Panther, written by Mario Van Peebles and starring Marcus Chong as Huey P. Newton. Chong’s strong resemblance to Huey was noted by many Panthers. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
It’s obvious even today that the police are not interested in ending the scourge of drugs that is ravaging our community. Going back to when I was selling, I knew then that the police weren’t putting much effort into trying to bust me, because slinging dope is not a threat to the capitalist system. What a contrast to my Panther days! I truly believe that if the police had put the same intensity into ending the dope business that they had put toward destroying the black liberation struggle, there would be no dope business today.
I’m proud of the sacrifices the Black Panther Party made for our people. And I recognize that so many others who came before us suffered tremendously and gave even more of themselves. We should know about the efforts of our freedom fighters so that young people might gain the will and strength to fight another day.
Geronimo ji-Jaga Pratt should not be forgotten. As one of the L.A. 18 arrested on the morning of December 8, 1969, G waged war above-ground and underground until he was framed and wrongly convicted of murdering of a white schoolteacher in 1972. Even behind bars, G never stopped fighting. It took twenty-seven years, but with the skill of his lawyers, the work of the community, and his commitment to be free, the courts eventually had no other choice but to release him. Johnnie Cochran, one of the attorneys who represented G in that case, later said that overturning that conviction was the greatest victory of his career.
In 1997, hundreds of people waited outside the courthouse in Santa Ana. Eldridge and Kathleen Cleaver, Roland and Ronald Freeman, Long John, me, and so many others who made up the Free Geronimo Pratt Committee, were all there to greet him on the day he was released. As usual, Peaches sang a freedom song. Looking strong and vibrant, G walked out of the courthouse. The crowd applauded, shouted, and cried. He said a few words and then drove off in a black Jeep that had been purchased for the occasion. That night, the Free Geronimo Pratt Committee held a banquet in his honor at a local church.
Geronimo and Romaine “Chip” Fitzgerald in captivity together in San Quentin during the 1980s. By this time, both had served more than a decade. Geronimo’s murder conviction was overturned and he was released in 1997. Chip remains in prison today, making him one of the longest serving political prisoners in the United States. COURTESY OF VIRGINIA PRATT
Eldridge and G reignited their friendship, and from time to time during the late 1990s I would hang out with them and Kathleen. We went to bars or restaurants, spending long hours holding court wherever we were, rearguing Panther history and politics. After Hugh Pearson’s biography of Huey Newton, The Shadow of the Panther, garnered attention, we had a lively discussion about the book. I remember G saying that Pearson’s description of his relationship with Huey while they were in San Quentin together was so accurate that it seemed like Pearson had been in the room with them. It was eerie, we all agreed.
Eldridge and Kathleen had divorced in 1987, and it became obvious that G and Kathleen had more in common with each other than G and Eldridge had at that time. Kathleen had become a lawyer, and she had worked with the legal team for G. Eldridge was elated that G had gotten released from prison, but he had little involvement in revolutionary politics.
Geronimo and my daughter Dana at my home on Bronson Street after his release from prison in 1997. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
Eldridge and I were never close, but we engaged in plenty of conversation and debate when we were together with G. He knew about the shoot-out and the role that Los Angeles played in the Party. We agreed that Huey Newton destroyed the organization, along with COINTELPRO. On May 1, 1998, at the age of sixty-two, Eldridge died of a heart attack in Pomona, California. I drove G to the service. It was a revolutionary funeral, in honor of his revolutionary past. Another chapter in Panther history ended.
In those days, G was in and out of town quite a bit. He traveled to Northern California to spend time with his wife, Asahki ji-Jaga, whom he had married while in prison, and their two children, Shona and Hiroji. He came to Los Angeles to work on his civil suit against the FBI and the City of Los Angeles for false imprisonment and violation of his civil rights, and to visit family and friends. Sometimes I would meet him in Hollywood at one of the swank hotels where he stayed. Other times, he would stop by my crib in West Los Angeles and hang out. He also traveled to Louisiana to check on his property and visit his people there. One time, when we were both in Louisiana, I toured his property. He had one of those nice Victorian framed houses; it was a pretty yellow with white trim and a quaint country backyard. At one point, he took me on a tour to the back of the house and into the garage. I immediately noticed that it had no windows. G told me that he spent a lot of his time in the garage whenever he was in Louisiana. He had spent eight years in solitary confinement, and I understood that his affinity for his garage was related to being institutionalized. I’ll never forget when he said to me, “When I was in the hole, the ants used to talk to me and bring me food.” I said to him, “You’ve got to break this habit, G. Brother, you are not in prison anymore.”
