The Final Farewell[1] Suddenly, a heavy hush came over the room. You knew even without being told or looking around that the family was entering the chapel. Slowly, they came down the aisle led by Percy Sutton's son, Pepe. Immediately, I noticed something different. It was his clean-shaven head. Even so that pronounced change could not divert attention away from the heavy burden he was bearing. His arms were around his mother's shoulders. She was literally hanging on to him. They paused before the coffin, nodded to each other, and then went to their front seats. Still intertwined, they sat, bodies slightly stooped, and received a line of sorrowing mourners. I often wondered if this tradition was helpful, especially when mourners -- practically strangers, and/or had no little, or a strained relationship with the deceased. Some even asked, in words or looks, "Do you know who I am, or do you remember me? Your grandmama's third cousin married your grandpa, John Henry…Remember?" Or some people want to engage in conversation repeating hackneyed, worn-out phrases, all the while trying to look you in the eyes to make sure you know who they are and what they are saying. I always wondered if it doesn't add to the burden of the bereaved -- another something with which they are obligated to respond. I remember the Bible story of Job. Everybody has read or heard about the suffering of Job. His three friends came to comfort him. They sat for three days and nights never saying a word. Then when they spoke, they said all the wrong things. Finally, Job weighed down with grief, summoned enough indignation to say, "Miserable comforters are ye all. Would to God you have kept your mouth shut." After pondering these thoughts, when the line was exhausted, I took a chance, haltingly, and I went to Mrs. Sutton and Pepe. I knelt and looked into her eyes. I don't know if I've ever seen a human body in a more contorted pain. She is of small stature but seemed even smaller now as if the pain inside was drawing her into a knot -- perhaps that's how she felt. Our eyes met, and neither of us said a word -- but we knew. We felt! We shared! There was no need for word noise. I turned toward Pepe, the same interaction. I'm not sure if he even recognized me. I wasn't about to try to find out. Later, as we prepared to enter the sanctuary, we faced each other again. This time he said, "Thanks for being here and all you have done." I nodded and mumbled, "For me, there's nowhere else to be." I said to myself, "That is exactly what his father would have said and the way he would have said it." It was time to march into the sanctuary. The mortician gave directions, "Please back away. Let the family closer before we close the casket. The ministers will say prayers, and this is the way we will line up. Program participants will go first, and then the casket followed by the ministers; then the staff followed by the VIPs." There followed a sad spectacle of selfish projection. Instructions were ignored. People still jockeyed for space. "Please stand back. Please let the program participants pass. Please let the family though. Please let the casket out," repeated the mortician. After a herculean effort, success was achieved. What took place in the smaller chapel with the family and VIPs was happening in the sanctuary. Reserved seats meant nothing. Uninvited occupants claimed seats and refused to move. "Please move and make room for the family," said first the usher and then the security all to no avail. They harassed and overextended staff—some, inexperienced, were doing the best they could. But the task was much too large. The church was packed with human bodies, a few people standing (mostly security), all seemingly on the move, uncertain which way was trying to follow mixed signals. When the big doors to the sanctuary were shut, crowds stood outside holding up green wristbands. Others claimed to be family members. After observing the scene for a while, I decided I had enough. I've seen it all from the greeting hall to the chapel and in the sanctuary. Most of all I had a moment with the family. They were bearing it all with remarkable dignity, strength, and extraordinary courtesy that I am sure pleased Percy who was somewhere watching. Always, I feel bound to commend the family and funeral arrangers in these high-profile cases. What an awesome task it is to satisfy all concerns and interests. They usually do a great job. The mistakes, which are generally few, are understandable. And I had a moment with old struggles and with the body of Percy Sutton. There was nothing left but speeches and prayers by people I knew so well and pretty much knew what they would say. I had been with all of them at other funerals. Better, I thought, to let someone have my seat. And most of all, I wanted to be alone. I guess I'm one of those rare, old dogs who prefer to bear his pain alone -- to crawl up under the house and hurt and weep. The deeper the pain, the deeper the desire to be alone. Of course, when I have had to live through the grief of transitioned loved ones, I have submitted myself to the traditions and sincerely thanked all of the supporters and sympathizers. Moving On[2] Lost in memories, I returned home from Percy Sutton’s memorial services and made myself comfortable. Then the telephone calls came. Would I agree to do an interview with a couple of television stations on the subject of the term “Negro” being included in the U.S. Census questionnaire? I said yes; I would do the interview with TV 11 in front of the Riverside Church. It was around 5 p.m. when Monica Morales of TV 11 and the cameraman drove up. She asked about the use of the word “Negro” in the Census questionnaire, and I responded: "There is a cruel irony about this term being used and becoming public on the same day of the funeral of a man who did so much for so many, especially for people of African ancestry. He tried to empower minorities economically and politically. He understood the importance of culture. And here we are talking about Negroes today. We, people of African ancestry, decided a long time ago we no longer wanted to be called niggers, Negras, Negroes, or Colored. Every individual and/or people has a right to define themselves and the world should accept the definition. We are a people of African ancestry with a magnificent history whose ancestors made great contributions to civilization. Our pigmentation is black. We resurrected the majesty and the beauty of blackness. “I am suspicious of the reference Negro. Is it an attempt to turn back the clock, to return to Jim Crow, to segregation? How far back, back to slavery? But we are not going back. Percy Sutton and others have brought us this far." After the interview, fighting the strong wind blowing across the Hudson River, I made my way to the car. To be continued…

I gave him another embrace. It pleased me greatly to hear someone I admired and knew Percy say what I always felt and believed about Percy's feelings toward me. Now it was confirmed. Dr. Roscoe Brown—one of the Black Eagles, Tuskegee Airmen, the African American fighter pilots famous for their exploits during World War II— moved towards the coffin slower than most of the mourners. Roscoe owned the distinction of being the first pilot to shoot down a German jet. We discussed the New York Yankee Council, a group that he, Judge Laura Blackburn, and I, with the New York Yankee President George Steinbrenner formed. It came as a result of derogatory remarks made by one of the executives of that New York baseball franchise. We sought and received a meeting with Mr. Steinbrenner and encouraged him to become more responsive to the black community in general and the Bronx in particular. Out of this meeting was born the New York Yankee Council funded by Mr. Steinbrenner. Roscoe who was also president of Bronx Community College became president of the Council following the presidency of Bob Williams. I asked him about the next meeting. I said, "Now that the Yankees have won the World Series, they ought to make available more funds." He replied, "The meeting will take place." I always liked Dr. Brown. His support was always consistent even on the most controversial issues. One of my touching recollections of Dr. Brown happened over thirty years ago. I was becoming a vegetarian, and my body reflected the change. My face had begun to look gaunt and sallow. I had all the appearance of a very sick man. Roscoe gingerly came to me, choosing his words very carefully, and said, "We have been observing you, and you're not looking well. I have been delegated to approach you and ask you how you are doing, and if there is anything we can do for you." I was so moved. I said, "I love you very much. I appreciate your concern, but I am becoming a vegetarian, thus I am going through changes. But I will be all right shortly." Dr. Brown smiled. A conspicuous relief enveloped him. More Memories and Reflections When I looked up, New York Governor David Paterson and Rev. Al Sharpton were heading towards the coffin. I approached the governor with a hello and an embrace. I said to him, "How are you doing, man? I want you to know that we are praying for you all the time." He smiled and said, "Hi Reverend, you have a birthday coming up soon?" I responded, "Man! How do you remember that? All of the stuff on your head, how do you remember my birthday?" I asked rhetorically. Then I recall at the Democratic Convention in 2009, he remembered my daughter Leah's birthday and sent her flowers. I was startled then and even more so now. I wanted to ask him how he planned to participate in the funeral and be in Albany by 1 p.m. for the Annual State of the State Address. I later turned on the television, and there he was sternly announcing a new day in Albany in which ethics would be high on the agenda. Charlie Rangel stood long at the coffin. He seemed more devastated than all the rest. As he passed me, I hesitated to disturb his thoughts. He looked up and said, "Hi, Reverend" shaking his head, "How's the family? How are you doing?" I responded, "I'm doing well under the circumstances. These are challenging times." He nodded his head and moved away. I always liked Charlie Rangel. To me, he has always been a gentleman in the best sense of that word, and the consummate elected official. The Rev. Jesse Jackson, along with his daughter, Santita, seemed to appear out of nowhere. That's probably the way Jesse wanted it. As always, his head seemed to be above the crowd. He seemed to be all-surveying and all-knowing. Without fanfare, we greeted each other. I think we have a mutual admiration society. No matter how long the distance since our communication we always knew our affection for each other was intact. “How are you doing? How's the family?” I asked. “Everybody's fine. How is yours?” he responded. “Everybody's okay,” I said. As he walked away, I thought to myself he will always be my hero. I will always be grateful for the years that we spent struggling and traveling together. I learned so much from him. I remembered when he did the eulogy for Jackie Robinson in this same church in 1972. I could still hear the smooth, melodious voice of Roberta Flack singing, "I told Jesus he could change my name…" There was an incident in the 1984 presidential campaign that came to mind. Jesse or his staff had made some moves that deeply disturbed me. After a long day of campaigning, I cornered him in his hotel room. In the strongest language, I could command, I criticized him. He was so hurt and startled that he called Percy that same night. The next day, Percy called me