Will You Die with Me?: My Life and the Black Panther Party

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Overview

Amid the social turmoil of the 1960s and '70s, Flores Forbes was drawn to the Black Panther Party's mission of organizing resistance to police brutality. Eagerly joining the revolution, he soon found himself immersed in a culture of Mao-inspired rigor - and by the time he was twenty-five years old, he had earned a place in the Party's elite inner circle as a assistant chief of staff. Although ultimately his fierce dedication resulted in a deadly mistake that cost him his ...

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Will You Die with Me?: My Life and the Black Panther Party

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More About This Book

Overview

Amid the social turmoil of the 1960s and '70s, Flores Forbes was drawn to the Black Panther Party's mission of organizing resistance to police brutality. Eagerly joining the revolution, he soon found himself immersed in a culture of Mao-inspired rigor - and by the time he was twenty-five years old, he had earned a place in the Party's elite inner circle as a assistant chief of staff. Although ultimately his fierce dedication resulted in a deadly mistake that cost him his freedom, he finally got his life back after serving time in prison.

Now, in this remarkable memoir, Forbes vividly describes his transformation from an angry youth into a powerful partisan in the ranks of the black liberation movement. With intimate portraits of such BPP leaders as Elaine Brown, Eldridge Cleaver, and Huey P. Newton, Will You Die with Me? is a riveting firsthand look at some of the most dramatic events of the last century and a brutally honest tale of one man's journey from rage to redemption.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"This is a powerful telling of our story."

— from the Foreword by Elaine Brown

"Of all the books on the black panther party, few are as honest, self-critical, and chock-full of gripping detail as Flores A. Forbes's Will You Die With Me? It is at once a cautionary tale and a compelling story of a survivor."

— Herb Boyd, author of Black Panthers for Beginners

"[Flores Forbes's] story is the essence of what it means to pay personally for one's beliefs. He removes the romanticism from the legendary panthers and replaces it with a young man's journey through a world filled with violence, racism, and lies. There are not many who can recount this saga. In many ways, it is the american story and one well worth the wait."

— Kevin Willmott, writer and director of C.S.A.: The Confederate States of America

"Next time a talented tenther or a neoliberal tells you that we are living in a post-race America, refer them to this book. I couldn't put [it] down."

— Ishmael Reed

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780743482684
  • Publisher: Washington Square Press
  • Publication date: 7/10/2007
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 320
  • Product dimensions: 8.36 (w) x 7.12 (h) x 0.82 (d)

Meet the Author

Flores A. Forbes, recently profiled in Crain's New York Business, is the chief strategic officer of the Abyssinian Development Corporation in New York City.

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Read an Excerpt

1

I was twelve years old that day in 1964, riding my brand-new Sting-Ray bicycle up the hill from my parents' home on Forty-seventh Street in Southeast San Diego. When I reached the intersection of Forty-seventh and Market, I could hear the tires of a car slowly following behind me on the gravel of the parking lot. I stopped at the light and heard a man with a distinctly Southern drawl call out, "Boy, come over here."

I was pretty scared by the time I turned around and saw two white policemen just getting out of their cruiser. The officers came over to me and said, "Would you come with us?" I started looking around for help. I wanted to shout, but nothing came out of my mouth. I was terrified. The policemen took my bike and put it in the trunk of their car, opened the back door, and told me to get in. People in their cars were looking at this scene, but they just passed on by. Like a frightened fool and the innocent I was, I hopped in. There was some degree of positive excitement: I was getting a ride in a police car. They drove me up the hill on Market Street toward downtown San Diego.

After a ten or fifteen-minute ride, they pulled into a residential area just short of downtown and drove up to several other police officers and a white couple. The car stopped and the cop on the passenger side got out and walked over to the group of people and pointed back toward me while explaining something. The couple walked over to my side of the car and peered in. They looked at me, then at each other, before the white man shook his head. He took the woman by her hand and walked back toward the policemen, who returned to the car, then drove me back to Forty-seventh Street and pulled into the parking lot I was kidnapped from. There was this huge crowd of people, and standing in the center was my mother. The policemen stopped, got out, and went around to open the trunk and get my bike. My mother, with the crowd of neighbors in tow, approached the cops, asking, "What are you doing with Flores? Did he do anything?" The cop got my bike and told my mother to "back off, bitch. This is official police business." My mother stopped in her tracks. This was the first time I ever saw my mother kill someone with a look. They let me out of the car. I ran to grab my bike and get near my mother. No sooner did this happen than the police car pulled off, spinning its tires in the gravel and kicking up rocks and dirt as it dipped into the street and drove away. For me, this was strike number one against the police.

