2007

by Sam Drew/PNN

“Security officers protect million dollar buildings, yet they can’t afford to live in the city they work in,” Teresita Cruz, the energetic vice president of Service Employees International Union (SEIU) 24/7, said loudly to the gathering crowd of security officers and janitors. I am one of those security workers protesting, but this time I was also reporting and sup-porting for POOR. We were marching late Thursday afternoon to loudly protest low wages and the rising cost of health care for workers.

I have done security work for 15 years. I’ve protected million dollar properties for multi- millionaire owners and been shorted on my checks time and time again because they have gone with the lowest bidder for security services. I’ve complained with other guards because we get write-ups for calling off for illnesses while security companies slash health benefits. I’ve seen owners spend $20,000 on lobby doors then forget to pay officers. This is why I’m pissed off and protesting with a large group of my fellow officers for justice, respect and fair wages.

The boisterous protest took place smack dab in the middle of the financial district in San Francisco underneath the huge skyscrapers racing each other to touch the late evening clouds. The crowd represented the diversity that the Bay Area is famous for. All colors, hues, shapes, sizes, ages and attitudes were represented in a purple ocean of agitated humanity. The large crowd clad in purple shirts started to hand out pots, pans, drums, whistles and anything else that could be used to make loud noise.

Protesters started marching and chanting: “What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!” as women in business attire stepped aside. Men hugging their expensive leather briefcases gave quizzical stares as the rambunctious crowd made its way to the first destination, ABM Security. Teresita informed the energized throng, “Health care is what this is about. This is about taking care of our families.” Screams of approval mixed in with whistles and drumbeats greeted her statement.

Suddenly, a short wiry man wearing law enforcement like sunglasses jumped into the middle of the multitude. “Would you mind not doing this in front of my building,” he sternly lectured the crowd. His teeth were clenched tight while veins bulged in his neck as he slowly surveyed the situation. The way he folded his arms around his chest reminded me of an Old West cowboy protecting a homestead from bloodthirsty marauders.

The show of unity and empowerment must have rubbed him the wrong way. But peacekeepers quickly interceded, explaining that their purpose was to deliver a letter to ABM Security and leave, not to steal his cattle.

As the selected delegation descended down into the belly of the massive building, the crowd began chanting and clapping without stop until their representatives returned. “ABM, shame on you,” we repeated, to remind all that security officers are ready to fight for higher wages and access to affordable health care.

The purple brigade began to roll towards its next destination, Allied Barton, which is one of the largest security companies around and has just cut its Kaiser healthcare plan. “Do security officers and janitors in the Bay Area deserve quality health care?” the organizers asked loudly as we approached the building. “Yes!” was the crowd’s unanimous reply. A new delegation of security workers and janitors delivered our demands for fair treatment to the recalcitrant security company.

While waiting for their comrades to return, leaflets were handed out to workers dashing by to catch the BART or MUNI. The leaflet details the plight of William, a security officer who protects prestigious properties and the lives of hundreds, but goes home to his impoverished neighborhood because his wages and benefits aren’t similar to other service workers. He looks like he could fit in with any Fortune 500 company. His suit is immaculate, his tie impeccable. But because of unaffordable health care, if William ever gets sick, it’ll cost him a fortune. Cheers greeted the return of the vice president and the other diplomats.

“We received very nice smiles. They were very company-like.” But the response to the demands wasn’t what the masses wanted. Everybody wanted to hear the companies agree to change for the better. According to SEIU: “Experts estimate the turnover among security officers to be up to 400 percent. That is far higher than even the fast food industry.” This high turnover rate has a negative impact on public safety. Keeping qualified security officers on the job is essential for protection of lives and property.

The final stop for the purple bus is Securitas, the largest company in the world. Organizer Eric Lerner shouts to the assembly, “Securitas is the biggest security company in the whole world and the first to slash health benefits.” The last delegation goes in to confront the security giant with three undaunted representatives.

As I watch security officers and janitors fighting side by side for justice, equality and respect, I’m reminded of the sad saga of Frank Wills, the Watergate building guard who discovered the office break-in that helped kick President Nixon out of the White House. Soon after the furor of Watergate had died down, Wills had trouble finding work and was soon penniless. Wills died a broke and disillusioned man while many of the Watergate crooks got book deals, radio shows, TV appearances and speaking engagements. But the real hero was beat down by an uncaring system and left to suffer alone.

