Felipe Luciano: Whatever happened to the activist-turned TV news reporter?

Activist, poet, musicologist and longtime TV reporter Felipe Luciano is well over half a century removed from his days as a Young Lord and Last Poet. But spend any time with him, and that old revolutionary fervor returns in a flash.
Yes, he certainly does advocate independence for his beloved Puerto Rico — surprised anyone would still bother to ask — and continues to demand justice for New York's oppressed and downtrodden.
Nevertheless, there is the matter of age (75) along with a few health issues. The revolution must now be left to someone else.
These days, Luciano hosts a call-in talk show for WBAI/99.5 FM, and — with his son Felipe Jr. — "Latin Roots," the influential music program he launched in 1972. He continues to lecture and attend poetry recitals.
Luciano is also writing his memoir, but where (or how) to begin? At 16 he was jailed for his role in a gang brawl that resulted in a fatality. After prison, Luciano joined the Original Last Poets — an East Harlem-based group of politically-charged poets who were on the vanguard of the Black Arts Movement and called themselves the "last" poets before the coming revolution. In 1969, he launched the New York chapter of the Young Lords.
The Latino counterpart to the Black Panthers, its members occupied a church in East Harlem (twice), Lincoln Hospital in the Bronx, and forced the city to finally clean up El Barrio (East Harlem). And then, at the height of his power and notoriety, the chairman of the Young Lords was demoted.
A few years later, casting about for something to do, Luciano joined WNBC/4 in 1973 as a TV reporter, then went on to become New York's first Latino anchor on a Saturday broadcast in 1978. (Carol Jenkins, an African American woman, was his co-anchor.) The year before, he had won an Emmy for a groundbreaking series on Rikers Island. He joined WNYW/5 in the late '80s, as one of the first hosts of "Good Day New York's First Edition" (with Lynne White) and "Good Day Street Talk" (with former mayor Ed Koch). He left in '92 to work as a columnist for New York Newsday, radio host, and (among many other roles) the commissioner of the New York City Task Force on Police and Community Relations in 1997.
After returning to Ch. 5, Luciano closed out his TV career in 2001 when he ran (unsuccessfully) for city council from East Harlem.
This interview was edited for clarity and brevity.
You grew up in Brooklyn, then East Harlem. What was your world like back then?
I was wrapped up in learning words, wrapped up in the meaning of words. I was also wrapped up in looking at the gangs on the streets and how they interacted with each other. East Harlem was a family and truly a communal experience. It was a wonderful time to be alive — and the music: Frankie Lymon, Sam Cooke, Brook Benton, the Temptations, and of course the king of Latin music, Tito Puente.
What led to the arrest?
My brother had been beaten up [and] my cousin came up with his guys, and we found the guy who did it [in Brooklyn]. And to make a long story short, one of the guys who was next to me — I didn't know him very well because he had joined this gang that my cousin had put together — stabbed the other guy twice and killed him. Since I was the ringleader, I got five years and served two. I can tell you right now, jail [Elmira, Coxsackie Correctional Facilities] saved my life.
Saved in what way?
I was in shock when I went in, and when I came out I began to see reality in the here-and-now. In prison, I saw the reek of racism for the first time and was alone for the first time — no mom, no gang — and had to make decisions about who I was. Otherwise, I was going to get swept up.
A tough kid who had to get tougher?
Not tough at all! I went to church seven days a week — Pentecostal, the Hasidics of the Protestant faith! Inside, I needed to find a strong core value.
After jail, you went straight to Queens College, right?
No one in my family had gone to college — no one — and to me college was a fantasy, from "Archie" comic books — Veronica and Betty and jalopies and white sweaters. But sure enough, I passed a test, and [a mentor] sent me to Queens College. It was a huge paradigm shift for me and I adapted easily and gravitated to anything that gripped my mind. College became my revolutionary bedrock.
How so?
I was already moving toward a new perspective of who I was as a Black man and as a Puerto Rican. This was also a time of Black nationalism and the Black Arts Movement, led by Amiri Baraka, who believed that we think differently, see differently, smell differently, hear differently. He gave me a sense of ethnicity with regard to arts, politics, everything else, and I began to learn that oppression must never be tolerated.
How did you become a member of the Last Poets?

From left, Gylan Kain, Felipe Luciano and David Nelson in the 1970 documentary about the Last Poets, "Right On!" Credit: Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture/Herbert Danska
I went to a loft they had on 125th Street called the East Wind, and met [two other Poets] Gylan Kain and Abiodun Oyewole. He saw [the origins of] rap in what we were doing long before we did. In fact, it broke us up because Gylan, the leader, didn't like rhyme — he wanted poetry.
Did you have any idea you were at the forefront of a brand-new art form — rap — that was about to take over the world of popular music?
No; we were [like] Meistersingers, spreading our aesthetic. We didn't know the effect we'd have on people. We were a laboratory for revolutionary politics [and] felt there should be no separation between art and politics, because all art is political.
Your own poetry made quite a splash — notably "Jíbaro, My Pretty [Expletive]," which is still anthologized. What was that poem about exactly?
The love affair I have with Puerto Ricans and with Black people, and how we can bring this all together. At that time, there were Blacks who thought you couldn't ride with them [and] I was saying, we're a gorgeous rainbow people …
So this then was the bridge to the Young Lords?
I was known as a poet, not a political activist, but some members of [the student group and Young Lords precursor] La Sociedad de Albizu Campos came to the loft, because they heard that I held a political workshop there. Mickey Melendez [Miguel Melendez, who became a Young Lords leader] said we need you in East Harlem. At the time, I was into armed struggle and told him, "I don't see your commitment to die," and he said but we are willing to.
You had become a full-blown revolutionary?
Full-blown. I wanted change now.
To condense a complicated history, you and a few others launched the New York chapter of the Young Lords in 1969. What was the first order of business?

