Inspired Art
From Social Justice Wiki
The life of Fred Hampton, Jr. and the life and death of his father, Fred Hampton, Sr., have inspired writers and rappers to create art about revolution and the politics of freedom fighting.
Behind Enemy Lines
-M1 (Minister of Culture of POCC) of Dead Prez
From Let's Get Free
Yo, little Khadijah pops is locked, she wanna pop the lock
But prison ain't nothin but a private stock
And she be dreamin bout his date of release, she hate the police
But loved by her grandma who hugs and kisses her
Her father's a political prisoner, Free Fred
Son of a Panther that the government shot dead
Back in 12/4, 1969
Four o'clock in the mornin, it's terrible but it's fine, cause
Fred Hampton Jr. looks just like him
Walks just like him, talks just like him
And it might be frightenin the Feds and the snitches
To see him organize the gang brothers and sisters
So he had to be framed yo, you know how the game go
Eighteen years, because the five-o said so
They said he set a fire to a a-rab store
But he ignited the minds of the young black and poor
Listen to the Song.
The following poem was written in December 1969 in the wake of Fred Hampton, Sr.'s assassination.
MY BROTHER IS DEAD!
By Stuart McCarrell
From When One of Us Falls, ARTISTS UNITED, 1970.
Fred Hampton is dead and a world is ended.
That bright consciousness is snapped, cut forever
by the hatred of pigs (vague broad hate
for their own lives, sharp hard hate for him).
Fred Hampton is dead. Notorious felon
of ice cream bars for kids. Evil purveyor
of pride and free breakfasts.
Foul example of dignity and warmth – Fred Hampton
the revolutionary is dead. The revolution
is about to begin.
In Washington, John Mitchell demented and pompous—
a toy Mussolini, struts
with joy. Murder number 38—soon
(he thinks) his bosses will be safe. Fred Hampton
the revolutionary is dead. The revolution
lives, like a stalking panther,
in the pride of the ghetto.
In Washington, capitol of hunger and terror,
a conference meets to mock the poor.
27 cents a meal—if the Generals can spare it,
if the gluttons on their estates decide
to permit it. Fred Hampton
the revolutionary is dead. The revolution,
in the voices of hungry children,
is crying to be born.