“We’ll be back,” I chanted with the crowd when the passionate purple posse returns. We will keep fighting for better benefits, wages and health care. As the protest dwindles down, I remember a quote I read in an SEIU pamphlet about why unions fight: “Unions are not officers, offices or grievances. Unions are workers that agitate for a better life.” I’m sure Frank Wills would endorse that goal. I know I do.

Sam is a poverty scholar and reporter for POOR. He just graduated with honors from POOR Magazine’s Race, Poverty and Media Justice Institute.

by Joseph Bolden

Journey To U. S. Forum In Atlanta, Georgia

On the way to the U.S. Social Forum in Atlanta, Georgia minor problems begin. First a customer using the same 10 person van Poor Magazine folks would be using was returned by the last customer without reinstalling the two extra seats.
It means going back to Colma? City for an hour or more. We stop in Hunter's Point to pick up The Bayview Newspaper to distribute in Atlanta. We rode the highway. They've printed our news, columns, poems, and stories now we rep. It's all good.
In the background Paris and Public Enemy spit reality street knowledge.
By 4pm Ms. Laura Yaya has been driven for four or more hours straight and now is relived by second driver Mr. Arnulfo. Ms. Yaya and Arnulfo also consulted the map double checking for errors. Starting late we didn't know how we'd make up for lost time. Me, like the others mostly napped Ms. Yaya videoed what she can with a minicam. Mickey D's, Carl Jr's are eateries most of the group chose, I, Joe
wasn't hungry, couldn't keep any thing down since the turkey sandwich I had eaten Friday morning. My cold had broken earlier but I stiff feel sick.
Ever since I was young a bloody nose signals the break or end of my flu though
after effects linger for days. and everyone were warned to stay “Hydrated,
because once you feel thirsty its too late your brain is all ready cooking!
Drinking and pouring writer on my head and face keeps my body from over heating cooling me off. We're in Lost Hills? 4:32pm Mr. Dee, Allen's travel reads. By 7am we drive through a town named Boron.(to be continued)

by Dee Allen, Joseph Bolden, Queennandi Xsheba, Jewnbug, Luis, Vivian Hain, Dharma, Ruyata

My reflection on this trip was some what strange because I saw some things in the south that I didn't even know still existed.

On the way to Atlanta Yaya, one of the drivers, said she saw a very homophobic sign, it said, Wine like California but with out the fruits. " I was shocked because I've never really seen anything so harsh. When the trip first began I was like Atlanta here we come! But the closer we got to the south the more I started feeling a bit scared. They started telling me that people get killed here by white people. At first I didn't believe it but it seemed that every where we went people stared at us like we had a visible disease or something.

There was this white woman in front of us in line at the store and the cashier woman was a smiling and real nice but as soon as she saw me and my mom her voice changed so deep and when she told us have a good day she rolled her eyes. I have never felt so scared and so unwelcome in my life. Before this trip I didn't believe that white people were racist. I thought it was just people making up stories to scare other people.

The worst part was the when we were about 1 hour from Atlanta and we wear staying at the Comfort Inn; me and my brother and Kim decided to go swimming. When we got to the pool some people wear already there. A mom and a little boy about 3 or 4 and a 14 year old girl. When my brother got in the pool he went towards the kid to play with him and as soon as the mom saw him she told her soon to get away because she didn't want him to get splashed. It didn't make a whole lot of sense because my brother wasn't splashing, but I thought maybe my brother is just too big to be playing with him so it didn't bother me.

Then I started to talk to the girl and the first thing she said to me was &quot Hey boy,&quot which later I found out was a bad thing. She kept talking about herself saying she was smart and i said i was too. She said her IQ was 96 then she asked me what mine was but I've never taken the test. When i told her she made a sound and rolled her eyes like she knew i was gonna say that she sort of started to make me feel dumb for a moment. But then i thought to my self I'm not dumb and i snapped out of it.

She told me her name was Forest and I told her mine was Luis. And then she said that she had been to Mexico and that the houses there were rundown and that the people there were poor because they were ignorant. She said people in Mexico married their cousins.

I was thinking in my mind that is so not true, so I told her that people in Mexico are lawyers and hard working people and that just because they don't get everything given to them on a silver plate doesn't mean they are ignorant. Thats when i started to think she was a bit racist but then she told me she thought all the people in Africa are ignorant and she didn't even have a reason she just said because they don't have resources and go out on the street running around naked and having sex and babies with aids.