Because he had an interest in living in Africa and a desire to stay off the radar in the United States, G left America and emigrated to Tanzania, in eastern Africa. I was happy for him; I thought it was a beautiful transition and always wished that I could have made a move like that. In Tanzania, he worked with the local population to get fresh water pumped into the village and also helped them gain access to electricity. After courting Joju Cleaver, the daughter of Eldridge and Kathleen, the two eventually married.
On June 2, 2011, fourteen years after he had been released from prison, G died of heart failure while still living in Africa. The following month, we memorialized him at the Agape International Spiritual Center in Los Angeles, which was founded by Dr. Michael Beckwith, a famous new age spiritual leader. The service was packed, overflowing with supporters who admired and loved G. Lawyers, friends, and family spoke, and a moving video of his work in Tanzania was played. I was one of the three Black Panther Party members who gave a tribute to him at the service, along with Kathleen Cleaver and Ronald Freeman. As I spoke, I observed that G had become very humble after his release from jail; he had even forgiven those who were responsible for his serving all those years in prison. I talked about his work in Tanzania and about the strong love he had for black people. G was cremated in Africa, and his ashes were spread over Lake Victoria.
On that fateful morning of December 8, 1969, along with G, four other individuals had been arrested at the Pratt residence: Saundra Pratt, Kathy Kimbrough, Evon Carter, and Long John. Although none of us is really certain, G had heard that Saundra was killed by some mobsters she had previously worked with in New York. Long John, Kathy, and Evon were not charged with a crime. After Kathy and Evon were released, I lost contact with them. Long John remained loyal and committed to the Party. Against his lawyer’s advice, he came to our trial and bail hearings to support us, and he worked with the Free Geronimo Pratt Committee. Long John is now working as an independent contractor, specializing in automotive, plumbing, and electrical work. The bond we established back then remains to this day. I have the utmost respect for Long John’s dedication and hard work as a captain in the Party.
Captain Long John Washington of the Southern California chapter worked out of Central Headquarters. He worked hard to keep the rank and file out of danger. COURTESY OF JAMES SIMMONS
Two of the four Party members arrested at the Touré Center that morning, Sharon Williams and Craig Williams, disappeared from the Los Angeles scene shortly after the trial ended. They had elected to remain in the Party under Huey Newton’s leadership, and to this day, I am not sure what happened to them. Al Armour sided with Huey too. He and his wife, Norma, moved to Oakland, and Norma went to work alongside Ericka Huggins at the Panther Liberation School. At some point, Al moved back to Los Angeles and enrolled in college, earning a bachelor of arts degree from California State University, Long Beach. After he returned to Southern California, I would see him every now and then. I finally decided to stop by his house so we could talk things through and work out our differences. We discussed the good times at the Watts office and at the funeral home where he worked. We had supported each other through some difficult times as well. Those memories and the trust we had for each other was enough to let sleeping dogs lie.
Al eventually developed multiple sclerosis, a degenerative disease that attacks the nervous system. I continued to visit him every now and then after he was diagnosed in an effort to support my former comrade and give him company. I watched him deteriorate as his disease progressed, to the point where he was bedridden for the last ten years of his life. He and Norma had divorced by then, so his family took care of him at home, at least until he needed more medical attention. He died on April 12, 2013, in a convalescent home.
Ike Houston was also at the Touré house on the morning of December 8. After the trial and his acquittal, Ike eventually left California and moved to Detroit. Ike had some difficulties with substance abuse, but the last time we talked he told me that he had joined a recovery program and was trying to stay committed to sobriety.