and said, “Jesse called me last night or early this morning. What did you say to him? He said you accused him of giving away our campaign. You need to go back and talk to him. He's under a lot of pressure. He needs us.” I humbly responded, “Yes, Mr. Chairman. I will call him immediately.” Which I did. The Chairman had spoken. Who could do otherwise? As Jesse moved further down the aisle, I looked back at Percy and smiled, and said to myself, "Yes, Mr. Chairman." Hazel Dukes, a National Board member of the NAACP and a veteran activist, was an early arrival. We waved at each other, seeming to share the sorrow of a mutual loss. I wondered how many times we have been sharing the pain of tragedy, death, and violence. So many, many funerals we have attended. So many, many times we have been on the frontlines of so many, many battles. I waved at John Edmonds across the aisle. He was a member of the conglomerate that participated with Sutton in various enterprises. He is a big man with a big round face, all of which seemed to heighten and enlarge his sorrow. He radiated a pain that was huge. We exchanged no words. We simply nodded. We knew what each felt. Eric Eve was there. After embracing, we discussed his new job as New York City Deputy Comptroller. He had been a vice president of Citibank. Eric was a little boy running around the house with his brother and sister when I first saw him. I had organized a couple of buses filled to capacity to support his father Arthur Eve in his run for the mayoral seat in Buffalo, New York. I spent the last week of the campaign living with the Eves in their home, daily campaigning with Arthur. I was there the night Arthur celebrated winning the Democratic Primary. Afterwards, we went to a soul food restaurant called Gigi. Eric was always pleasant, and mannerly, and had been very helpful to many community leaders and organizations. He thought that the time had come for him to move on to another job. However, he assured me that all the right people were in the right places. To be continued…

The last time I saw him was at the funeral of his nephew Chuck Sutton. It was at Riverside Church too. Percy was slumped over in a wheelchair, but his eyes were still clear, and his mind was lucid. I bent over and whispered to him, “Mr. Chairman, how good it is to see you, always.” He responded, his voice barely above a whisper, “You’re so special. You’ve come all the way from New Jersey just to be with us. You’re so special.” What a remarkable man, I thought, even in his bereavement and bodily debilitation he was still trying to honor and lift my spirit. What better way to attempt to sum up the life of this giant than to repeat his words, “You’re special.” That is the way he viewed all of us whatever station in life we held, whatever the complexion, political ideology, or religious creed, we were special. What can we say other than, “Mr. Chairman, what you said about us, you’re the same, and that goes double.” A paragraph in his obituary captures the man: “A loving family man, a savvy politician, a mentor, a sage, a man who spoke truth to power, a man who gave to others, a man who treated all the same, a consummate orator, a weaver of tales, a man who made you feel special like along lost friend even after a few minutes together, the family patriarch, who made you feel like he was yours and yours alone; a good father, a good husband and an elegant gentle soul. Summing the life of such an iconic person is nearly impossible.” Thank God for the hope that death does not make a final end. Beyond the grave, there is another reality, and the Bible teaches it is a reality whose beauty is beyond human description. In that new reality, we shall meet again and there will be no more parting of the ways. Goodnight Mr. Chairman, old warrior, beloved friend, I will see you in that new reality one morning soon. When Old Friends Gathered at the Viewing It was a bitterly cold morning as we drove across the George Washington Bridge to Riverside Church. I wondered how many funerals I have attended at this world-famous edifice. I remembered the last time was for the funeral of Chuck Sutton, the nephew of Percy Sutton. It was 9 a.m. when we pulled up to the church. About thirty well-wishers had already lined up in front of the church. They were bundled up from head to toe with coats, scarves, blankets, ear-muffins, hats, and only God knows what else. They greeted me with broad smiles and enthusiastic hello's as I walked down the line shaking hands with each one. When I entered the church, I was led to a large waiting hall next to the gym. From there, I was guided to the chapel. There were three areas in the mammoth church that had been arranged to accommodate the people. As you enter, to the right, was the large hall (to which I already referred), where there were hot beverages served. Next to the hall was the chapel. There was a huge ornate sanctuary where the ceremony would take place. In the chapel, Percy Sutton lay in a casket opened to the family, VIP's, and close friends. Green wristbands and reception tickets were given to the appropriate persons. When we entered the chapel, there were only a few people in the rear. When we entered the chapel, there were only a few people in the rear. Among them was another nephew of Percy Sutton. For ten minutes we shared memories. "I was with my uncle the night before he passed. He was still concerned about us." I shared with him how often Percy visited my church. Then I was given a piece of information that answered a question my wife and I had pondered for a long time. I mentioned the occasion of Percy's coming by himself it seemed as though he had been hospitalized. The nephew said, "Yes, he had fallen and broken his hip." I said, "Oh, that's the answer." For a few minutes, my wife and I had the chairman to ourselves. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit with a slight pinstripe. His tie, clasped at the neck of his white shirt, was a mixture of blue and red dot. He looked as he always did -- well-groomed. His face was peaceful with a faint smile as if to say, "I have done my job, I finished my course, I've kept the faith, and now I go to meet my Maker." I stared long at the body before me. I wanted to bend over and embrace him as I was accustomed and whisper in his ear what I've always said to him, "Man, we love you. You've done so much for us. We honor you and thank you for everything." I restrained myself and settled for a touch of his tie. I walked back to my seat. The first VIP to enter was former Mayor David Dinkins preceded by his wife Joyce. He walked down the short aisle, sadly shaking his head. I affectionately greeted him. I always thought we had a special relationship. David and I looked knowingly into the eyes of each other. We could only shake our heads. He whispered as he walked towards the casket, "And then there were three." It was a reference to Congressman Charlie Rangel, Basil Paterson, and himself. They had been called the Gang of Four. I think that name for the four was first used among African Americans in New York City in 1985. We had formed a Coalition for A Just New York in an attempt to empower New Yorkers, particularly so-called minorities. When the mayoral race commenced, some members had selected Herman Badillo as the mayoral candidate, and Al Vann for Brooklyn Borough President. Many of us knew nothing of this plan. At the 11th hour, we gathered at Astor Place to vote our choices. Herman Farrell who was then-Assemblyman and Manhattan Borough Democratic County Leader threw his hat in the race. After a long and heated debate through the night, the majority of the assemblage voted for Herman Farrell. It fractured the organization and opened wounds that were years in healing. There were those who believed that Herman Farrell's entrance into the race was the doings of Paterson, Dinkins, and Rangel. They wanted to get even with Badillo for not supporting the mayoral quest of Percy Sutton in 1977. They were called the Harlem Gang of Four. Obviously, the fourth person was Herman Farrell (not Percy Sutton). No such thing had taken place. The mistake was, that is made so often, that a deal had been formulated without the participation of the larger body. Basil Paterson, longtime Democratic power player and the father of the present governor, face lit up as did mine once we saw each other. It had been a long time since we had seen each other. I think it was during the last Transport Workers Union (T.W.U.) strike in 2006. We met in a hotel room with the TWU President Roger Toussaint, his staff, and advisors to strategize regarding the strike and the city's response. We exchanged old battles and talked about our children. Basil pulled Clarence Jones into the conversation and rehearsed the history of Sisters Against South African Apartheid (S.A.S.A.A.) He remembered that my wife was bemoaning the treatment of black South Africans and complained that no one was doing anything. I said to my wife, "Why don't you do something?" After a moment of anger, she took up my challenge. Thus, was born S.A.S.A.A. and all of the great work that it did. Clarence Jones had been Dr. Martin Luther King's attorney and confidante. He was a partner of Percy on various business ventures. I introduced my wife to him. "This is my hero," I said. "He was with Dr. King from the beginning to the end. He has been a consistent source of great encouragement and inspiration to me." "You have always been consistent through the years,” Jones responded. “I know how Percy felt about you, and how you felt about him. I know because Percy often talked about you." To be continued…

I want to cite some of the more prominent politicos of the times. I do this for two reasons: I want to continue emphasizing my church’s deep involvement in the movement, especially the political movement. Secondly, several of the persons that I’m going to write about are deceased. In my room to be published, “The Passing of the Giants of the Human Spirit”, I write about them. So, I get a chance to promote my book. The first person that I am going to write about is Percy Sutton. Percy Sutton and I were the closest of friends. A finer human being I’ve never met. But in the following article, I will write about our association. Percy E. Sutton Born: November 24, 1920, San Antonio, Texas Died: December 26, 2009, New York, New York Reflection on the Life and Times of Percy E. Sutton He Was There for All of Us Today, January 13, 2010, I celebrate my 79th birthday. I can think of no better way to celebrate it than to initiate a series of articles of reflections on a man I believe was one of the finest human beings who ever lived anywhere at any time. While no words could ever fully express my love and admiration for the “Chairman,” I hope and pray that I have, at least, expressed a measure of what I feel about Percy Ellis Sutton and his family. Like a steadily flowing flood, tributes came from near and far, rich and poor, black and white, religious and non-religious, high and low, even from the President of the United States, and rightfully so. He deserved it all and more. Yet, when all the words have been uttered and written, when all the tributes have been put at his feet, they wouldn’t have told the whole story of this man named Percy Ellis Sutton. Indeed, you cannot fully understand and appreciate the person they called the “Chairman,” apart from his family—father, Samuel, and mother, Lillian, siblings, the Lone Ranger of Western movies. He rode in when there was a need and rode out not waiting for thanks and not waiting for thanks and accolades. Contrary