I was mad but I didn't want to loose my cool. I felt not anger but pity; I felt sad for her because she is gonna miss out on so much because of the way she thinks. I didn't blame her. She told me she was home schooled all her life so i guess that's all she learned. I know that when you have some one telling you something at a young age thats what you usually end up believing, even if it's wrong.

After that Joe came in the pool and the mother went crazy. You could see her face it looked like it was gonna explode because she was so uncomfortable around us. After that I went back into the hotel and started to feel so sad and horrible. That was the first time ever in my life that I met a racist person and I hope it's the last.

by Angel Garcia/PNN Race, Poverty and Immigrant Scholar

Para espanol mire hacia bajo

As a gang member and a teenager growing up in the Mission, drugs were rampant. I, myself, have had many experiences in the barrio and calles dealing with my own addiction. I have been addicted to drugs and lived on the streets, sleeping under the freeway, cold and hungry. I have been clean for over a year now but many times drugs helped me to survive homelessness and poverty.

Like all businesses functioning in the underground economy there is more risk than money. The money you make is barely enough to survive on.

Yo creci (I grew up) in a rough barrio and saw many cosas going on all the time. When I started selling drugs in my neighborhood I began mixing with junkies, drug dealers, and working people. En mi barrio everything was brown, la gente and las drogas.

When we talk about the criminalization of drogas in our barrios we have to remember prohibition. From 1920 to 1933 the sale and consumption of alcohol in the U.S. was illegal and it was sold on the black market. Many people do not consider alcohol a droga, but alcohol does the same damage as other drugs. It breaks our communidades apart. Alcohol was my first droga, soon after I became addicted to drugs, the ones I would be criminalized for.

In the 1990’s when I was just a teenager, only 14, many of the vatos and the regular gente raza got addicted to coca. I was a patojito (a little kid) with the junkies all around me smoking coca and Cristina (crystal meth). I saw this everyday and then it became my life.

I used to see some vatos in the hood doing crazy things when they were locos (high) like talking to Satan. When I saw someone itching and scratching I knew they were high on some good heroine.

La gente que estaban addictas (for people who are addicted) your purpose is always the same, to find where you are going to get your next high. The question in my mind when I was addicted was how am I going to survive another day and not feel sick with the malias (the cravings). No one wants to wake up feeling sick with the cravings for your drugs.

I started smoking marijuana when I was 14. When I started selling drugs I had never tried any harder drugs. I did not know how it was to be addicted to heroine, cocaine, or crystal. When I was selling I used to have women offer sex in exchange for drogas, it killed me to see the power that the drugs had over these women and how the criminalization of the drugs forced them to use their bodies this way. I used to give many of my women friends on the streets free drugs because I hated seeing them use their bodies in this way. At that time I did not understand the effects of addiction.

Then I got addicted to the drogas and knew the feelings of addiction that the vatos (guys) and jainas (girls) from the barrio went through when they used to ask me for drogas. Then everything changed because I lost my friends and I had to keep on selling drogas para mantener my own addiction. Yo sabia (I knew) that I was matando (killing) my own gente (people) in the barrio of la mission by selling and using drugs and I wanted to stop. So sometimes instead of drogas I would buy them food or even ropa (clothes). But I was still on my own, fighting against the drogas.

I became homeless sleeping at the bottom of the freeway; it was my casa pobre. I was sleeping in a space muy pequeno. It was like a jail cell, solamente (only) 2 feet by 4 feet and filled with the smell of dirty socks. Mi unico amigo was the grey hard slab that covered my head. For a long time the nights were lonely. Fria and dark, se sentia like a refrigerator full of hielo.

Selling and using drogas was just another way to survive the long winters. Drogas helped me keep warm and to ward off hunger. My drug use and addiction was another way to survive the system in the U.S.

After much struggle I got myself into a rehabilitation program in Oakland. I have been clean now for a year and a half. I am currently writing a book about my life in the barrio de la Mission called, “Gangs, Drugs, and Denial.”

Angel Garcia is a student in POOR Magazine’s Race, Poverty and Media Justice Institute and will be releasing his memoir, Gangs, Drugs and Denial in the summer of 2007.

