On his way back to his car, Barron recounts a memory that comes to mind whenever a young person recognizes him: Two girls, maybe nine or 10 years old, passed him on a sidewalk a few years back. "Hey, Charles Barron," the first girl said. "Who's Charles Barron?" the second girl asked. The first girl responded, "You don't know Charles Barron? He fights for black people."

Charles Barron was hawking the Black Panther newspaper on the Lower East Side when he heard the news that Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated.

"My first thought was if they killed Dr. King, who's talking nonviolence and peace, then we're really in trouble," he recalls.

Charles Barron
Christopher Farber
Charles Barron

Revolution was brewing, the teenage Barron believed. Leaders murdered, uprisings in major cities, cops in riot gear, skittish politicians pleading for calm. Barron sensed the world changing, and he was at the center of it.

He wasn't predisposed to radicalism. His father, a World War II artilleryman, made a living as a merchant marine, then as an interior decorator, and his mother did administrative office work. Neither was especially political. During Barron's adolescence in the Lillian Wald projects on Manhattan's Lower East Side, free time meant parties or basketball. Then he read Patrice Lumumba's Congo: My Country, which detailed the author's political philosophy shortly before he liberated his nation from Belgian colonialism. More books followed, and by the time Barron was in high school, he'd targeted a life path, harboring a goal as vague as it was ambitious. "I dreamed of lifting my people up," he says. "Of being the catalyst in the liberation of my people."

One day, two young men in black berets strolled into Lillian Wald with pamphlets and spirited pitches. Barron leaped into the movement. He spent his evenings in Harlem, listening to Eldridge Cleaver speeches on a friend's record player and attending political education classes at the Panthers' headquarters. There he studied the revolutionary efforts shaking up the Third World. He read about how his own government had opposed the liberators. He learned of J. Edgar Hoover's aim to stifle the Panthers. "All of my heroes were America's enemies," Barron says.

He joined his community's Area Policy Board, tasked with linking city resources to neighborhood groups. The youngest member on the panel and its only Black Panther, Barron quickly caused a stir. The board, as he remembers it, was primarily split between a coalition of 14 whites and Asians and a coalition of 10 Latinos and blacks. "They'd 14-10 us out of everything," says Barron.

At one meeting, he was so frustrated that he swept all the papers from the conference table onto the floor, shouting for his cause until police showed up to escort him out. Soon after, he orchestrated a boycott: Without his coalition, the board didn't have a quorum.

The other side's leader agreed to send more resources to black and Latino neighborhoods.

Barron's true political schooling, however, came when he met Reverend Herbert Daughtry, the Brooklyn-based community activist and chairman of the National Black United Front. Barron had invited Daughtry to speak at Hunter College, where he was a sociology major, and Daughtry came away so impressed that he took in his host as a protégé. Within a few years, Barron became Daughtry's chief of staff, sitting in on meetings with city officials and making trips to Angola, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe to support anticolonial resistances.

"What attracted me to him was his assertiveness," says Daughtry, who remains a Barron fan. "If you see him angry, it ain't just that he's angry in isolation. He expresses the anger, the frustration, the despair of the people he represents."

By the mid-1980s, Barron was subsidizing his activism by teaching a leadership seminar through a company he and his wife founded (Andre Mitchell was one of his first graduates). The arrangement left him ample time to demonstrate, and he organized rallies against apartheid in South Africa, police brutality in his hometown, and dozens of other social-justice issues.

In 1997, Barron protested the proposed construction of a movie theater in East New York. He argued that a supermarket or youth center better suited the area. The city councilwoman who represented the district, Priscilla Wooten, supported the multiplex project. She was a powerful foe. She'd held the seat since 1982 and had become one of then-Mayor Rudy Giuliani's top allies. When Barron returned to the construction site a day after the protest, he found that workers had erected a portion of the structure's wall. Just like that, Wooten had won. "That's the job I want," Barron thought.

He'd adopted the blend of radical idealism and pragmatism at the core of the movement that shaped him: that revolution can topple an institution from the outside, but also purify it from within. "A ballot is like a bullet," Malcolm X proclaimed.

"We can't leave the power in the hands of those who sell us out," says Barron. "I call them neocolonial puppets in the hands of our oppressors."

Barron lost to incumbent Wooten in that first election but took 40 percent of votes. Four years later, with Wooten ineligible because of newly instituted term limits, Barron ran against her son. "Somebody needs to tell Donald and his mother that this is a democracy, not a monarchy," he told the Voice a few months before winning the election.

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I miss Charles Barron! He was fun! I loved seeing and listening to him speak during the rallies/protests against Bloomberg's failed educational policies.   I told him once that it was on my bucket list to get arrested with him for civil disobedience while protesting the closing of NYC public schools.  Luckily that won't be necessary now that we have a new Mayor and Chancellor.

I didn't agree with everything he said or everything he believes in, but he was always true to himself and I respect that.  Oh, and not that it matters but I'm probably not the typical Charles Barron fan,  I'm a 50 year old white woman. 


Following the footsteps of Frank Lucas. 

The Voice neglected to report that.

Where's the investigative journalism. 


Thank you, Village Voice, for reporting on the many under-published good works of Charles Barron and amplifying the voices of New Yorkers of color. 

Charles Barron is extremely hard working and excellent at working with community coalitions of all races. He has consistently supported actual help for New Yorkers living with HIV and New Yorkers fighting fracking when other politicians only offered lip service. This is why he actually brings a LOT more money to home to his district, even with his blunt speaking.

Significantly this article leaves out the tremendous problem of graft and selfish criminality by a large percentage of New York elected officials. That Christine Quinn's presentation of grants to council members she "liked" (overwhelmingly to white-led nonprofits "helping" people of color) was presented as "business as usual" -- but is was really racism. It is byzantine that in the 21st century so much money is allocated through white-dominated friendship networks instead of need-based competitive, professional proposals and grants.

New York State has had a glut of politicians convicted of bribery and other charges last year. The outspokenly un-bribable Charles Barron moving to the Assembly will be a boost to ethics in Albany. And while Christine Quinn et. al. may continue to maneuver discretionary appropriations to white-led members of the city's nonprofit industrial complex, Inez Barron will continue the good fight in the City Council to a transparent, professional, anti-racist allocations process.


At the end of this long story, I was left with the same question as when I started: Why is the Voice dedicating so much space to a woman who has passed no significant legislation and is widely considered a nonstarter, and a buffoon whom other councilmembers at best ignore? 

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