the country were looking to recruit him. Every week another famous track coach was in the house, trying to sell Cliff and Dad on his school. O.J. Simpson came up and personally flew Cliff down to L.A. to sell him on USC. We were all glad, though, when Cliff decided on the University of California at Berkeley. That meant big brother would be close by. Dad drove us up there practically every weekend so we could see Cliff run. We never missed a meet. It was wonderful to see my brother competing—and winning—at such a high level. It also brought me into brief contact with a whole new world of social unrest.
That world—the antiwar white college protestors as opposed to the black civil rights protestors—was foreign to us. I remember Cliff talking about how his roommate at Berkeley, a Jewish brother from the Bronx, had introduced him to a far-out guitar player named Jimi Hendrix.
“He’ll blow your mind, Corn” said Cliff. And he did.
That was cultural information about a radical black artist coming from a radical white brother. Things were changing, and they would change even more dramatically as I entered high school.
High school was heavy for several reasons. My political consciousness, especially after the assassination of Dr. King, was raised. My political involvement intensified. And so did my leadership position. First time I ran for president of the John F. Kennedy student body I was a junior. It turned into a funky affair. Those opposing me stuffed the ballot box and rigged the results. The school was only 10 percent black so they figured no one would care if the black guy lost. But because I was the overwhelming favorite, lots of people cared—so much so that they started talking about going to war with the cheaters. They were talking violence. Cries of “Right On! Right On!” were being heard as “Riot! Riot!”
They were waiting for me to give the word to go to war. I had to think about it. I was tempted. These were fiery times, and I was enflamed enough to see the school go up in flames. But I couldn’t. I didn’t see where it would do any good. Fact is, I saw it hurting the cause. It wasn’t that I wasn’t angry. Man, I was furious. The way they stole the election was cold-blooded. At the same time, though, busting some windows or busting some heads didn’t make sense. So I got the most radical folk together and told them, “Hey, we’ll get ’em next time. We’ll watch the ballot boxes like hawks. We’ll make sure it’s done on the up-and-up.” And special friends like Rick Delgado and Joanne Palmi helped sustain me.
And we did bounce back. Senior year I was elected president.
Throughout high school—and even a little earlier—I started hanging out at the Black Panthers party headquarters in Sacramento. Our proximity to Oakland lent our local Panthers extra passion. Huey and Bobby were around. I liked kicking it with those brothers and sisters because I recognized the legitimacy of their anger. I also recognized that they were saying things that needed to be said. I learned from their newspapers. I saw them as radicals disillusioned with the system, but I also saw them as servants. I saw them as brothers and sisters who loved their people.
At the same time, I had deep differences with the Panthers. I noticed, for example, that every time I’d go to their headquarters to hear a lecture or panel discussion, there was a poster or a piece in the newspaper featuring “handkerchief-head nigger of the week.” Without fail, the guilty party was a minister. Now many of these so-called ministers were pimping the people, no doubt about it. But I’d tell the Panthers, “Brothers, how come y’all don’t have no lawyers or doctors or accountants on your posters? Why always a preacher?”
The Panthers liked me because they saw I was student of black history. Even as a young teen I had read Martin and Malcolm. And I knew the work of Franz Fanon. They encouraged my reading but always
That world—the antiwar white college protestors as opposed to the black civil rights protestors—was foreign to us. I remember Cliff talking about how his roommate at Berkeley, a Jewish brother from the Bronx, had introduced him to a far-out guitar player named Jimi Hendrix.
“He’ll blow your mind, Corn” said Cliff. And he did.
That was cultural information about a radical black artist coming from a radical white brother. Things were changing, and they would change even more dramatically as I entered high school.
High school was heavy for several reasons. My political consciousness, especially after the assassination of Dr. King, was raised. My political involvement intensified. And so did my leadership position. First time I ran for president of the John F. Kennedy student body I was a junior. It turned into a funky affair. Those opposing me stuffed the ballot box and rigged the results. The school was only 10 percent black so they figured no one would care if the black guy lost. But because I was the overwhelming favorite, lots of people cared—so much so that they started talking about going to war with the cheaters. They were talking violence. Cries of “Right On! Right On!” were being heard as “Riot! Riot!”
They were waiting for me to give the word to go to war. I had to think about it. I was tempted. These were fiery times, and I was enflamed enough to see the school go up in flames. But I couldn’t. I didn’t see where it would do any good. Fact is, I saw it hurting the cause. It wasn’t that I wasn’t angry. Man, I was furious. The way they stole the election was cold-blooded. At the same time, though, busting some windows or busting some heads didn’t make sense. So I got the most radical folk together and told them, “Hey, we’ll get ’em next time. We’ll watch the ballot boxes like hawks. We’ll make sure it’s done on the up-and-up.” And special friends like Rick Delgado and Joanne Palmi helped sustain me.
And we did bounce back. Senior year I was elected president.
Throughout high school—and even a little earlier—I started hanging out at the Black Panthers party headquarters in Sacramento. Our proximity to Oakland lent our local Panthers extra passion. Huey and Bobby were around. I liked kicking it with those brothers and sisters because I recognized the legitimacy of their anger. I also recognized that they were saying things that needed to be said. I learned from their newspapers. I saw them as radicals disillusioned with the system, but I also saw them as servants. I saw them as brothers and sisters who loved their people.
At the same time, I had deep differences with the Panthers. I noticed, for example, that every time I’d go to their headquarters to hear a lecture or panel discussion, there was a poster or a piece in the newspaper featuring “handkerchief-head nigger of the week.” Without fail, the guilty party was a minister. Now many of these so-called ministers were pimping the people, no doubt about it. But I’d tell the Panthers, “Brothers, how come y’all don’t have no lawyers or doctors or accountants on your posters? Why always a preacher?”
The Panthers liked me because they saw I was student of black history. Even as a young teen I had read Martin and Malcolm. And I knew the work of Franz Fanon. They encouraged my reading but always
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