to the popular notion regarding strength and toughness, Percy was strong and tough and yet profoundly humble. He was meek, let me hasten to add, meek like Moses of the Holy Bible, which describes Moses as meekest above all men. In fact, as I pondered the characteristics of Percy they were strikingly similar to the qualities that I studied in Moses: perseverance, patience, courage, creativity, intelligence, persuasiveness, eloquence, vision, audacity, indomitability, leadership, compassion, skilled communicator, God-consciousness and a mystical oneness with his people. How else can we explain why he was able to rise so high, starting so low? His father had been a slave who later sired 15 children. Percy was the youngest. The old man taught his children well—discipline, hard work, commitment, fairness or the Golden Rule, the importance of education, and the love of family. Percy, as did all the children, thoroughly internalized the lessons. They became a family of achievers including scientists, doctors, lawyers, educators, union organizers, entrepreneurs, judges, elected officials, and public servants. How many of us could hold three jobs and go to school? He worked as a post office clerk, a subway conductor, and as a waiter at Lundy’s Restaurant in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, on the weekends. He arrived at law school at 9:30 each morning and for three years this grueling schedule continued until his graduation. Meanwhile, he and Leatrice were raising two children. He became an honest, competent attorney at law, establishing a law partnership with his brother Oliver. How else can we explain his success in the political jungle? He became one of the most powerful politicos in New York City. He was an elected New York State Assemblyman, was an organizer and founding member of the New York State Black and Puerto Rican Legislative Caucus in the New York State Assembly, and he served as Manhattan Borough President for 11 years. In 1977 he made a historic run for mayor of New York City. I was among the first to endorse him. Percy’s influence was felt nationally and internationally. How else can we explain how he became a Tuskegee Airman—a Black Eagle—zooming through the sky doing battle far above the clouds? The Black Eagles never lost a bomber. The white pilots who resisted their participation eventually fought to have their skill, dexterity, and bravery escort them on their bombing raids. Yes, he was like Moses. He was a statesman, judge, lawgiver, teacher, organizer, motivator, and liberator. Without controversy, we as a people could not have gotten this far in our journey without Percy. While we have not reached the Promised Land—we are still in the wilderness— we have been freed from some of the chains of the past. Like the old preacher said, “We ain’t where we want to be, and we ain’t where we gonna be, but thank God we ain’t where we used to be.” Thanks, in no small measure, to Percy Ellis Sutton. Percy joined us anyway. He had one condition that I will never forget and which I confess I have used often. His condition was that he did not want to stay around once he completed his task. “I will be glad to march with you and do whatever you ask me,” he said. “But when my assignment is done, I need to leave immediately. If I stay around people will bombard me with requests for help, and if I cannot deliver, they will be disappointed, and I will be frustrated.” Percy was with us when we went to jail on the South African issue. When Randall Robinson, then chair of Trans-Africa, former Congressman Walter Fauntroy, and historian and civil rights scholar Mary Frances Berry were arrested for protesting the apartheid system at the South African Embassy in Washington, D.C., in 1984, it ignited a “Free South Africa Movement.” There were pervasive arrests across the country as countless angry protesters, including well-known celebrities of every stratum, went to jail. During the 1980s, I chaired the National Black United Front (N.B.U.F.). Current City Councilman Charles Barron was then my chief of staff, and I asked him to assist in coordinating the Free South Africa civil disobedience in New York. New York’s most prestigious personalities, including former Mayor Dinkins, and Congressman Charles Rangel, in fact, all the top politicos lined up to go to jail, as did Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee, and other notable artists and athletes. Percy made an extraordinary request. He wanted to go to jail at a time when he could take his family with him. When that day arrived, Percy Sutton with his children submitted to the Jr.'s birthday. We wanted to march from the Church to City Hall. When we got to Brooklyn Bridge, we were prevented from taking the roadway. Police insisted we march along the pedestrian route. Tension erupted as we argued with the police and continuous police enforcement crowded the area. I remember Percy standing with us calmly and unruffled. He provided protection and leadership. No one was hurt. One person was jailed but this was because of other issues. Another memory I recall was just a few years ago when Percy was at the church for a Kwanzaa program featuring Dr. Maulana Karenga, founder of the Afrocentric celebration. We sat together as we listened to the eloquent speech of Dr. Karenga. I remember feeling that my church family and I were so blessed to have these two giants in the freedom struggle in our church. I had the overwhelming feeling of unity and being wrapped in the mantle of history. Finally, and perhaps the most memorable, surely the most melancholy, was a visit that he made some years ago. I think he was just out of the hospital or in some confinement due to illness. Refusing the elevator chair, he came up the stairs slowly with a walking cane. When he reached the sanctuary, he moved over to a seat in the corner of the church in a section closest to the landing. He sat quietly to himself. You wouldn’t know when he arrived. There was no fanfare because he was such a part of our church. He wanted space, and we provided it for him. He was very attentive as the worship proceeded. After the worship service, my wife and I conversed with him. He said, “I had to be in the House of the Lord this morning. I drove myself. They didn’t want me to come, but I insisted. So, when no one would drive me, I drove myself.” My wife and I were speechless. We walked with him back down the steps, out to the street where his car was parked, and watched as he drove away all by himself. To be continued…

Creating a Movement, Empowering People, and Perpetuating a Memory Revisiting New York Local Black United Front One of the major rallies that we held was the March on City Hall in September 1978. We organized countless cultural awareness programs, rallies, seminars, and lecture series. The most eminent scholars in the country participated in our lecture series, including Cornel West, Ivan Van Sertima, John Henrik Clarke, James Cone, and Gayraud Wilmore. In July 1978, we organized the Arthur Miller Community Patrol, with the motto: “To serve, share, and protect the community in times of siege and crises.” The Patrol was ably led by long-time activist Yusef Iman, now deceased, who had served as security for Malcolm X. Eventually, Kobie Ransom and Weusi Iman, Yusef’s younger brother, assumed responsibility for the patrol. Our Police Investigation Unit, organized as an arm of BUF, investigated, monitored, and kept the public informed about police behavior. Dave Walker was appointed coordinator, and later he started his own private investigation agency. While we viewed all our efforts as related to political empowerment, there were some things that proved more directly political. In addition to working for candidates, we engaged in voter registration and education drives. We also organized political conventions to educate and analyze issues and candidates and to elect candidates. Candidates running for any office eagerly sought our endorsement. In September 1978, we ran our own slate of candidates: Stanley Clarke, Assemblyman, 43 AD Katie Davis, Female District Leader, 57 AD Bernard Gifford, U.S. Congress, 14 CD Andrew Gill, Male District Leader, 53 AD Roger Green, Male District Leader, 57 AD Horace Greene, Assemblyman, 59 AD Velmanette Montgomery, Assemblywoman, 57 AD Sam Pinn Jr., State Senator, 18 SD Annette Robinson, Female District Leader, 56 AD Albert Vann, Male District Leader and Assemblyman, 56 AD Except for incumbents Al Vann and Annette Robinson, I regret to say that all these candidates lost. However, in 1991, Annette Robinson ran in the 36th Councilmanic District and won. In 1983, Velmanette Montgomery ran in the 18th Senatorial District and won. In 1981, Roger Green ran in the 57th Assembly District and won. From 1977 to 1986, the organizations associated with BUF and the movements emanating from it were at the center of the most crucial issues in the city. The Front was not only influential in shaping the life and direction of the city but, through the National Black United Front (NBUF), exerted influence on national and international issues as well. National Black United Front In 1981, the second NBUF Convention was held at Boys and Girls High School, in Brooklyn, where we ratified the permanent constitution after a debate at the four regional conventions held during the year. This was historic. It was perhaps the first time any organization’s beginning was so widely debated, thus exemplifying democracy at its highest. The FBI’s infamous COINTELPRO initiative had created a climate of distrust among Black organizations, turning them into warring camps. But NBUF, perhaps because of its unique constitutional ratification process, marked the first time these factions, along with more moderate and conservative groups, came together to build a truly representative, national Black movement. Participating groups included: All African People’s Revolutionary Party Black Panther Party Institute for Positive Education League of Revolutionary Struggle NAACP (chapter levels) Nation of Islam Republic of New Afrika US The Convention elected offices for a two-year term: Rev. Herbert Daughtry, National Chairperson Ron Herndon, National Secretary, and Western Regional Coordinator Florence Walker, National Treasurer, and Eastern Region Coordinator Jitu Weusi, National Coordinator Alfred “Skip” Robertson, Southern Regional Coordinator Rev. Charles Koen, Midwest Regional Coordinator The importance of NBUF was that it added a deeper dimension to the social, political, and revolutionary struggle of people of African Ancestry. More importantly, NBUF was the only national mass-based, independent, progressive, nationalist, pan-Africanist, radical, revolutionary organization in the United States of America at that time, perhaps at any time. I remained chairperson until my resignation in 1984. Dr. Conrad Worrill of Chicago is the current chairperson. *** Overall, without controversy, Pinn, Weusi, Vann, and I made, and still continue to make a significant impact on our world. What we accomplished is far greater than anything any one of us could have done individually.` After 1982, our group no longer met, as the responsibilities of our successes became quite demanding. For example, my election as Chair of NBUF necessitated a rigorous travel schedule. Then, too, there are my duties at The House of the Lord Church. Pinn, in addition to his professorship at Ramapo College, created the Fort Greene Senior Citizens Center, which sponsors a variety of social services programs. Weusi had the responsibilities of The East and its school, Uhuru Sasa Shule. Vann, one of the most popular and powerful elected officials throughout the state of New York, continues to inspire his organization of Black elected officials in Brooklyn. Inarguably, we achieved our objectives: Perpetuating a Memory Randolph Evans’ memory is still alive and will ever remain so as more and more college-bound students receive the scholarship in his name. Creating a Movement As demonstrated, the movement we created had an enormous impact on so many people, organizations, programs, events, etc. around the world that it is impossible to assess the full extent. Political/Economic Empowerment While we are a long way from political and economic empowerment commensurate with our numbers, we are undoubtedly far better off today than we were in 1977, at least potentially so. What we do with it is another question. The activity we generated put us in a scoring position and helped to place people in positions where they can drive the runs in. Future years will reveal the extent to which we took advantage of the opportunities we created. To be continued…