After doing time in prison for the shoot-out with the highway patrol, Lux became a restaurant manager in West Los Angeles and is now busy raising a family. Bruce Richards did his time after his conviction for the police ambush that included Walter Touré Pope’s death. Bruce eventually moved to New York and is heavily involved in union organizing there. He and Lux are both involved with the Committee to Free Chip Fitzgerald. To date, Chip has served more than forty years in prison.
The five-hour shoot-out with the LAPD and SWAT at Forty-First and Central bound the rest of us together in history. We have carried the weight and trauma of that event throughout our lives. We were each affected differently, however; in part, it’s likely that our ability to manage and move forward was related to the support we received from family, friends, and other supporters. A few of us were able to live productive lives, while others suffered from myriad problems and psychoses.
Gil Parker was beaten severely on the roof that morning when SWAT first attacked. The police continued to brutalize him even after he was arrested. Despite the beatings, Gil managed to create a life for himself. He now works in Northern California, where he lives with his wife and children. Periodically, we call each other on the phone to check in. It’s always good to hear from Gil, and I’m so glad he survived the storm and is living a healthy and productive life.
Enjoying a meal in 2012 at the monthly Black Panther Party for Self-Defense Breakfast. The breakfast serves as a regular gathering place for us to maintain our camaraderie and to raise funds for political prisoners and those still suffering from the effects of the state war against us. We also honor our martyrs and engage newer activists. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
After the Party was shut down in Los Angeles, Roland Freeman became an insurance agent for a time. He left that industry to become director of a community youth-and-sports group home for at-risk boys. It was a good move for Roland, and it allows him to mentor and support young people, something he loves to do. Still committed to community organizing, Roland also became president of the local Universal Negro Improvement Association for a time. Currently, he is the primary organizer of the Black Panther Party Breakfast, a fund-raising and informational event held monthly at a soul food restaurant in Los Angeles.
Those of us who remain, and are able, gather regularly with other activists and supporters at the event to memorialize those we’ve lost and to raise money for political prisoners and prisoners of war. Roland has been gifted with a wonderful, supportive family who respects his commitment to keep the memory of the Southern California chapter alive.
Bernard Smith became a Muslim and changed his last name to Arafat. At the age of seventeen, Bernard was the youngest of the group who battled SWAT that morning. He served time in a juvenile correctional facility. He currently works with me at Citizen’s Realty as a real estate agent. He also drives big rigs when he is not selling property.
Childhood friend and Black Panther comrade Tyrone Hutchinson and me outside of the Panther Breakfast in 2012. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
After the split in the Party, three of the crew who fought SWAT on that long December day ended up staying with Huey: Tommye, Lloyd Mims, and Robert Bryan. I haven’t spoken with any of them since the verdict. I heard that Tommye became a lawyer, and I am not sure what happened to Robert Bryan. Of those three, Lloyd Mims may have had the most tragic experience, considering that what happened to him was foolish and unnecessary. During the trial, he skipped bail to go to Oakland and work with Huey. Apparently, he became one of Huey’s hit men. He was charged and convicted, with a guy named Richard Rodriguez, of killing James Carr, the “Jackal Dog.” I felt bad for them both that they had gotten sucked into Huey’s craziness. Mims was a cool cat who had helped us dig tunnels at Central. He was a relatively new member of the Party and had gotten spellbound by Huey’s mystique. He and Rodriguez were both sentenced to life in prison.
Like Roland and Lloyd, Paul Redd maintained his involvement with black liberation politics, and like Lloyd, his activism took a wrong turn. In 1971, Paul shot at two officers in a police car and jumped a fence as he ran to get away. The gun in his belt buckle went off and the bullets hit him in the jaw. After being taken to the hospital for treatment, Paul was arrested and sent to prison. He did about six years in Soledad. When he came back to the community, Paul was never the same. His wife claimed that while he was imprisoned, doctors performed a lobotomy on him to reduce his tendency for violence. Whatever happened in the joint, Paul never recovered from it. He became reclusive and hard to get a hold of. At one point, he was homeless. His parents are doing their best to take care of him.