Como un miembro de pandillas y adolecente creciendo en la mission las drogas estaban ala orden del dia yo tube muchas experiencias en el barrio con mi addiccion yo estube durmiendo en los puentes con frio y hambre tengo limpio un ano pero por mucho tiempo las drogas me ayudaron a sobrevivir el no tener casa y la pobresa

Como muchos negocios bajo la economia hay mas riesgo que dinero el dinero que haces solo te ayuda para medio vivir

Yo creci en un barrio dificil muchas cosas pasaban ala vez cuando yo enpese a vender drogas en el barrio me juntaba con los drogadictos y vendedores y personas normales en el barrio todo era cafe la gente y las drogas cuando nosotros hablamos de la criminalizacion de las drogas en nuestra comunidad tenemos que recordar la prohibicion del ano 1920 al 1933 la venta y consumo de alcohol en los estados unidos era ilegal y se vendia en el mercado negro muchas personas no consideran el alcohol una droga pero el alcohol hace el mismo dano que las otras drogas

Quiebra a nuestras comunidades aparte el alcohol fue mi primera droga despues
me hice addicto a las drogas por las cual yo iba ser criminalizado

En los 90's cuando yo era un adolecente de solo 14 anos muchos vatos y Raza regular se addictaron ala coca yo era un patojito con los drogadictos ala par mia fumando coca y cristal yo miraba esto todos los dias se volvio mi vida

Yo miraba los vatos en el barrio haciendo cosas a normales cuando estaban bajo la influencia como que hablaban con el diablo cuando yo miraba alguien rascandose yo sabia que estaban locos en una buena heroina

Para la gente que es addicta el proposito es el mismo encontrar una manera para ponerse locos al siguiente dia

La pregunta en mi cabeza cuando yo era addicto como iba a sobrevivir otro dia y no estar enfermo con las malias a nadie le gusta sentirse malia por mas drogas

Yo enpese fumando marijuana 14 y cuando vendia drogas nunca trate otras
drogas yo no sabia lo que era estar addicto a heroina o coca y cristal cuando yo vendia muchachas me ofrecian sexo por drogas me mataba ver el poder que la droga tenia sobre ellas y como la criminalizacion de drogas las forzaba a vender su cuerpo yo les daba droga gratis porque no me gustaba lo que hacian en ese tiempo yo no sabia lo que era ser addicto

Despues yo era addicto y supe el problema que los vatos y jainas del barrio tenian cuando ellos me pedian drogas despues todo cambio perdi mis amigos tube que vender mas droga para mantener mi addiccion yo sabia que estaba matando en la mission yo queria parar en vez de drogas les compraba comida pero yo todavia estaba peleando con mi addiccion

Yo dormia bajo puentes eran mi casa pobre el espacio era muy pequeno como una celda 2x4 pies el olor a sucio como un calcetin mi unico amigo la pred gris que cubria mi cabeza por mucho tiempo las noches eran muy solas y frias como una refrigeradora con hielo vendiendo y usando drogas solo era
otra manera de sobre vivir los largos inviernos me quitaban el hambre y frio tambien me ayudaban a sobrevivir el systema de este paiz

Despues de tanto sufrir fue a un programa de reavilitacion en oakland tengo limpio un ano estoy escribiendo mi libro sobre mi historia en la mission que se llama pandillas drogas y negacion ano

by POOR MAgazine's Race, Poverty, Disability and Youth Scholars

Don't Forget the Four Little Girls and the Struggle

Queennandi Xsheba,

6/25 Birmingham, Alabama

We stopped at the 16th Street Baptist Church where the four young girls lost their lives in the church bombing. I took pictures—Dynamite Bob was convicted eventually at the courthouse about four blocks away from where the bombing took place.
Juan, a homeless, self-appointed tour guide, gave us a spirited tour of the first “Nigger Park” that is across the street from the Church (still under construction). This park, currently known as The Kelly Ingram Park, is where the 3000 children came to march and were attacked by vicious dogs. About 1800 kids as young as nine, were arrested until there was no more room in the jails. Firefighters turned the hose on the brave children with 600 pound water pressure (that does a lot of damage, indeed). Monuments of the children ducking and covering themselves from the water hoses can be seen. Statues of the big vicious dogs, that were trained to recognize black skin by using black dummies can also be seen.

