Saturday, February 28, 2015
Out In The Black Liberation Night- The Black Panthers And The Struggle For The Ten-Point Program- Thirteen- The Sons Of Franz Fanon
…he took the lashes, took the bitter lashes, the sable slave lashes in Pharaoh times, he took the ocean swells to the bottom unnoticed, Mister unnoticed, in Middle Passage time, he took the ebony lashes again in Mister Mississippi goddam plantation black code time, a time to make him studied ignorant, or else, ignorant of his history, of his past, of his kin except for hot sun cotton fields, and more hot sun cotton fields, he took the rope, he took the no hope, he took the Mister walk here, not there, sit here, not there, stand here, not there in Jim Crow time, he took his down-turned head in “talented tenth” time when he was not of the better sort, hell, he even kept that head down in “new negro” times when they were separating out the small pie portions. He, hell, he had had enough, enough of broken down internal rages, enough of unchallenged Mister hurts, enough of okie/arkie nobodies chanting jim, get backs, enough of every kind of glad hand indignity. Enough.
And then he found his way out, or a way out, then he remembered, if he remembered rightly, that all over the world in the old days in Russia cold places, red guard arms in hand, when he was just a kid in China places, people’s army arms in hand, right now, right this minute now, in Vietnam places where they were raising holy hell with Mister, with arms in hand, some of Mister’s own too, and above all in great Mother Africa, arms in hand, they were shoving Mister to the sea, if they let him get that far. Above all he remembered Algeria struggle, Algeria which he knew about from some brother telling him that this West Indian guy, this doctor, this head doctor, said that in the end if you didn’t pick up the gun, if you did not make a sacrificial act, if you just waited around for Mister to give you bread and butter that you would never right Pharaoh wrongs, Middle Passage wrongs, Mister plantation wrongs, Mister James Crow wrongs, hell even talented tenth and new negro wrongs (who were they to decide anyway). That anything that he was given without a righteous cleansing struggle would turn to ashes in his black-skinned mouth.
And so he picked up the gun, picked it up easily, laughingly (like armed Mister laughed) held it barrel to the blue sky in public, learned to shoot the damn thing, and felt himself purified, slave purified for once in his down presser man life, and walked with a certain swagger, an angel swagger, and when some Johnny Reb okie transplant tried to take his measure he just showed “the colors.” Beautiful to see that white ass turned, turned way around. And funny too others picked up the gun to avenge ancient hurts and they formed a brotherhood, solid, and declared, declared among themselves at first, until Mister heard it through the grapevine, that stinking new negro grapevine, war on that foreign country that he lived in, that Algeria in America country, like that head doctor talked about. And then things, thing started to get interesting, and bloody…