Premature death took the lives of Will Stafford, Jackie (Pee Wee) Johnson, and Peaches. Will became involved with the Black Guerilla Family and got killed in Oakland in the 1980s. Before Will’s death, he and I talked periodically, and he told me he was working with Doc Holiday, who was a big dope dealer. Pee Wee became a handyman and an alcoholic. He died in the 1990s of cirrhosis of the liver. Renee “Peaches” Moore, a mother of two, died a few years ago of cancer. She remained a community activist until the end. She was most passionate about legalizing marijuana.
Members of the Black Panther Party at Roland Freeman’s house after a monthly Party breakfast. These original Panthers demonstrate their continuing commitment with a power to the people salute. Left to right: Hank Jones, Joe Rice (Communist Party), Wayne Pharr, Roland Freeman, and Minister of Culture Emory Douglas. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
As with G, Melvin “Cotton” Smith’s life became steeped in controversy. After turning state’s evidence against us, Cotton was in some kind of witness protection program. Two decades had passed and I had not heard much about Cotton, except that he was living down south. Then I read in the newspaper that Cotton had killed two guys, whom he thought were members of the Black Liberation Army. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison and eventually died locked up.
I suspect that Cotton was paranoid, considering his role in the trial and the rumors about him being a snitch while he was in the Party. Cotton had turned on us in the end, but I don’t believe that he was a snitch while we worked together for two reasons. First, when the raid jumped off, Cotton was the only person in the house who was awake. I was asleep; it was Cotton who woke me and told me that the police were out there. If Cotton had been a police agent, he could have just let them in and hit all of us—it would have been much easier and a much more successful operation for them if done that way. Second, Cotton got the Thompson machine gun and opened up on the police while he was behind me. If Cotton had been an agent at the time, he could have shot me in the back instead of shooting the police. He handled himself like a comrade, not an agent. What I believed happened is that he was afraid for his life after Huey set him up in Dallas. He thought G was going to kill him because he led G, Roland, and the other brothers in Dallas to the area where they were arrested under the direction of Huey. Knowing that he had been set up by Huey and then was under the suspicion of G, Cotton probably thought the safest route was to work with the cops. He wanted to stay alive.
As for me, after leaving Louisiana, I returned to Los Angeles, married Carmen, and had another baby girl, Dana. I focused on building a strong business and strong family. My real estate business prospered until 2007, when I had a stroke and lost my ability to hustle like I used to. Pam, Sharon, and I raised our children as brothers and sisters who love and support each other. In the early years, after my sons were born, Pam would babysit Tammy if Sharon needed help. We made sure that the children spent time with each other. Now, Tammy and the boys have their own families, and I am a grandfather many times over.
One of the saddest moments in my life was when Nanny passed away in 2009. She was born in 1909, so she lived one hundred years. She saw a lot in those many years. She was a strong and patient woman. She knew how much I relied on her love and support and that I didn’t want her to leave this earth. She said to me right before she died, “Let me go now, Wayne.” Although I didn’t want to ever lose her, I don’t have the right to complain, because I was truly blessed to have had her in my life.
Nanny always got a chuckle when she thought of Uncle Edwin and me being in jail at the same time. When I was in jail for the shoot-out, Uncle Edwin and I actually saw each other in passing. He had been thrown in jail for a drive-by shooting—I often say he committed one of the first in Los Angeles. While at a gambling shack, Uncle Edwin believed the proprietor was trying to take advantage of him. So he left the joint and had his wife drive him back to the place, where he shot the guy from his car while the guy was coming out the door. After his release, I would see Uncle Edwin at family events. He died in the late 1970s from a stroke.
I lost my father in 1994 to diabetes and my brother Dru in 2000 to cirrhosis of the liver. In 1999, I went back to New Orleans to work with Dru, at his request. I appreciated my brother more than he ever knew. He gave me enough moral incentive to stay out of the dope business, and that put me on the track to righteous and dignified prosperity.
All things considered and relatively speaking, I have lived a fairly good life. Any real sadness I feel is related to the loss of friends and comrades, those who died very young, did or are still doing long stints in prison, or those suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Sometimes I think that I should have done more or that if I had been morally or spiritually stronger. Maybe I could have been a better resource for my friends, comrades, and partners.