I took a picture standing in the place where Martin Luther King Junior did one of his first speeches. The radio station down the street was also bombed several times. And if you make a right past the park, you could find the building for the Black Masons (Prince Hall).
This is the first time I have seen this struggle with my own eyes. You can see the children; you can hear the dogs barking, ready to attack. You can hear the bomb detonate, killing the four little girls. The essence is painful, and I wept.

2007—it has only gotten worse. Coming into the South, I still got the stares from racist folks who didn’t know a damn thing about me, however hate me, or rather my skin color.
Mr./Ms. Superior say that I am inferior, but it is their ignorance that feeds the deep-rooted cancer that will eventually spread and kill their wicked ways of thought.
I am Queennandi Xsheba, descendant of slaves in these American Hells. I know who I am. What is Mr. KKK’s reason to hate? Did I Queennandi, rob Mr. KKK of his birthright? Did I rob Mr. KKK of his name? Religion? His language? Culture? His land?
Did one of, or all of the precious four little girls burn Mr. KKK’s little girls on the stake alive? These facts of atrocity still haven’t planted a seed of hate within me. I am better than that. The proof is in “his story” books of a regal lineage that flows through my veins—I will never forget.

POOR TRAIL/ No More Tears

Ruyata A. McGlothin

Anticipation, venturing into the unknown yet sharing one goal for racial, economic, social, gender and class justice. These past three days already feel well worth it. Nine freedom fighters in a small van from San Francisco, CA to Atlanta, GA stepped into our roles to pay our parts in the formation of a new her/history.

Coming to the United States Social Forum in Atlanta from such a poor environment, a poor life and a poor history, in this short period it appears to be a much more all-around depressing state than that of my own. Last night as I explored downtown Atlanta, which reminded me of the San Francisco Tenderloin, I was very happy to be in a new place and see new faces. I waved hello to everyone, but most people driving turned away immediately and everyone on foot, EVERYONE except three people in the 18 hours that I have been here, asked for money. I’m POOR also, just from another area.

The few I was able to give change or a dollar to, let me know that it wasn’t enough. For example, there was a guy yesterday who asked for more donations after simply pointing out the direction of the homeless shelter that I was looking for. I found the shelter two block away.

And it hurts my heart deeply but to make change (of all kinds) is the reason we’re here.

Luis Esparza

Inmigrante and Youth Scholar

My reflection on this trip was some what strange because I saw some things in the south that I didn't even know still existed.

On the way to Atlanta Yaya, one of the drivers, said she saw a very homophobic sign, it said, Wine like California but with out the fruits. " I was shocked because I've never really seen anything so harsh. When the trip first began I was like Atlanta here we come! But the closer we got to the south the more I started feeling a bit scared. They started telling me that people get killed here by white people. At first I didn't believe it but it seemed that every where we went people stared at us like we had a visible disease or something.

There was this white woman in front of us in line at the store and the cashier woman was a smiling and real nice but as soon as she saw me and my mom her voice changed so deep and when she told us have a good day she rolled her eyes. I have never felt so scared and so unwelcome in my life. Before this trip I didn't believe that white people were racist. I thought it was just people making up stories to scare other people.

The worst part was the when we were about 1 hour from Atlanta and we wear staying at the Comfort Inn; me and my brother and Kim decided to go swimming. When we got to the pool some people wear already there. A mom and a little boy about 3 or 4 and a 14 year old girl. When my brother got in the pool he went towards the kid to play with him and as soon as the mom saw him she told her soon to get away because she didn't want him to get splashed. It didn't make a whole lot of sense because my brother wasn't splashing, but I thought maybe my brother is just too big to be playing with him so it didn't bother me.

Then I started to talk to the girl and the first thing she said to me was “Hey boy,” which later I found out was a bad thing. She kept talking about herself saying she was smart and i said i was too. She said her IQ was 96 then she asked me what mine was but I've never taken the test. When i told her she made a sound and rolled her eyes like she knew i was gonna say that she sort of started to make me feel dumb for a moment. But then i thought to my self I'm not dumb and i snapped out of it.

She told me her name was Forest and I told her mine was Luis. And then she said that she had been to Mexico and that the houses there were rundown and that the people there were poor because they were ignorant. She said people in Mexico married their cousins.