The second strike came just two years later. It was nighttime and I was jogging around the track up at Lincoln High School, about two long blocks from my house. I was playing Pop Warner football, and I was two or three pounds overweight. So I wrapped my body from the waist up in cleaner's plastic underneath my workout clothes so that I could sweat the pounds away. I ran hard to the top of the hill where Lincoln High School sat. Tomorrow was Saturday and also game day, and I really wanted to play. On one corner, where the old Hudson store used to be, was a dance hall for young people. This was Friday night and it was packed. I could just barely hear the Temptations' latest record, "It's Growing," over the outside speaker. I turned left at the intersection and carefully crossed the street and headed toward the track. I crawled under the fence surrounding the track and began sprinting. I had been running for about fifteen minutes when I saw dozens of police cars racing past the track, headed for the dance hall. The young blacks at the dance were restless or something, or maybe it was the first signs of rebellion in San Diego, but they started throwing rocks, bottles, and what have you at the policemen, who had taken up positions behind their cars. The police made a push and everyone outside of the dance started to break for it, scattering down Forty-seventh Street and Ocean View Boulevard. Many were heading toward the campus. I continued my workout. Then this spotlight started following me as I ran around the track. Innocent and unsuspecting, I continued to run, thinking only about losing the weight and showing Coach Wallace that I was not the "lazy slob" he had called me at our last practice. All of a sudden I could see cop cars lining up along the fence just above the depressed field I was running on. As San Diego cops in beige uniforms began climbing the fence, I heard one of them say, "Here's one running down the track." I kept going, and as I made the turn, this one cop who was near me hit my legs with his club. The blow knocked me off my pace and I tumbled to the ground. I was then hit again with a club and kicked several times. Several cops with clubs, flashlights, and scowling faces surrounded me. One black cop interceded. It was Mr. Cunningham, the first black policeman I knew of in San Diego and the father of Marty, a friend. He walked over quickly and pulled me up and toward him with one hand while he pulled my sweatshirt hood off my head with the other. He flashed his light in my face.

"What are you doing up here running from us?" he said.

"I'm trying to make my weight for tomorrow, Mr. Cunningham," I said, almost crying.

The other cops pulled at me and jostled me before Mr. Cunningham said, "My God, this is the Forbes boy; he goes to school with my kid." They calmed down then. One of them said, "Get out of here and run home as fast as you can."

I broke the grip they had on me, ran to the fence, scaled it, and headed home. My heart was still pounding into the next day at the game. Two years later, when it finally dawned on me that there was something wrong with how the police had treated me, I got mad and wanted revenge.

This was actually an unusual occurrence for my quiet neighborhood and me. In the black community of Southeast San Diego, it had always been relatively quiet and safe. There was a time when you could leave your front doors open and unlocked. The community was populated with stable families. Everybody on my block and most of the people I knew had two parents. The single-parent households could be counted on one hand. However, we weren't without our problems. After saving every penny he could, plus his GI Bill voucher for housing, my father had attempted to purchase a home outside of Southeast San Diego in an area called Allied Gardens/Princess View Manor. This location was just east of the area called Hotel Circle, where Jack Murphy Stadium was located. His contract to purchase the home was blocked as the broker tried to steer him to another area that was predominately black.

Welcome to sunny San Diego.

It wasn't just mistreatment by police and the housing discrimination against my parents that motivated me to want to fight to change things and eventually join the BPP. Much of it had to do with the example my parents set, always trying to help people in general and our homeboys in particular. Both Fred and Catherine Forbes were extremely active in the black community of Southeast San Diego. They worked with and led the Horton Elementary School PTA. My mother was the president. My father was a scoutmaster with the Boy Scouts, and my mother was a den mother with the Cub Scouts. My father was a Little League coach, and both of my parents were very active in the church. Watching them working to help many of my friends made a lasting positive impression on me.

Copyright ©; 2006 by Flores Alexander Forbes

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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 22, 2013

    BROKENKIIS LOCKED OUTT

    Yes

    Was this review helpful? Yes  NoThank you for your feedback.   Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2013

    Musicbase

    *checked the herb store and noticed chervil was missing. She went to go find some*

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2013

    Iceclaw

    Sleeps on the floor

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2013

    MEDCAT DEN

    A den filled with everything a medcat needs to help others. Is under a formation of large rocks that maks a natural roof.

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  • Posted January 26, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    The Autobiography of Malcolm X
    Angela Davis: An Autobiography
    Assata: An Autobiography

    One of the best books ever by a former BPP member!!!

    I have read books from several former BPP members, but this book has officially become my favorite. Forbes expresed what it was like to be a part of something thought to be worth dying for, only to find out that you've lost your purpose along the way. This book goes in depth about the life of a Panther after finding out the revolution is TBA.

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