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Shooting the Movement: Black Panther Party Photography and African American Protest Tr a di ti o n s T.N. P h u Abstract: Although the failure of the Black Panther Party has often been attributed to the violence which consumed it, the photographic record suggests otherwise. This paper argues that the movement in fact developed a striking and self-aware protest aesthetic. Moreover, this still influential self-referential visuality emphasized the spectacular forms of defiance, contributing, in doing so, to African American traditions of protest conventionally rooted in the oral tradition. A focus on Black Panther Party photography helps account for how the rhetorical violence which focused the BPP’s protest aesthetic became complexly indistinguishable from violent realization. Keywords: African American photography, American studies, cultural studies, visual culture, race Re´sume´ : Bien que l’e´chec du parti des Panthe`res Noires ait souvent e´te´ attribue´ a` la violence qui l’embrasait, les dossiers photographiques laissent penser le contraire. Selon le pre´sent article, le mouvement a en fait de´veloppe´ un caracte`re d’autoprotestation frappant en matie`re d’esthe´tique. En outre, ce phe´nome`ne de perception autore´fe´rentiel qui conserve toujours son influence a mis l’accent sur des formes spectaculaires de de´fi et a ainsi contribue´ aux traditionnelles protestations afro-ame´ricaines classiquement enracine´es dans la tradition orale. L’accent mis sur la photographie du parti des Panthe`res Noires permet de constater comment la rhe´torique violente sur laquelle s’est polarise´ ce parti est devenue complexe et impossible a` distinguer de la re´alisation violente. Mots cle´s:photographie afro-ame´ricaine, e´tudes ame´ricaines, e´tudes culturelles, culture visuelle, race ß Canadian Review of American Studies/Revue canadienne d’e¤tudes ame¤ricaines 38, no.1,2008 Forms of Protest In April of 2006, Duke University played host to a series of protests, which were conducted in a manner that clearly evoked an earlier historical moment. The marchers, who adopted militant postures, called for solidarity and urged African American men to unite in armed defense of their victimized sisters. Not surprisingly, the case was cast in black and white: an African American female student at the predominantly black North Carolina Central University, who also worked as an exotic dancer to fund her studies and support her daughter, had accused three members of the Duke men’s lacrosse team of rape. The case raised myriad controversies,1 and clearly highlighted the deeply entrenched racial divide not only on campus but also between the campus and the community.2 Particularly fascinating is the protest that surrounded the case, which deployed a particular rhetoric (armed self-defense) and a specific iconography (symbols of black militancy). This recently staged spectacle deliberately referred back to the black protest tra- dition of an earlier era of radical politics. Assembled by an organi- zation calling itself The New Black Panther Party, many participants aainRve of 38 Studies Review American Canadian (2008) looked and sounded uncannily, or rather cannily, like its 16 6 long defunct namesake, the Black Panther Party, which had for a startling time in the 1960s burnished its image on the popular imag- ination. That image, it would seem, endures to this day. Photos taken of the April 2006 event focused in self-conscious ways on affinities with this earlier form of protest, suggesting a bridge between the current urgency for justice, on the one hand, and a long history of injustice, on the other. Such a deployment also manifestly attempted to revitalize a tradition of radical politics that the original Black Panther Party (BPP) helped to develop, and a symbolism that original party had defined and popularized. Despite the ideological differences between the New Black Panther Party and the group that inspired them—one so great that any link between the two has been firmly repudiated by trustees of the original group’s legacy3— the New Black Panther Party draws in obvious ways on the very visual symbolics associated with that oppositional style, including the flags, emblems, berets, and defiantly clenched fists. Although the case is compelling for constellating the questions of racial, class, and gender privilege in ever crucial terms, the concern here is the spectre of 1960s black radicalism haunting today’s nascent movement, a striking feature of the recent protest. The form,or the aesthetics, as it were, of protest continually asserts its gripping if sometimes ambiguous and contradictory power. What relation- ship did the aesthetics of protest have with the expression of black power? To what extent was the form of protest linked to the substance of its politics? For all the debate the Party inspires, the striking nature of its ima- ging is rarely contested. As Erika Doss observes, ‘‘with their black berets and leather jackets, their Afros, dark glasses, raised fists, and military drill formation, the Panthers made