Creating a Movement, Empowering a People, Perpetuating a Memory The House of the Lord Church was the incubator of powerful movements. One of which was the Black United Front/ National Black United Front. Excerpts of the following story have been told, but repetition is important and particularly in this story about our church, which had such a powerful impact on history and whose influence is felt in the presence and will be felt until the end of time. In the summer of 1977, Sam Pinn, Albert Vann, Jitu Weusi, and I began to meet. At that time, Pinn was chairman of the Brooklyn Congress of Racial Equality (CORE). Vann was Assemblyman in the 56th AD, and Weusi was the founder and leader of The East, a cultural and educational organization that generated some of the most innovative and progressive programs in the city. All three were educators. Pinn later became a professor at Ramapo College of New Jersey. Vann and Weusi taught in the New York City public schools, both having played prominent roles in the struggle for community control in Ocean Hill-Brownsville. In fact, both taught at P.S. 271, one of the main schools in the Ocean Hill-Brownsville school complex. Both Vann and Weusi had been some yard by the charge of anti-Semitism as was anyone who played a leading role in the struggle. Over the years, the four of us have been politically involved with one another in various ways but never in the way that we were then. At that time, we were particularly concerned about the deplorable state of people of African Ancestry in Brooklyn and throughout the country. In Brooklyn, despite our numbers, Blacks were relatively powerless, a frustrating situation pervasive throughout the city and the nation. We four decided to set aside one morning a week just to analyze and evaluate our political situation and to plan for better conditions. In November 1976, a police officer named Robert Torsney killed a 15-year-old Black youth named Randolph Evans for no apparent reason. A year later, almost to the day, the jury rendered a decision to place Torsney under psychiatric treatment and to allow him weekends at home. The Black community was incensed. Once again, a White policeman had unjustly killed a black youth, and again there was neither recompense nor apology. There have been others; 11-year-old Ricky Borden from Staten Island; 11-year-old Clifford Glover from Jamaica Queens; and 14-year-old Claude Reese from Brooklyn. Various kinds of demonstrations followed the Evans killing. Four of us, calling our movement the Concerned Leaders and Citizens to Save Our Youth, began to plan an appropriate response that would not only express our anger but would at the same time promote something positive to perpetuate the memory of Randolph Evans. We vowed to build a movement that would eventuate into the political and economic empowerment of our community. We decided on a three-pronged attack: Economic boycott In December 1977, we launched our citywide boycott of the business community. We called it “Black Christmas 1977.” In time the boycott focused on downtown Brooklyn, whose major stores then included Abraham & Strauss, Korvettes, Martin’s, and May’s. After ten months of boycott and demonstration, we said we settled for a ten-point agreement: Minority bank deposits Minority media advertising Minority employment in the construction and maintenance of the Fulton Mall Randolph Evans Community crisis fund (RECCF) Randolph Evans Scholarship Fund (RESF) (The business community would fund both the RECCF and the RESF for a five-year period. Abraham & Strauss, under the leadership of vice president Robert McMillan and Francesco Canterella, who is still active, continued the scholarship fund until it merged with Macy’s.) Minority employment Brooklyn fair for minority vendors Peddlers –space for peddlers to set up tables to sell their products. Community advisory committee Entertainment complex (Presently, there is a multi-million-dollar development under construction in downtown Brooklyn; some aspect of this development is exactly what we argued for in our initial meeting with the merchants in 1978.) 2. Legal Action at the Federal Level We demanded the U.S. Justice Department indict Officer Torsney for violation of Randolph Evans’ civil rights. The Justice Department refused, citing “insufficient evidence.” Comprehensive Youth Program We demanded that New York City appropriate special funds and activities for our youth. On January 12, 1978, the Coalition and other community leaders met with Mayor Ed Koch. The meeting grew out of a demonstration we led during Koch’s inauguration at the Brooklyn Museum on January 1, 1978. (See Chapter 7: Edward I. Koch: Mayor of New York City.) Joining us at the meeting with the Mayor were Basil Paterson, who had been appointed Deputy Mayor, and David Dinkins, who was then the New York City Clerk. At the meeting, we discussed three issues with Koch. Police Brutality. Koch said that we should meet with his newly appointed Police Commissioner, Robert McGuire. The Indictment of Robert Torsney. We asked Koch to write a letter to United States Attorney David Trager in support of our demand for the indictment of Officer Robert Torsney on the violation of Randy Evans’ civil rights. Koch agreed to write a letter. A Comprehensive Youth Program. Koch said a Blue-Ribbon Commission on youth had been established. But not too much, if anything, came of it. The meeting was very cordial, and Koch was very agreeable. The Honorable Basil Paterson, then Deputy Mayor, was widely respected and helped to negotiate the agreement. Other members of our negotiating team, in addition to the four (Pinn, Vann, Weusi, and myself), included: Safiya Bandele, who would later become head of the Black United Front Women’s Section and who currently serves as Director of the Center for Women’s Development at Medgar Evers College; Peggy Smith (now Washington), who served as assistant coordinator of the demonstrations; Job Mashariki, who organized the Black Veterans for Social Justice; and Michael Amon-Ra, who coordinated the boycotts and later became the executive organizer of the Black United Front and then became Executive Director of Career Opportunities for Brooklyn Youth, one of the many programs influenced by the movement. Also included were my wife, Karen S. Daughtry, Director of the Alonzo A. Daughtry Memorial Day Care Center, and Annie Evans Brannon, the mother of Randy Evans Scholarship Fund. THE CREATION OF THE BLACK UNITED FRONT The Concerned Leaders and Citizens to Save Our Youth was expanding rapidly, and we realized we needed more structure and a more clearly defined strategy. In July 1978, we formed the Black United Front (BUF) with a steering committee consisting of: Rev. Herbert Daughtry –The House of the Lord Church Jitu Weusi –Black Community Congress Dr. Vernal Cave –Black Community Council of Crown Heights Sam Pinn –Brooklyn Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) Andy Gill –Arthur Miller Community Defense Committee Rev. Clarence Norman –First Baptist Church of Crown Heights Leon E. Modeste –New York Urban League Mahmud Ramza –Ramza Associates Rev. Hernon Sam – St. Mark’s Episcopal Church Also, we developed five Principles of Unity: Opposition to racism, bigotry, and racial violence Redistribution of the resources and wealth of the nation to provide abundantly for all citizens Opposition to genocide through miseducation Opposition to police brutality Opposition to national and international denial of human rights. The Black United Front became the umbrella organization for a variety of organizations, and many people joined. At a news conference on July 5, 1978, on the steps of City Hall, we formally announced the formation of BUF as “a vehicle to agitate, educate, and organize our community.” NATIONAL BLACK UNITED FRONT After our success with the BUF model in New York City, we decided to duplicate it across the country. So on June 26, 1980, the Founding Convention of NBUD met at the Sumner Avenue Armory in Brooklyn, attended by over a thousand delegates from thirty-five states and five foreign countries. We adopted a temporary constitution and we also elected temporary officers: Herbert Daughtry, National Chairperson Ron Herndon, Portland, Oregon, National Secretary Florence Walker, Philadelphia, PA, National Treasurer Jitu Weusi, Brooklyn, NY, National Coordinator After the heated atmosphere of the convention, my wife and I immediately embarked on a three-week cross-country drive, visiting the delegates in hope of healing wounds and resolving differences. To be continued…

Having concluded the articles by Mr. Errol Louis, Mr. Earl Caldwell, and Rev. Leah Daughtry. I have at least one other person who wrote an article about our church during the time in question. His name is Gerald Fraser an eminent journalist. The article entitled Feisty Preacher in Vanguard of Rights Issues in Brooklyn appeared in the NY Times in 1978. I confess that I am enjoying reading what others observed. I'd hope that my readers will find the articles equally enjoyable, interesting, and educational. Sunday service at the House of the Lord Pentecostal Church in Brooklyn is in its last half-hour, and the Rev. Herbert D. Daughtry is roaring to the finish of his 45-minute sermon on “Power, Politics, and Religion.” “The only thing I’m guilty of is battling for my people,” he says. He wheels to his left and says he is guilty of wanting an education for his people. He spins right and says he is guilty of wanting to see “our men” working. His full black clerical robe and a long Ghanaian kente-cloth stole he wears swing back and forth as he wheels and spins, his eyes ranging over the semicircle of pews in which the congregation of a few hundred sits and fans and nods approval. Mr. Daughtry has become a kind of ecclesiastical point man, his name appearing frequently in newspaper articles and his face on television newscasts as he challenges Brooklyn’s businessmen and political and police organizations to end what he perceives as a racial injustice. Organized Store Boycott Last fall, he and others founded the Coalition of Concerned Leaders to Save Our Youth, and, in March, he joined with others to create the Black Congress of Central Brooklyn. Both groups are active in the cases of Arthur Miller, a black Brooklyn businessman active in civic affairs who was killed in a scuffle with the police on June 14, and Clyde King, another Brooklyn businessman who was allegedly beaten by a police officer on June 22. Mr. Daughtry