The original Black Panther Party founders
Other than one strange night in 1965, when I first encountered militant blacks, for the next three or so years, I deliberately kept my head down, and avoided confrontational politics. I was trying to finish my undergraduate degree. Besides, more and more angry groups were springing up, a lot of them clearly nuts, and I wasn't sure any more where the right side of history lay.
Iowa City was the first place I encountered real Black Panthers. By that time, I was in graduate school, getting my degrees in painting. Art had taken over most of my head, and the small amount of brain-space I had left over was devoted to feminism. There were numbers of Chicago blacks who came up to Iowa, then floated back to Chicago. Just from a distance, I liked the Panthers and the Chicago blacks, scary as they seemed. I liked their certainty and self-discipline. Being a Panther, however dangerous it was, seemed to offer more dignity, and more honesty.
It was pretty clear that America had loused up any idea of justice and equality. We were all living in the last gasp of a white supremacy America, although none of us knew it. As whitey, I could understand why the Panthers were hard for us to like, although many of us did. Martin Luther King, dressed in a suit, accompanied by other nicely dressed black people in suits and hat, plus your odd nun and priest tossed in, made for a sympathetic image. It appeared to me that as long as blacks looked respectable and were easy to beat up, white America would back King all the way, and keep it up for years. The Panthers were another matter. They didn't look nice and they carried guns.
The second feminist movement never modeled itself on the civil rights movement, although you might think it would be a natural. Maybe the reason for rejecting the King approach was that women had already been there, done that, got the t-shirt the first time around. They'd chained themselves in front of the white house, got hauled off to jail, got the crap beaten out of them, were force-fed etc., all while dressed as ladies.
Iowa City was the first place I encountered real Black Panthers. By that time, I was in graduate school, getting my degrees in painting. Art had taken over most of my head, and the small amount of brain-space I had left over was devoted to feminism. There were numbers of Chicago blacks who came up to Iowa, then floated back to Chicago. Just from a distance, I liked the Panthers and the Chicago blacks, scary as they seemed. I liked their certainty and self-discipline. Being a Panther, however dangerous it was, seemed to offer more dignity, and more honesty.
It was pretty clear that America had loused up any idea of justice and equality. We were all living in the last gasp of a white supremacy America, although none of us knew it. As whitey, I could understand why the Panthers were hard for us to like, although many of us did. Martin Luther King, dressed in a suit, accompanied by other nicely dressed black people in suits and hat, plus your odd nun and priest tossed in, made for a sympathetic image. It appeared to me that as long as blacks looked respectable and were easy to beat up, white America would back King all the way, and keep it up for years. The Panthers were another matter. They didn't look nice and they carried guns.
The second feminist movement never modeled itself on the civil rights movement, although you might think it would be a natural. Maybe the reason for rejecting the King approach was that women had already been there, done that, got the t-shirt the first time around. They'd chained themselves in front of the white house, got hauled off to jail, got the crap beaten out of them, were force-fed etc., all while dressed as ladies.
A lot of social justice boils down to images and metaphors, doesn't it? During that very messy time in American history, beginning around 1966, the left understood that much in a way old white men never would.
Ultimately, the music, and pictures stuck somehow. We still play Neil Young today, but you'd be hard put to find anyone absently humming Dean Martin hits to themselves.
And those Panthers. Take it from me, when they showed up for the party, that was when black got really beautiful.
Ultimately, the music, and pictures stuck somehow. We still play Neil Young today, but you'd be hard put to find anyone absently humming Dean Martin hits to themselves.
And those Panthers. Take it from me, when they showed up for the party, that was when black got really beautiful.
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