great visual copy’’ (177–8). The effectiveness of this strategy has frequently been disputed, however. Critics and former members alike remain divided when it comes to the ends that this visual copy served and, ironically, the issue that rages most intensely is the extent to which this power is consistent with black power. Attempts to preserve the legacy of the Panthers tend to resort to gestures that are effectively, if unintentionally, iconoclastic. In her reflections on the role of women in revolutionary politics, for example, former Communications Secretary for the Panthers Kathleen Cleaver finds herself musing, ‘‘could it be that the images and stories of the black panthers that you’ve seen and heard were geared to some- thing other than conveying what was actually going on?’’ (126). Concerned about protecting the legacy of the Panthers (and here 167 Cleaver addresses a broader constituency than women), she insists Revue canadienne d’e that we distinguish between the imaging of the BPP and the content of its politics. The former, her remarks imply, seldom does justice to the latter. One of the most respected activists of the era, Angela Davis, affirms ¤ this divide. Davis memorably maintains an abiding suspicion of tudes ame a politics reduced to fashion despite, or rather because, of its mainstream incorporation. ‘‘It is both humiliating and humbling,’’ she confesses, ‘‘to discover that a single generation after the events ¤ ians38ricaines (2008) that constructed me as a public personality, I am remembered as a hairdo. It is humiliating because it reduces a politics of liberation to a politics of fashion; it is humbling because such encounters with the younger generation demonstrate the fragility and mutability of historical images, particularly those associated with African American history’’ (171). In other words, the imaging of black power in general, and of the Black Panther Party in particular, is frequently dismissed as sensationalist, distorted, and inaccurate. It would seem that insiders and detractors alike blamed the shoot- ing of the movement for its undoing. Such a charge reveals a profound suspicion of the visual field. Nonetheless, these critiques underscore, even as they attempt to undermine, the prominence and endurance of such imaging practices. As Tom Wolfe’s satire of white liberals in New York Magazine at the time illustrated, an important part of the appeal of black power was the sense of spectacular fascination that Wolfe eloquently called ‘‘radical chic’’ (1970). Despite the clear message that recent gestures towards a black radical tradition have articulated, the ongoing controversy concerning this tradition largely stems from the fraught entangle- ment, rather than strict separation, of content and form, fashion and substance. For these reasons, a careful assessment of the substance of the Panthers’ politics also needs to closely examine its photographic representations. From the time of its inception, the Black Panther Party achieved prominence as the visible icon of black power, underscoring the urgency of community programs as well as self- defense, by playing—in often skillful ways—with photography. Despite its initially modest numbers, the movement acquired aainRve of 38 Studies Review American Canadian (2008) national exposure precisely by seizing not just the time, as Bobby 16 8 Seale proclaimed in his memoir, but also the photo-op—perhaps most notably by providing protection for Malcolm X’s widow, Betty Shabazz, in one of her first public appearances,4 and in a public confrontation with police during their lobby against the Black Panther or Mulford Bill (for the legislator who introduced it), a piece of impending legislation on gun control. The theatricality of this opposition, or what Nikhil Singh memorably calls the ‘‘gue- rilla theater’’ in which its politics plays, remains an important touchstone for the imaging as well as imagining of black protest. Indeed, the recent re-staging of this theatre at the steps of Duke illustrates its continuing appeal. Here, it will be argued that the photography of the BPP provided in vexed, sometimes misunder- stood and frequently disavowed ways, a medium for its politics. The visual field constitutes not a distracting betrayal of radical politics, but rather a crucial site where the form of protest is fiercely, even violently, negotiated. Visual Violence The distrust of the image that Kathleen Cleaver and Angela Davis articulated above is directed especially towards stereotypical accounts of the Black Panther Party, which stress the organization’s ultimately self-destructive violence. Without considering the context in which such a provocative stance was taken—the perceived failures of the Civil Rights movement, the community’s long-standing sense of disempowerment, and the gendered ways in which this disempowerment was experienced (Ogbar 2004)—it is tempting to conclude that, instead of establishing a coherent pro- gram, the BPP consisted of nothing more than a band of hoodlums spouting hatred and promoting violence.

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