I was thinking in my mind that is so not true, so I told her that people in Mexico are lawyers and hard working people and that just because they don't get everything given to them on a silver plate doesn't mean they are ignorant. Thats when i started to think she was a bit racist but then she told me she thought all the people in Africa are ignorant and she didn't even have a reason she just said because they don't have resources and go out on the street running around naked and having sex and babies with aids.

I was mad but I didn't want to loose my cool. I felt not anger but pity; I felt sad for her because she is gonna miss out on so much because of the way she thinks. I didn't blame her. She told me she was home schooled all her life so i guess that's all she learned. I know that when you have some one telling you something at a young age thats what you usually end up believing, even if it's wrong.

After that Joe came in the pool and the mother went crazy. You could see her face it looked like it was gonna explode because she was so uncomfortable around us. After that I went back into the hotel and started to feel so sad and horrible. That was the first time ever in my life that I met a racist person and I hope it's the last.

The Greyhound- San Francisco to Atlanta

By Dharma, POOR Magazine, Poverty Scholar and Digital Resister

I am here at the first U.S. Social Forum, a long journey away from home seeking out a justice among all.

I am glad to be here among my peers at a time of much social change in the world. Unlike many people who are here in Atlanta for the forum, I traveled by bus for 2 and a half days straight. I got on the greyhound bus in San Francisco and traveled through the nights till the bus reached Atlanta. The trip was non-stop for sixty three hours to what feels like the other side of the world.

I felt like I was traveling through time. I traveled by bus to get a feeling for what my ancestors went through during the great Black exodus to the West. I thought back to a time when my ancestors, African descendants traveled the underground railroads out of the South to escape slavery. My mind drifted to what it must have been like to find paths through the trees and land beyond the highways to escape the south. I imagined what early black Americans went through to find a better life.

I traveled by myself. The trip was long and drawn out. I kept my mind off of the long hours by reading and starring out the window. I read about the conditions of prisons in California. I was reading letters from women in prison. from mothers who are locked up while their children live without a family.

I stared out the window for many hours. The land was desolate with dark rainy skies. Thunder and rain pounded us in all five states. At the border of each state we hit thunder storms. I felt like I was traveling on another universe. The lightning struck and reminded me of our country's bloody history. We passed through hot, muggy dust storms. We passed ghost towns, abandoned buildings, empty, boarded up and burned. Nothing but cactus plants, desert flowers, barbed wire, and heat for miles. Single oil pumps dotted the landscape in Texas. The moons I saw are like none I have ever seen before with light shining out all around us. The skies, the land everything was new and frightening. Big skies I thought would never end. But I knew eventually we would make it here to Atlanta.

I leaned my face against the cool window and stared out at the long stretch of dry barren land. I was surprised by the ghost towns between New Mexico and Dallas. I could see the broken down houses in the light of the storms. A dust bowl of memories of leftover life. You can rename poverty but all across America it looks and smells the same. Small houses, trailers, shacks and old towns. One town in Texas the sign read Population 3. We stopped in towns and all the major cities on our route. Some historical and everywhere I went the American flag was flying. I can't imagine living in these small towns with nothing around.

We passed hundreds of McDonald's, Burger King's and Wendy's. They cater to Greyhound. Fast food joints sit waiting for buses and hungry drivers trying to get back on their way. I will not eat a burger again for a long time. The only good thing about eating fast food was I knew I would not get left. I never walked far from the station. The bus would leave without you. In some places there was only restaurants. Some people on my bus were left in the rain in Alabama. Every seat was taken on the bus. Extra buses were ordered.

In Jacksonville we stopped for a moment. I stepped out into the shade. I saw a disabled man ordered off Greyhound property they said for loitering. It was the heat of the day. He was looking for bit of shade, but he was on greyhound property. He told me he lost his legs in the Vietnam war. He said he can barely get by on his veteran benefits. H told me he has nowhere to live he cannot afford a house. I met one young man who was returning to Oklahoma to his father's house. He left about two months ago to escape the beatings from his father. He was forced to return because the landlord threatened to raise the rent because of him. I met one woman traveling with her ninety year old mother. They were coming from Vegas returning home to Atlanta. They befriended me.

After we crossed the border from New Mexico into Texas the driver pulled over. I thought maybe it was a weigh station. I heard the men's boots before I saw them. They wore green suits, I immediately knew they were border patrol. They walked up and down the aisles, asking each person, "are you an American citizen. If not get out your papers." Fortunately we were allowed to keep driving without further problems.