is also involved in community organizations in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn to deal with the Hasidic Jews who live on and near Eastern Parkway there, and who, through their Federally financed community patrols, have been involved in confrontations with black residents. Last Christmas, he organized and led a picket line and boycott against some Brooklyn department stores. Contending that Abraham & Straus, Martin’s, and Mays receive major downtown Brooklyn patronage from black residents, Mr. Daughtry asked the stores to support his demand for a federal investigation into the alleged violation of the civil rights of Randolph Evans, a black youth who was killed last Thanksgiving by a white police officer. (The officer, Robert H. Torsney, was acquitted after claiming temporary insanity.) Mr. Daughtry also wanted the stores to allot 3,000 jobs for blacks and contracts for black companies in the construction of a downtown Brooklyn mall, allocate 40 percent of their advertising budgets to black media outlets, and set up a Randolph-Evans scholarship fund and a community-crisis fund – “sort of a black United way,” as he put it. ‘A Sincere, Dedicated Person’ Aware of threats against him and attempts to provoke disorderly incidents where he is speaking, Mr. Daughtry usually travels with two aides -- Michael Amon-Ra, an assistant pastor, and Orondo Takuma, an associate minister. Outside of the pulpit and before the cameras and microphones, where he is usually surrounded by followers, Mr. Daughtry castigates and exhorts in a hard-edged strident voice. Not everyone is enamored of his style, but one Bedford-Stuyvesant pastor explained that he was unwilling to publicly criticize Mr. Daughtry because “we are arriving at a unity among black people that we have never had in Brooklyn before.” An executive of a Brooklyn department store who has negotiated with Mr. Daughtry has characterized him as “a very sincere, dedicated person who basically wants to help black people achieve many of the things that white people want to achieve.: “I found him honorable,” said the executive, who asked not to be identified. “I found him highly interested in media coverage. He’s interested in power, but I personally believe he’s not interested in power for his own personal gain.” ‘Realistic About the Problems’ William Nielson, the 84th Precinct’s community-relations officer, said he had been dealing with Mr. Daughtry for four years and had found him to be “a gentleman.” “During demonstrations,” Officer Nielson said, “I could always come and talk to him and he was realistic about the problem. He has his cause, and our job is to protect life and property, and he relates our situation. “When I call him, he gets back to me. We have rapport.” In his sermon, woven with threads of theology, social activism, and current events, Mr. Daughtry answers by implication charge that he is anti-Semitic because he has condemned Hasidim for allegedly attacking blacks. Black people, he says, have developed a morality about injustice, oppression, and discrimination, but it is “not in the black soul to be against anybody.” Known What Jail Means Mr. Daughtry is about 5 feet, 8 inches tall, and although there are a few grey strands in his hair and his goatee, his slender build and youthful good looks belie his 47 years. He pats the perspiration on his face with a handkerchief and begins to ease up oratorically. He tells his parishioners he is not sure that there is a supernatural devil “somewhere in the clouds,” but that he is sure the devil is right here on earth, that the devil uses people, and that exploitation, segregation, and oppression are “of the devil.” And the church says, “Amen.” Twenty-five years ago, no one imagined Herbert D. Daughtry in a leadership role, especially leading a church. “I grew up in the midst of gang wars,” he said. “I know what it is to raise havoc in a classroom. When everybody was graduating, they gave me a certificate for my softball and told me to go to Automotive Trades High School. I went for two weeks and then,” and his voice trailed off. “I know what it is to be in the dope jungle -- I’ve lived it. I know what it is to be in jail. I was wrecked when I went to jail in February 1963. I had been using dope. I’d been in the street hustling and manipulating.” Mr. Daughtry was arrested for armed robbery and for forging government checks. Started in Father’s Church His turnaround came, he said, in a jail cell in a Jersey City police station. “I started praying,” he said, “getting down in that stinking jail cell. I said, ‘Lord, I want to commit my life absolutely to you.’ ” During his subsequent imprisonment in Trenton and in the Federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pa., on the forgery conviction, Mr. Daughtry said that he read a good deal and that this constituted his “academic preparation.” He went to work as a presser upon his release from prison and began his clerical career in his father’s church. Now, Mr. Daughtry says, “we’re not a large church – we don’t have any trappings.” But he sees himself in a “kind of spiritual role in which people can bring their hurt and their pain” to him. He also hopes that he can be trusted enough to bring some unity among Brooklyn’s black residents and that people might come to a spiritual awakening, that they might come to God. “I would like also,” he said, “to enhance my own power to move persons and institutions to be more responsive to people in the boondocks.” Cites the Need for Power The congregation that supports Mr. Daughtry worships in an old church building at 415 Atlantic Avenue, a block and a half from the Brooklyn Y.W.C.A, where the church operates a day-care center named for Mr. Daughtry’s father and directed by Karen Daughtry, the pastor’s wife. He is a third-generation clergyman: William Van Daughtry was a Methodist Episcopal minister, and his father, Alonzo A. Daughtry, founded the House of the Lord Church in 1930 with seven or eight” elderly women in a storefront on Fulton Street. Rhetorically questioning a visitor at his church office recently, he asked, “Why do people from (Crown Heights) over may church, going over community planning boards, going over elected officials, call us?” Acknowledging, he said: “Our prominence has gone over some contracts we can use. We try to help people with the bureaucracy.” Asked what he saw as major issues for Brooklyn’s black residents, Mr. Daughtry replied: “Jobs -- jobs is what I think is the surface issue, but I think the major issue is the imbalance of power. Jobs go to the powerful. We are powerless, for instance, against the police. We don’t have any impact.” “And even deeper than powerlessness,” he added, “is person lessness – lack of identity. There is no feeling of self-worth,” he said, among many black people. “High self-esteem moves one to power, but you can’t make a man powerful -- something has to happen to the mind.” To be continued…

“So the Big Four launched a boycott. They got all the organizations that were part of the Coalition of Concerned Leaders and Citizens to Save Our Youth and, every single day for an entire year, their members boycotted the downtown stores. In the beginning, they boycotted all the stores, but the effort was to diffuse; they couldn’t make a big enough impact. So they began a targeted boycott. They decided they would go from store to store, starting with Martin’s, because it had only two doors: one on Fulton Street and one on a side street. Every organization took its turn standing out in front of the store and announcing the boycott. They talked to passersby about the murder of Randolph Evans and Arthur Miller. And they said, again and again, until the stores were closed for the evening, “Boycott. Don’t shop!” It was the holiday season, and with the steady pressure from the protestors standing guard in front of both its doors, people chose not to enter Martin’s. Within six months, it closed. The store actually went bankrupt. When the other merchants saw Martin’s declare bankruptcy, they said, “Okay, let’s negotiate.” During the negotiations, the boycott continued, now focused on Abraham & Straus department store. In the end, the Coalition got everything it had listed on its ten-point plan. Leah says with a smile, “We still give scholarships in Randolph Evans’s name, though we fund them ourselves now. All these years later, every year, there are kids who go to college on behalf of Randolph Evans.” That catalytic event would spawn the Black United Front in New York (and later, the National Black United Front nationwide). In the meantime, the Big Four continued to organize demonstrations, now under the umbrella of the Black United Front, tackling a variety of issues, such as police brutality, greater job opportunities for black citizens at Brooklyn’s Downstate Medical Center and at construction sites throughout the borough, fighting the closure of Harlem’s Sydenham Hospital. They would go on to be instrumental in the election of David Dinkins, New York City’s first black mayor. “My father and my mother would go to these other cities who expressed interest and meet with the organizers and activists, “Leah recalls. “They would drive around the country and meet with people. The Black United Front was born on the strength of their car and gas.” The first national convention was held in June 1980, with more than a thousand people attending from forty-eight states and five foreign countries—including a young Donna Brazile, who made the twenty-hour journey with some friends in an old station wagon. “My father was elected chair,” Leah says. “We had all these organizations that had long, complicated histories with each other. They didn’t necessarily trust each other, but they could agree with my dad. They trusted him, so they elected him the chair. He was the chair of the Front for five or six years.” This was around the time that Dr. Betty Shabazz began to frequent Leah’s father’s church. “She was always in Brooklyn, “ Leah recalls. “She lived in Mount Vernon, but she was always in the orbit someplace. So she was always around. She and my mom became very good friends. So, when my mom, Dr. Karen S. Daughtry, was launching her organization, Sisters Against South African Apartheid. Dr. Betty was part of that. Ours was the activist church in New York before activism became popular. So everybody came here.” Reverend Daughtry was a moderating force for some of the more nationalist, more radical people who didn’t want to deal with the “establishment types,” and a radicalizing force for the establishment folks. When he was there, everybody was welcome. They would meet at the church. Steering and committee meetings were held in the fellowship halls around a big square table. “Not round,” Leah specifies. “A square table. No theater seating, so everybody had a seat at the table.” She continues: “The Front made its name on a door-to-door brand of activism. Remember, this was before the internet. This was before cell phones…. This was before black radio; we didn’t have any black radio. Now we have WBLS and WWRL, where you can go on and make an announcement. Back then, you didn’t have any of that. It was true word-of-mouth. It was true talking to your neighbors, and handing out a flyer. I used to do the flyers on a mimeograph machine. That’s when you had to crank it up and then put the stencil on with the blue ink and run. When you had ten thousand people show up at a rally then, it was because we touched ten thousand there. But that was hand-to-hand, knocking on doors: ‘Hey, sister, let me tell you about this event.’ Or ‘Hey, brother, do you know what’s going on downtown?’ We’d gather a bunch of kids, and a stack of flyers, and we’d just hand them out, talking to people. Sometimes we pasted them on the telephone poles, back when there were telephone poles. That was how you organized back then.” Leah was, by this point, a high school student, and she paid careful attention to how her parents were turning a moment into a movement. Her younger brother has fewer fond memories of that time. At the rallies, the Front would give children signs to carry. There’s a photo of Leah’s younger brother carrying one that reads, “Am I Next?” He was ten at the time, just five years younger than Randolph Evans at the time of his murder. Years later, Leah learned how troubled her brother felt by that sign and his connection to Evans. “For many years he used to sleep with a baseball bat or a knife under his pillow,” she says. “He felt unsafe. He wasn’t the only one. My father began to get serious death threats during this time. The church was getting bomb threats. My parents were traveling more as the Front grew in stature both nationally and internationally, and began to fear what might happen with the kids home alone.” Reverend Daughtry moved the family to New Jersey, around the corner from Leah’s grandparents. “We went to their house two nights a week for dinner,” Leah explains. “If anything happened, they were right there. It gave my parents more peace of mind. But what it meant for us was that we couldn’t go to the meetings. We were missing the boycott. We were missing the rallies because we were in Jersey.” As the oldest, Leah in particular missed the energy of activism that surrounded her father’s church. She remembers thinking, “Oh, my God, we don’t know what’s going on.” As in the Marvin Gaye song, “What’s going on?” became a constant refrain around her family dinner table. Eventually, on Fridays, her father would drive to New Jersey from his office, pick Leah and her siblings up from school, and bring them back to Brooklyn so they could boycott, so they could be a part of what was going on. For Leah, the training was invaluable. She learned that there’s a lot of work that has to happen in any movement. “You don’t just wake up and there’s a movement,” she says. “You don’t just decide, ‘Oh, let’s go have a march.’ There’s a lot that goes behind that. Not just the planning but the conceptualization, the mission of it, the why of it. That’s one thing I took away from it.” She learned also that “just because you are in coalition with people doesn’t mean that you lay all of your values down or that you separate yourself from the community.” Each leader of the Front had his own community. When they got ready to roll things out, Jitu brought the EAST. Sam brought Brooklyn CORE. Al brought his governmental political establishment people. And the Reverend Daughtry brought the church people in his network. As Leah says, “They didn’t leave their people behind because they were in conversation with others. That’s what I think made the movement strong and made it grow. These four modeled for us what it was like to be in coalition and collaboration with one another. So, I took that into my work. I can talk to anybody. There’s something we have in common if it’s only our humanity. If we can be respectful enough to have a conversation, then we can move forward. Also, recognize where you come from and who people are bringing to the table with them. That’s what makes you strong.” Leah adds, “I learned from that, that you got to talk to people. That you can find common ground with anybody around a cause. If you can agree on the cause, then you can find a way forward. That only comes through conversation and through deciding that you’re going to be open enough to have conversations.” The people drawn to the Front’s rallies could have said, “I don’t know these people. I’m not coming.” But, Leah says, “They decided that the stakes were too high for them to be separate. That the stakes were high enough that they needed to come together despite their differences.” In some ways, the Big Four was a brain trust parallel to what we would become when we became the Colored Girls. To be continued…

“That same year, a fourteen-year-old boy named Claude Reese was in the basement of his apartment building, decorating the room for a party with a group of six other teenagers. Suspecting that a burglary was in progress, someone called the police to the scene. A twenty-four-year-old police officer named Frank P. Bosco shot at Reese because he believed the teen was holding a weapon. When Reese‘s body was found, he was holding an eighteen-inch saw with a pistol grip. Bosco was acquitted of the murder. On Thanksgiving Day 1976, fifteen-year-old Randolph Evans hanging out with friends in the Cypress Hills housing project in the East New York neighborhood of Brooklyn. Responding to a report that there was a man with a gun in the projects, Officer Robert Torsney shot Evans point-blank in the head. According to reports, Torsney did not check on Evans’s condition, and his own partner, Mathew Williams, said that after the shooting, Torsney got in the squad car and calmly replaced the bullet that had been discharged from his gun. When Williams asked Torsney what he had done, he allegedly replied, “I don’t know, Matty. What did I do?” Torsney and he claimed he’d had a psychotic break due to epilepsy, a condition he’d never evidenced before the shooting, and never evidenced again after the shooting. The jury acquitted him by reason of insanity. In the summer of 1978, thirty-five-year-old businessman Arthur Miller, from Crown Heights, Brooklyn, was strangled to death in a struggle with police. Leah was a junior in high school at the time. “By the time Randolph Evans was murdered, “she says, “we were beginning to asked, ‘Okay, really? How many of these are there going to be?’ Evans and Miller became a catalyst for the black community to come together. My father and a group of men in New York City” – Together known as the Big Four – “formed an organization called [the Coalition of] Concerned Leaders and Citizens to Save our Youth. The leaders were my dad, Assemblyman Al Vann from Brooklyn, Sam Pinn of Brooklyn CORE, and Brother Jitu Weusi, whose previous name had been Les Campbell.” The Coalition started boycotts in downtown Brooklyn. “That was my first hands-on, up-close witnessing of activism in motion,” says Leah. While dozens of people were involved, these four men made for a unique leadership combination. Albert Vann had been born and raised in Brooklyn’s Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood. He joined the military at the age of eighteen, rising to sergeant in the U.S. Marines. He went on to earn degrees from Toledo University, Yeshiva University, and Long Island University; spent decades as a public school teacher; and founded New York’s African-American teachers’ association. As a community board member, he was instrumental in the founding of Medgar Evers College and Boys and Girls Memorial High School, in Brooklyn. As an assemblyman, he worked diligently for a better representation of community colors in New York City. His work in the area led to the creation of two additional congressional districts, three additional state senatorial districts, and six additional assembly districts in New York State. Al was the original cool: slim, well-dressed whatever the style of the era, and known for wearing a single earring stud. He was a family man, with a beautiful wife, Mildred, and two adoring daughters. Sam Pinn was also from Bedford Stuyvesant. In 1971 he became the head of the newly formed Brooklyn branch of CORE, the Congress of Racial Equality. It was a time of great turmoil in New York City, and the New York Times reported that one of the things Pinn and CORE did was to gather witnesses to the increasing number of “line-of-duty” shootings of young black men by white police officers. Pinn told the New York Times in 1971, “We don’t want them coming in here shooting first and asking questions later. This is a tense community and it is always on the verge of exploding.” An aide told the Times reporter that one of the things CORE hoped to do was to “cool the young brothers out so that they don’t give cops an excuse to come in and shoot up a lot of people.” Sam Pinn was sure and steady. He had the look of an established businessman. Always in suits and ties, he gave you the feeling he was going to or coming from a meeting, and that the briefcase he carried contained the secrets to our liberation. Jitu K. Weusi, born Leslie Campbell, was raised in Bedford-Stuyvesant and was, along with Al Vann, a founding member of the African American Teachers Association. A black nationalist, he founded a cultural organization called The EAST and the Freedom Now School or Uhuru Sasa Shule, the first black independent private school in New York City. EAST Jazz became a prominent venue that featured performances by legends such as Sonny Rollins, Betty Carter, and Pharoah Sanders. Weusi’s leadership in the community had been cemented during the Ocean-Hill – Brownsville struggle for community control of schools. He was quiet, studious. Seven feet tall and always attired in traditional African fabrics, he had an easy smile and laugh, but make no mistake—he was a stone-cold master organizer. All the plans the Big Four came up with he was in charge of executing. Black leadership has never been a monolith. From the days of W.E.B. Du Bois and Booker T. Washington, through the seemingly opposing camps of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, there has always been dissent over strategy, method, governing principles, and endgames. “My father, Vann, Pinn, and Weusi were the most unlikely of compatriots,” Leah says, “but they decided, ‘We can put aside whatever our political differences are and whatever our economic or religious philosophies. We can sit in these rooms every Friday morning and plan around this thing even though we may not agree on who should be mayor and what the governor is doing. Doesn’t matter. This is about a particular issue and how we move our community forward.’ “The four men would meet every Friday morning at our home or at Al Vann’s home …. They would sit for two hours and just plan and organize and think. Each one had a role. Each one had a different community that they touched,” Leah says. “I watched them go from a seedling of an idea to the rollout of this massive protest. You’d show up at these rallies and there’d be ten thousand people. It was an amazing thing that I could see was seeded in my mother’s dining room. It was powerful to watch. That movement, in which we boycotted the downtown stores, happened because of the coalition they were able to build.” The Big Four decided that if the people could not get justice in the courtroom, then they would agitate for economic justice. On November 7, 1978, Reverend Daughtry led more than a thousand protestors across the bridge from downtown Brooklyn to Wall Street. It was Black Solidarity Day, and the New York Times sent a young reporter named Anna Quindlen to cover the march. Quindlen reported that “the demonstration was led by the Rev. Herbert Daughtry, pastor of the House of the Lord Pentecostal Church, who has led several other such marches since a Crown Heights civic leader, Arthur Miller, was killed in a scuffle with police in June… Their presence was as much a sign of a continuing protest against the quality of police protection in their community as against the Koch administration’s policies on minority rights.” Standing on top of a car on Wall Street near Broadway, Reverend Daughtry told the crowd. “We have not been satisfied that police are going to stop killing our children. We are not satisfied that police are going to stop killing our model citizens like Arthur Miller.” Reverend Daughtry marched that day with Arthur Miller’s widow, Florence. As Quindlen reported: “Somebody’s making an awful lot of money from the way we live, and some of those who are making the most money are located where we are going now.” Later he said: “We want to touch all the bases, you understand. We’ll be able to go back in the file and document every step we’ve taken along the way so that when the day of reckoning comes, somebody’s going to say, ‘Did you go?’” “Yes,” the crowd yelled back. “Did you meet? Did you see? Did you talk?” he continued, and “Yes,” the crowd responded to each question. “We’re tired of talking,” he said. The policeman who worked the march seemed not to take issue with Daughtry or his followers. Quindlen reported that one officer told her, “We’ve been on duty with them before. They have a point to make and they make it. They don’t cause trouble.” The Big Four were, however, just getting started. Most of the black residents in Brooklyn shopped at the big downtown department stores: A&S, Mays, Korvettes, and Martin’s. Leah explained that the plan the Big Four set out stated, “If we can’t get the justice from the criminal justice system, then here’s what we want from the merchants. This is where we spend our money. There’s no place else in Brooklyn to shop. Brooklyn people don’t go to other boroughs. If it’s not in Brooklyn, they’re not going to get it.” The Big Four then discussed the ten-point plan they had presented to the city’s merchants. “So we want the merchants to fund the scholarship fund. We want summer jobs for young people. We want a crisis fund for people who are having challenges in their lives. And [the merchants] said no. We’re not funding it. It’s not our problem. It’s not our business. Take your problems elsewhere.” ** In real-time, we see that Business Insider cites Rev. Leah Daughtry as one of the most powerful Democratic women in politics. See link: www.tinyurl.com/wjxc2wa To be continued…

Another observer of the happenings in our church and the important events of that time in which our church played a key role. The person in question is the Reverend Leah Daughtry. She is our firstborn. She was born on August 27, 1963. You will notice that it was the day before the March on Washington. It is a family joke that I tell, I had a dilemma. I was either going to the Washington event or to the hospital and being with my wife and baby. My wife tells a different story. She says that I was issued an ultimatum that I had better stay with her or when I get to Washington, “don’t come back home.” So, I decided to stay with the family. Hence, Leah was born, nurtured, and grew to maturity deeply involved in all the doings of that period of time. It is no wonder that among her achievements is the Chief of Staff of the National Democratic Party and twice as the CEO of the National Democratic Convention 2008 and 2016. The book, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Politics it writes the story of these four powerful Black women, Donna Brazile, Yolanda Caraway, Leah Daughtry, and Minyon Moore. Leah recounts experiences she’s witnessed and was a part of at the House of the Lord Church: “Reverend Daughtry believed in the importance of having one foot in both worlds -- and by that, he meant the world of the white power elite and that of the strong African American community in which Leah was raised. Leah and her siblings were all educated in predominantly white schools. When the time came to go to college, Leah didn’t feel pressured to consider a historically black college. When the time came to go to college, Leah’s father said, “You should go to the school you deem the best. Don’t worry about learning our culture; that should not be your primary consideration. Besides, you’ve got that already. And if I’m waiting until now to get your culture, it’s too late. So, if you want to go to a black school, fine. But if you decide to go to a white school, that’s fine too; go up there where the white folks are and learn what they’re giving out up there.” Leah says, “My father always stressed the importance of having people who were your inside men and women, who worked within the traditional structures and the white-majority seats of power, and the outside people, who worked with and on behalf of the people first and foremost.” From her earliest days at Dartmouth, with her success and her ability to traverse worlds, Leah was marked as a classic inside a woman. Still, she says she couldn’t have done it without the love and support of the people at home. “My community was always supportive of me being on the inside,” she says. “They loved me and they nurtured me; they got it.” She was becoming a political interpreter: translating to the inside folks what was happening on the streets, and elucidating to the outside folks what was happening on the inside. She carried both worlds with ease because her intent was clear and her compass true: “I work on the inside, but I have never lost sight of where or who I’ve come from or where or who I represent.” These are the stories of how we began. While we’re united in friendship and in our efforts to make a better world, we come from very different backgrounds and have very different styles of how to get the job done. The idea that black women are a monolith has always made Washington a tough place to navigate for black women some view as not fitting what their white colleagues consider to be ”the norm.” In 1977, during her confirmation hearing for the post of secretary of housing and urban development, Patricia Roberts Harris was asked by Senator Wiliam Proxmire, the Democrat from Wisconsin, whether she had sympathy for the poor. “Senator, I am one of them,” she replied. “You do not seem to understand who I am. I am a black woman, the daughter of a dining car worker. I am a black woman who could not buy a house eight years ago in parts of the District of Columbia...If you think I have forgotten that, you are dead wrong.” Each of us is old enough to remember when black folks couldn’t vote or live where they wanted; to remember the assassination of our heroes and the images of ordinary black people being beaten in the streets. The years went by, and we rose up the ladder. Today, you’ll find us to be well-dressed and well-coiffed, powerful black women who earned our place at the highest levels of government in the United States. But if you look at us and think for a second we have forgotten where we came from or who nurtured us, you are more than mistaken. You’re dead wrong. Brooklyn, 1980: Before Black Lives Mattered In the 1970s in New York, unchecked police brutality resulted in a string of high-profile murders of young black men. Leah remembers them vividly. Among the deaths was that of ten-year-old Clifford Glover, who was shot twice while running away from the officer. The bullets ripped through his back and emerged through his heart. The officer, Thomas Shea, was acquitted by the jury of eleven whites and one black citizen. After the trial, there were riots resulting in more than two dozen injuries, including among fourteen police officers. Decades before the death of Trayvon Martin, Clifford Glover captured the imagination of a city that could not see the logic in shooting a weaponless child in cold blood. The Rolling Stones even sang about Glover in their song “Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker).” Clifford Glover haunted the dreams of the great poet Audre Lorde, who wrote about the young boy in one of her most famous poems, “Power.” The poem throws down the gauntlet with a line about the centuries of African Americans, from slavery to the present day, who could not protect their children from injustice and harm. Lorde wrote: The difference between poetry and rhetoric Is being ready to kill yourself instead of your children. Lorde goes on to use Glover’s killing and the one black woman in the jury as a parable about the abuse of power and about how power is stolen away: A policeman who shot down a ten-year-old in Queens Stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood And a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and There are tapes to prove it. At his trial This policeman said in his own defense “I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else only the color.” And there are tapes to prove that, too. Today that 37-year-old white man with 13 years of police forcing was set free by eleven white men who said they were satisfied justice had been done and one Black Woman who said “They convinced me” meaning they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval until she let go the first real power she ever had and lined her own womb with cement to make a graveyard for our children. Because of these events, again, NAACP and Allies in Labor, Social Justice Kick-Off Multiracial Voting Rights Campaign, it is relevant to what we’re writing about and just happened on August 12, 2021, where Rev. Leah Daughtry has been appointed Campaign Manager of Fighting for Our Vote Coalition. To be continued…

“Some see Malcolm in him. Whites generally do not like him. But they never like leaders who are black and forceful. Daughtry’s background is similar to Malcolm’s. He’s off the streets, “Dope,” he says, “I know it. I was in that jungle. I lived it. I know what it is to be in jail.” He was in jail 25 years ago. If you ask him, he will tell you that he was a street hustler, a manipulator. He was also once an armed robber. His turn around came in jail. “I started praying,” he says. “Getting down in that stinking jail cell – I decided then I wanted to commit my life absolutely to the Lord.” During his imprisonment, he began to read. It was the same with Malcolm. It was at the Federal Penitentiary in Lewisburg, PA. There he got his academic preparation. Now it is his time. “It’s funny,” he said recently. “We’ve been doing a lot of these things we’re doing now for years and nobody paid any attention to us. Now everything we do is noticed. I don’t know why. I’m trying to figure it out. The answer is out there in the streets. The streets of the have-nots. In America now whites decided that they want the cities back. It is a battle for space. And for the have-nots, there are no jobs; the schools continue to turn out kids who cannot read, and now winter is coming and it will intensify the pain. But the issue at the forefront is the police. Too many kids are shot. Daughtry does not let it slide. He built a movement around the killing of Arthur Miller in Crown Heights. He is the driving force in bringing together the Black United Front, an amalgam of black groups, most of them Brooklyn based. But at the bottom of it all is the mayor of the City of New York. A mayor who is afraid of the black people. He will not deal with Daughtry. He sends out his police. It was reminiscent of Alabama that summery day last September when Daughtry brought his list of 10 demands to City Hall. The mayor stayed inside and he ringed his fortress with cops. He’s got center stage Daughtry is not a politician but he is political. He’s into voter registration. He talks about politics constantly. But often his talk is critical of elected officials. Now, they’ve given him center stage. As Sam Pinn said when speaking of the elected officials. “They’re not about to take the risks. They fear the wrath of the established order. Daughtry has