Free Panther Baby by Jamal Joseph

under arrest,” a detective snapped, “and you stay back!”
    “Watch how you talk to my grandmother!” Th e anxiety I felt for myself was superseded by the protective love I felt for Noonie. I lurched toward the detective. Th e other cops instantly slammed me back into the wall.
    “I’m all right, son,” Noonie shouted. “Don’t fight them.” I looked up at Noonie. I could tell she was upset and confused, but her voice and eyes were calm. It helped me to cool down.
    Th e cops took me upstairs to my room and held me at gunpoint while they let me put on a pair of pants and a sweater over my pajamas. Th en they recuffed me and asked, “Where are the bombs and the guns?” I knew from the legal-aid classes I took in the Panthers that when dealing with the cops I shouldn’t make any statements, so I said nothing.
    Th ey began turning my room upside down. Th ey found a .32-caliber revolver and a military training manual. Th is made them tear shit up even more. Th en they yanked my Order of the Feather sweater from the closet, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Besides my Panther beret, the sweater was one of my prized possessions. “Don’t step on my sweater, motherfucker,” I said, lurching forward. Again, I was roughly restrained.
    “Get him out of here,” the detective barked.
    “Call the Panther office, Noonie,” I said as the cops whisked me by her. “Ask for Dhoruba or Lumumba. Th ey’ll get me out.”
    Dawn was breaking as I was led onto the street in handcuffs. I stopped in my tracks when I saw a dozen cop cars lined up in front of the building. More cops with rifles and combat gear stood poised to attack. My heart fluttered. Th ey’re ready to kill me, I thought. If I had leaped out a window, they would have gunned me down like a dog. Th e cops shoved me along and placed me in the backseat of an unmarked detective car. Detectives sat on either side of me.
    An older detective showed me pictures of various Panthers. First Lumumba Shakur. “Do you know him?”
    “No,” I replied.
    Next they showed me a photo of Afeni Shakur. “Do you know her?”
    “No,” I mumbled.
    Th en they showed me a mug shot of Eldridge Cleaver. “Do you know him?”
    “No.”
    Th e detective pointed at Eldridge. “You don’t know Eldridge Cleaver, minister of information of the Black Panther Party?” Now I said nothing.
    Th e detective closed his photo folder and spoke to the uniformed cop behind the wheel. “Let’s go.” Th e car pulled out.
    I just looked out the window as we raced through the streets, sirens blasting—cop cars in front of and behind us. I was a little shook up, but I was proud too. Being arrested at sixteen or any age for being a Panther was a mark of honor. It meant that you had become enough of a thorn in the system’s side for them to come after you. Typically, it would be a gun charge, disorderly conduct, or a trumped-up robbery charge. You would stay in jail for a few days or a month while the Black Panther Party raised your bail. Th en you would come out to a hero’s welcome at the Panther office. Brothers and sisters would applaud and embrace you. You would give a little “struggle continues” speech and then go to a reception at someone’s house complete with home cooked food, Motown on the stereo, and dancing into the wee hours.
    As we pulled up to the Tombs (the Manhattan House of Detention), I wondered what I had done to grab the pigs’ attention. Maybe I was being charged with inciting a riot for the Eldridge Cleaver/Rap Brown cloned speech I gave in a high school assembly one day. I got suspended from school for two days after calling the principal a fascist swine. Maybe he reported me to the police. Maybe one of the Uncle Tom students told them about the time my .32 revolver slipped out of my book bag and fell to the floor during the Black Student Association meeting. I took it as a cue to recite a Panther quote: “An unarmed people are subject to slavery at any