After years of being apart, I am sitting with my father, Bill Pharr, in Gipson, Louisiana, in 1996. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
Of the Black Student Alliance, Jerry Moore changed his name to Morri Bey. He, perhaps, is the one who suffered least from direct repression from the system and also became the most educated. He joined the Moorish Science Temple and became an entrepreneur. On the other side were Baba (Ronald Preston) and Wendell, both of whom did eight years in San Quentin. They were convicted of the attempted murder of a local Communist Party leader in December 1969. They fled the country and were captured in Canada. I didn’t see Baba again until the 1990s. He is now a practicing chef and remains a community activist. Wendell was paroled to the San Francisco area and passed away fifteen years ago. Julius became an activist around food programs. He died about three years ago of stomach cancer. And then there was my homeboy Duck—Billy Dean Smith. He beat his fragging case, which turned into one of the biggest legal cases out of the Vietnam era. Not only was Luke McKissack his lawyer, but the whole antiwar movement fought for his freedom. Now he is back in prison, I’m not sure what for. But trouble seems to follow him.
Like Duck, trouble followed Harold Taylor. He became a telephone repairman in Miami, Florida, but was pulled back into the vortex of COINTELPRO in 2007 when he and seven other activists, the San Francisco 8, were arrested and charged with the 1971 murder of a police officer. Although Harold had been charged with the crime more than thirty years earlier, the case had been dropped due to insufficient evidence. After they were rearrested, Harold and the other defendants were viciously tortured by the police, who even used cattle prods on their genitalia, in order to force a confession out of them. After spending months in jail and raising bail money in the millions of dollars, all but two of the defendants were set free.
The treatment of the San Francisco 8 is a testament to the continued injustice inherent in this country. Like LAPD cops Cigar, Hole, and Fisher, who never had to pay for the beatings, harassment, and attempted murder of Party members, those cops who tortured Harold Taylor and his comrades will never be charged of a crime. I am not afraid to say that at this time, on this day, on this earth, an organization similar to the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense is still necessary.
Druice Pharr, Gale Madison (Dru’s half-sister), and me in New Orleans. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION
I have no illusions about a postracial society that supposedly came into being after Barack Obama became president. It is during this time and era that Oscar Grant, a young black man was shot and killed while lying facedown on the ground at Fruitvale Station in Oakland. The shooter, a police officer, was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and served less than a year in jail. The shooting and murder of the unarmed seventeen-year-old teenager Trayvon Martin by racist community watchman George Zimmerman is another example of the frailty of black life in this country. In the Zimmerman case, the attempt by the local government in Sanford, Florida, to avoid arresting Zimmerman by covering up his crime shows collusion and racism. It was only after weeks of protest and nationwide attention that the police in Sanford arrested Zimmerman. After going to trial, Zimmerman was found not guilty by a jury of women, mostly white. No black women were chosen to serve.
The environment that we live in still cries out for the need of organized self-defense to protect the black community. Christopher Dorner, perhaps more than anyone, highlighted the unequal justice in this country. Taking a page from Mark Essex, Robert Charles, and even Tommy “Ndugebele” Harper, Los Angeles police officer Dorner went on a killing spree to protest the LAPD’s racism and ultimate termination of his employment. Dorner, who hoped to be accepted as part of a team of police officers sworn to protect and to serve, found out that he wasn’t after accusing another officer of excessive force. Like O. J. Simpson, Dorner thought that he had become one of “them,” but when he found out he really wasn’t, he suffered psychosis or a mental breakdown.
In addition to self-defense, there is still a need to fight for affordable housing, jobs, a living wage, and adequate food and health care. Embracing Black Nationalism by advocating control of our own neighborhoods and cities could be a step in the right direction. Imagine if we were in control of a state, county, or even our city. Ronald Freeman might be a police chief or Long John a professor. Even Duck could have been a general. But people of color are still fighting for a fair chance at success. Sure, those people of exceptional ability can be incorporated into mainstream America, like Oprah, Magic, or Obama; they would be successful no matter the odds. But the real truth is revealed by how society treats the masses and those without exceptional talent or wealth.
Although I am not advocating violence, I know that sometimes you’ve got to be ready to fight. It is better to battle and lose than to run away while telling yourself you’ve won. From my experiences, I know that life can be up and sometimes down, but either way, we must keep our eyes on the prize.