no political base to lose. His church is with him. And his support is growing. He is in every section of the city. He has a local radio broadcast. He has a newspaper. He has even had a film made, documenting his movement. “Our church is run down,” he says. “We don’t have any money and we don’t have a lot of people. But so much of what happens in the city goes through more now.” Yesterday in the morning he was at the funeral of a woman who was black and killed last week by the police. Then he was busy with a march planned for next month at the United Nations. And he talked of “some other things” he’s kicking around. He does not stop. “Sometimes,” he said yesterday. “I go back to my neighborhoods. They are just blown out now. I just go and hear the feet running. When people are powerless, when they don’t feel that they can impact on those factors that shape their lives, it creates frustration… frustration that leads to a lot of things… to violence… striking back…” He may seem an unlikely leader. They may not like him but he is there now and the mayor and the city will have to deal with him. Winter is upon us now. The pain that is there in the neighborhoods of the have-nots will be intensified.” Dr. Cornel West in the Timbuktu Learning Center Dear reader, I have been feeling strongly for some time that God was orchestrating our movements to tell the story or to record the history of a critical time in America and in the world and the part that our church the House of the Lord church(HOLC), our organizations primarily the National Black United Front (NBUF) and the African People’s Christian Organization (APCO) and the part I played as leader of those organizations in the late 1960s through 1990s are the years in question. There are too many pieces that are falling in place coming from near and far for me to believe that this is just a coincidence. Last night, Monday, August 9, 2021, Dr. Cornel West who did his first book, Prophesy Deliverance! in the Timbuktu Learning Center was our namesake program. During the Covid season, we created the Timbuktu Learning Center (TLC) via conference call modeled after TLC in the HOLC during the years in question which was modeled after the Timbuktu city and university in Mali, Africa in the 13th century. As a feature of the TLC, I have created conversations with movers, shakers, and opinion-makers which I hope to have prominent personalities who in some way as observers or as participants in that period in history. I feel driven to record as much as I know, after 90 years obviously, I’ve seen many changes, and the years in question along with the organizations before mentioned helped to bring about the changes. So, believing we are spirit-led I want to insert Dr. West’s foreword in my book, No Monopoly on Suffering published by Africa World Press: “ Herbert Daughtry is one of the towering prophetic leaders of his generation. Pastor of the world-known House of the Lord Pentecostal Church for nearly forty years, founder and first chairperson of the National Black United Front, and leader of the People’s Christian Organization, Rev. Daughtry has touched the lives and inspired the hopes of thousands of people. He certainly has enriched my life - as a friend, mentor, comrade, colleague, and fellow question. I shall never forget the first time I witnessed his courage and vision. It was on the corner of 125th Street and 5th Avenue in Harlem in 1977. He was leading a march, giving a speech, and fusing his fervent Christian witness with radical progressive politics. His profound commitment to overcoming Black suffering was undeniable, and his love for the people was overflowing. I decided to get to know him. By an act of share grace and providence, A.G. Miller, a student at Union Theological Seminary (where I then taught) and now a professor at Oberlin College - approached me to give a series of lectures at his place of worship, Rev. Daughtry’s church. Little did I know that his invitation would lead to an exciting and enhancing period of nearly 10 years of monthly lectures at the House of the Lord. In fact, major parts of my first book, Prophesy Deliverance! An Afro-American Revolutionary Christianity (1982), was first heard in Rev. Daughtry’s Church in Brooklyn. Furthermore, it was the first time I faced the challenge of lecturing (with no notes) to an eager yet weary audience after a long day's work - be it a rainy, snowy, or sunny day - about Modernity and the problem of evil in America. Under the able leadership of Rev. Daughtry and Charles Barron, Timbuktu School was established. This grand institution gave free courses by professors Ivan Van Sertima, John Henrik Clarke, Gayraud Wilmore, James Cone, James Washington, myself, and many others. I shall never forget the deep sense of engagement, learning, and inquiry in the basement against the backdrop of the Black Jesus – with Rev. Daughtry and his lovely and brilliant wife Karen in the front row usually with their children. Like the prophets of old, Reverend Daughtry often has been misunderstood. His sincere outrage against injustice and social misery has challenged the status quo and unsettled the powers that be - at the White House, State House, City Hall, Wall Street, the New York Times, or Daily News. This is especially so in regard to his relations with Jews in New York. We know that any wholesale critique of the vicious legacy of white supremacy includes Americans of all colors, including Jews and Blacks. Any principled opposition to xenophobia requires wrestling with these evils in our own souls and society. Yet how easy it is for the mainstream media to demonize Black leaders who target American racism in white and Jewish communities. All too often, the stigmas of a Black racist demagogue and Black anti-Semite are attached for life. Needless to say, there certainly are some Black racists and Black anti-Jewish bigots in America. Yet, the false stigmas attached to those like Rev. Daughtry ironically increased their ranks. So I am delighted to see my brother and spiritual godfather set the record straight. His rich stories need to be heard. His integrity and character shine through, and like the cracked vessels we all are, his deep humanity is clearly seen. In this way, he speaks his truth and bears witness in the best of our Black Christian tradition of suffering and love, evil and hope for resurrection.” To be continued…

As God would have it, or if you’re not religious, a strange coincidence happened as I was reading Errol’s article again. I came across articles that were written by Earl Caldwell and Frasier which records the happenings at our church. Errol was looking back; Earl and Frasier were writing in real-time. I thought it would be as interesting to you, and of course educational, if we compare Errol’s article with Caldwell and Frasier. Earl Caldwell who was a columnist for the Daily News wrote the article Rev. Daughtry fit to be a King. “It was warm that day. It was near the end of September and late that morning at City Hall the police began to gather. First, they were on the steps out front and then more of them came and made long lines that stretched along both sides of the building. They came in old green buses and in cars, and their numbers continued to swell, and by noon, the police were everywhere. They built a solid wall of blue around the block. “What’s going on?” someone asked. “It looks like the President must be coming to town.” It was the kind of show the police make when something important is about to take place. On this morning though the show was not for a president. It was for a preacher- the Rev. Herbert Daughtry. Not much is said about it, but there is a movement on the rise now in New York City and the Rev. Daughtry has emerged as the lightning rod for what is building. Blacks turn to church It is an old story. Almost always when there is a crisis and leadership is absent, blacks turn to the church. Once it was Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Then it was the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. And now, out of Brooklyn comes Herbert Daughtry. “He’s ready.” Sam Pinn, who heads Brooklyn CORRE, says. “He’s ready to lead and he wants to lead.” Sam Pinn has no reservations about Daughtry. “He has charisma, courage, and intelligence,” he said. “And he’s tireless. These are characteristics you find in great leaders says there is no Dr. King, now there is Rev. Daughtry. It is not an accident that it is often ministers, not elected officials, who rise as leaders in the black community. The elected official is not free. These are the politicians, and politicians have obligations. Elections must be won. But with the minister, it’s different. The minister answers only to the church. Style of its own King and Powell were Baptists. Daughtry is Pentecostal. It is a different kind of church. It has a rhythm, a heat, a style of its own. It is built around music and the services are long, open emotional affairs. In the Pentecostal church, there is always shouting. The House of the Lord Pentecostal Church where Daughtry presides is located in the old brick building at 415 Atlantic Ave. in Brooklyn. It is separated from an abandoned Ex-Lax plant by a parking lot and surrounded by a community that is mostly black. It is not a big church. The numbers in fact are small. There are at most a few hundred members but it is a church of activists. What you notice about it first is its youth and then you see its energy. On Sunday, Daughtry’s church is busy all day. And during the week, there is seldom a night where there is not some sort of rally or meeting or service. There are political education meetings, Black United Front meetings, international forums, strategy sessions, and religious services. The issues that Daughtry has taken hold of our old ones. They involve the police and housing and the lack of jobs and the condition of the schools. The issues do not change. Even the methods he uses are not new. In his style, Daughtry has borrowed from King. In his background, there is something of Malcolm. And in his approach, there is a bit of the Panthers. The Panthers were poets. Often their movement was theatre. “Right on,” the Panthers would shout. “Power to the people” was their slogan. They published a newspaper. They had uniforms. And always they were handing out pamphlets. Daughtry’s troops – except for a security guard—are not uniformed. But they have developed a style and slogans. Occasionally when they march, they sing old movement songs. But mostly there is a defiant chant. “We’re fired up, can’t take no more.” That is the chant. Sometimes they bounce it back and forth. First, one group shouts, “we’re fired up,” and the other responds, “can’t take no more.” The slogans are not an accident. At a meeting at a church last week, during an open session, when all matters were open for discussion, it was suggested that a new slogan be created. “No.” Father Amon-Ra, an assistant pastor at Daughtry’s church, said. “We’ve got to keep this slogan. When black people talk about being fired up, white people understand that. They always understand blacks when they talk about fire.” Daughtry is not the great speaker that King was. But he is effective. He knows how to manipulate the emotions of a crowd. When he raises his voice to shout, “Enough is enough is enough,” he has firm control of his audience. He is a few inches less than being a six-footer. His build is slender. He appears younger than his 47 years. His eyes are bright and quick and questioning. They say that he’s been there, that he knows what he’s into. To be continued…