This trip has taught me humility. This trip has taught me to be ever more understanding of the hard work and dedication of the early Black Americans who traveled to California in an effort to escape the unjust and brutal treatment of the South.

Reflection: Of my travel to ATL from SF

Vivian Hain/Digital Resistor/welfareQUEEN

Yesterday the POOR Magazine crew embarked on a our journey to the US Social Forum, traveling from San Francisco, California to Atlanta, Georgia. Though half of the POOR crew traveled via van and even on bus, a group of POOR Magazine folks, including myself, traveled by air. For me, this would be my first time traveling with POOR Magazine. The journey would be quite a harrowing and learning experience for me.

The night before my journey, I was up all night, packing and cleaning the house. I was feeling a lot of anxiety and anticipation, especially since it is the end of the month and for me, it is always a tough time financially. I am on welfare, so my food stamps and money usually runs out, so I was a little nervous about leaving my kids. I wanted to make sure that they had everything that they needed while I was away. By the middle of the night, I was still frantically packing my things and feeling very restless. I didn't get any sleep at all. I went into my children's bedroom and kissed each one of them on their little foreheads and quietly whispered goodbye, as their little bodies lay asleep in their peaceful bliss.

By 6:00 in the morning, I was feeling even more anxious and a little delirious, yet I continued to get myself ready for the travel. By 8:00 a.m., I was out of the door to meet Leroy Moore, POOR Magazine board member. Seeing Leroy made me feel better and more relaxed, as we made our way to the BART train station three blocks from where we both live. We took the BART train to S.F. from Berkeley, riding on a hot, packed and overcrowded train full of dull-faced 9-5 commuters. We arrived at the POOR office, met others and got on our way to SFO, where things went quite smooth. Even the security check was not so bad, but I didn't like the way they treated Leroy. The airport staff were pushy and rude toward him, rushing him through and not taking in consideration of his disability. This made me angry inside. I made sure that Leroy had whatever help he needed.

We got on to the plane and were packed in tightly in the mid rear seating area. The airline crew didn't seem too friendly. We managed ourselves well and got ourselves settled in on the plane. Though the plane ride started out smoothly, it got very rough during mid flight with turbulence. This put a lot of us on edge, feeling as if we would not make it! The plane bounced around in the big thick clouds. We were scared, yet I knew that we would get through it, just as we always manage to do in our lives of daily struggle. We had no food offered on the plane and were very thirsty. We had crappy snacks. We landed safely in Atlanta. The minute we got off of the plane, I felt the hot air hit me like a big punch, knocking the breath out of me. The air was hot and humid. I felt as if I was breathing inside of a hot metal drum that was left out in the middle of the desert.

Yet, for me, being here in Atlanta for what and why we are here is most important, as the issues that we deal with in CA are endemic throughout the US. As we drove through downtown Atlanta, I could see many lone silhouettes moving about the dark streets. I knew that no matter where I go in America, the same issues effect many like myself. Also on this trip, I am filming a lot of video footage. I want to catch the raw essence of our experience at the USSF and beyond it. I hope that we can bring forward and share the 'truth' to why this whole forum is what it is meant to be, not just a gathering for social justice groups. It is important to keep it real and get the message out of this reality.

I know that the same issues affect communities here in Atlanta just as they do in the S.F. Bay Area. As we drove in the hot van through the city center of Atlanta, I saw the same images despair that I see back home; the vacant streets of closed business as many roam the streets looking for a place to rest their bodies upon. I can only imagine how difficult this must be with this suffocatingly hot weather. I wonder where they go to get out of the heat, out from under the scorching sun, where can they go when all I can see is nothingness for them out there..

We drove in the hot van for another couple of hours, dropping people off, picking people up. I was sitting in the back of the van. Every time we stopped, it was very hot outside. It was still very hot after midnight. By the time we reached the hotel, my asthma had kicked up, making me feel very listless and exhausted. My chest felt like it was going to burst, my heart racing like a horse. I needed water. I felt very suffocated, but remained calm and quiet. When I got into the hotel, I immediately went to sleep. My body was beyond its capacity.