Supporters of the Young Lords warm up as they await arrest for occupying a Manhattan church in 1970. Credit: AP/RF
We went to the [East Harlem] community elders, asking them what they thought was needed. I swore they'd say, "armed struggle," but you know what they said instead? Garbage! They wanted the garbage picked up.
Ha. La basura — trash.
Right, la basura. I wanted to hand in my resignation, but then began to realize that garbage produces infection, means time away from your job, and if you lose your job, that has all kinds of impact. We then became known as the health care revolutionaries. We were serious about revolution [but] you had to listen to the people. And we had success … the sanitation department [eventually] picked up the trash.
The Young Lords were a counterpart to the Black Panthers and together even formed a coalition — but they were also very different. How so?

From left, Felipe Luciano, Black Panther Party member Don Cox, and Luciano's fellow Young Lords member Pablo Yoruba Guzman at the Young Patriots Organization in Manhattan 1969. The man at right foreground is unidentified. Credit: Getty Images/Bev Grant
One of the Panthers from the West Coast came and told us, why don't you start provoking? "Heighten the consciousness," as they called it. But I knew if we spent time confronting the police, we wouldn't have time to do the social work we needed to do [food and day care programs for children, which lead to the occupation of the First Spanish United Methodist Church on East 111th Street].
In 1970, the Young Lords demoted you as their leader, which former member Juan Gonzalez — in a Daily News column — blamed on your long absences and even drug use. How do you respond to that?
He was absolutely wrong. I wasn't there for a lot of times [because] I had been working underground with H. Rap Brown on revolutionary tactics and explosives. [Brown — now known as Jamil Abdullah al-Amin and serving a life sentence for the murder of two Georgia sheriff's deputies in 2000 — advocated the violent overthrow of the government in the '60s.]
Wow. Never heard that before.
I couldn't tell my group what I was doing or they would have been arrested. They conjured up that I was taking drugs, but I wasn't. [Gonzalez did not respond to messages.]
Had your revolutionary zeal cooled by this point?
The Vietnam War was about to end, and the reason for the coalition [with the Panthers] was losing its vitality. So what to do [next]. For me, art was the only way.
By that I assume you mean, in part, the radio music show "Latin Roots"?
I was very depressed during that period. Didn't have my gang, didn't have structure. What should I do? Yes, it was music that saved my life.
How did Ch. 4 come into the picture?

Felipe Luciano on his time at WNBC/4: "They allowed me to ventilate on my stories, which for me was very important."
Credit: /Ed Quinn
I heard they were looking for a Puerto Rican reporter. There were things happening in our communities where they were afraid to send other reporters. They had some forward-thinking people at the station, including Norm Fein, the news director who hired me. At the time, Chuck Scarborough had just started — he was wonderful to me — and [meteorologist] Frank Field, who became a dear friend. And of course, the love of my life, Pia Lindstrom! Melba Tolliver was also there. We had some very good people.
Were you a controversial hire because of the Young Lords?
I didn't care — and if they cared, they didn't let me know.
What was their expectation?
They allowed me to ventilate on my stories, which for me was very important. In those days, there weren't such things as one-minute-long voice-overs. We actually had to go out and develop stories — and I'd look for themes [notably criminal justice] or the contradictions besetting our community. I went to Rikers Island and spent a week there and also spent time at Creedmoor [Psychiatric Center in Queens] to talk about the plight of mental patients. I was what was known at the time as a "live-in" reporter — living in the story — and I loved it.
You and WABC/7's Geraldo Rivera — himself a lawyer for the Young Lords — were certainly the best-known Latino reporters on New York TV at the time.
Yeah, we were the guys — David Diaz [Ch. 4 anchor and reporter] — came a little later but we also had Gloria Rojas [who died in 2022] and J.J. Gonzalez. They were fantastic and J.J. fought for me all the way.
Why did so many of the Young Lords go into TV and radio — including WCBS/2's Pablo Guzmán and Denise Oliver-Velez [public radio]?
We began to understand that if we can manipulate the media, we can project the story we want to tell. We had become media savvy and knew we could still pursue a social agenda.
Even as a TV reporter?
You tell the truth and don't try to slant the news, but you can add your spin to it, by talking about the various aspects of a story that made it happen in the first place. I call it 'subjective objectivity' and still lecture about it.
What were you up against over those years?
Institutional racism and a "Who is this guy?" attitude. Does he understand the tradition of journalism? It was that, constantly, but I fought it simply by doing what I had to do. And thank God for Frank Field — he was the one who kept me on point. He was the one who kept me straight up.
You once told me about the fist fight with a producer.
I had been sent to cover a police demonstration at Yankee Stadium [and] when I came back, a producer from [NBC] national news came down and said, "Give me the tape." I said I can't give it to you — go to my boss. He then grabbed my hand and said, "What do you think you are? In the Young Lords?" … I knocked him to the floor.
Remarkably, you didn't get fired, and even stayed a few more years. Why did you finally leave?
I was tired. It was the same stuff and I was just bored with it.
You later joined Ch. 5, but left abruptly in '92. Why?
I got involved in drugs [cocaine]. I'd been doing a show with Ed Koch called "Street Talk." [Ch. 5] didn't want me to go but I needed to get myself together, and did. I went into rehab.
The TV career finally wrapped in 2001. Any regrets?
I loved it but I wasn't doing what my soul was telling me to do. I should have been writing, which I'm doing now.
Speaking of which, the forthcoming memoir?
It's called "Flesh and Spirit: Confessions of a Young Lord." I talk about how we developed an organization, in all its beauty and frailty. We made some mistakes, but we did what we thought was best and I'm proud to be a part of that.
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