As I drifted off into a much needed deep sleep, I thought of all of those lone silhouettes I saw walking through downtown Atlanta in the night heat and how I was very privileged to be able to lay my head on this pillow in an air conditioned room. This is why I am here in Atlanta to give voice and send a message to the world that this type of social dynamic must change, for everyone should have a pillow to lay their head on in an air conditioned room here in Atlanta and everywhere throughout the US and the entire world. This is where eminent change must happen and we are here to be part of that.

Reflection on my journey to the US Social Forum in ATL

By Jewnbug

Hustling funds just to have access to a conversation where often times I am the subject and not the story teller required a lot of work.

Foundations and organizations provided limited money, and there are so many of us in economic limbo

Traveling to tell my story in hopes that I will make effective impact to stabilize equality.

The process at the airport felt like I had just entered Hitler's concentration camp

My shoes off and my bags wide open, the commotion over the lotion for hands and body almost taken away, but never will my mind and soul be taken away
riding in the third class economy on the plane I ate crackerjack snake boxes as if these crumbs would actually provide nourishment on a 5 hour flight.

In ATL, and the cost of living high, many people asking for fifty cents, I didn't feel I had left Frisco, still in the concrete jungle with bright lights, big buildings and still house-less.

We are staying 10 miles from the US Social Forum, where we are facilitating a process in which our message IS MEDIA.

We are working, and yet we are still marginalized.

Just to get here to the Social forum is a struggle and a story in its self, a story that speaks to PO' folks having accessibility to framing main stream media, to digital equipment, to policy making, to legislation and most importantly, making laws.

I feel like everyday we have to cross borders, and challenge criminalizing and dehumanizing mannerism.

We are running the Ida B. Wells Media Justice Center in a hallway. Everyone has to travel a hallway to get to a room, but when your room is the hallway, its sends a clear message , &quot There is no room for you &quot
However, I am blessed to be here to utilize this opportunity to move towards justice and freedom through various mediums. But the real question is, Are we all moving towards the same vision?�

by Dee Allen, Joseph Bolden, Queennandi Xsheba, Jewnbug, Luis, Vivian Hain, Dharma, Ruyata

A Journal by Dee Allen

SATURDAY JUNE 23, 2007:

PAST 12 NOON: The white Chevrolet van, filled with 9 Poor Magazine
staff writers--including myself-- (Teresa Molina and her two children, Joseph Bolden, Ruyate, QueenNandi, Yaya,Arnulfo,) leave San Francisco by way of the
Bay Bridge. I felt nothing but excited to be going back home, even if
it's for a 5-day activst networking event. That & hearing oldschool 1980s
Hip-Hop by Grandmaster Flash, Run DMC, Paris kept me in good spirits.
Brought back memories of high school & the movies Fame, Krush Groove, Beat Street and Fast Forward.

4:30PM: Stopover at Carl's Jr. Brutally hot. While everyone else was
inside Carl's Jr., I stepped outside van to stretch my legs. Before we
left the restaurant, Joe gave me an idea: Take an icecube from the cooler
in the back of the van and swab it across my forehead, neck, upper back.
It worked. It may have melted, but it cooled me off better than those 2
Vitamin Waters from the cooler did.

5:20PM-9PM: Rode through acres of desert. Saw electrical towers with
white fan blades on them, lining both sides of the road. Wind
power-generated electricity.

9:30PM: We left California. We entered Arizona. The van stopped at the
state line. Ya-Ya busted out her camcorder just for the sign designed
like the Arizona state flag.

10:30PM: We stop at the Knight's Inn for the night, after stopping at a
Motel 6 at first. Motel 6 had one room available, with 2-3 beds; other
than that, no vacancies. The women & kids took a room, while the men had
the room next door. Ruyata & Arnolfo occupied the beds; Joe claimed the
chair with footrest; I claimed the chair with footrest; I claimed floor
space by the bathroom, under the air conditioner. Luckily, I brought my
sleeping bag & travel pillow. The motel was hella hot well into bedtime
[Kingston, Arizona]

SUNDAY JUNE 24

PAST 10 AM: Our group leaves the Knights Inn. With a noticeable scrape on
one side of the van caused by a nearby car that long since departed.

10:20AM: We hit up Denny's for breakfast. The dining room was packed with
old cowboys, bikers & rednekkks. Needless to say, I did not feel
comfortable there. While the Poor Magazine crew ate at the dining room
table, I took my breakfast order to go. I ate my soy Boca burder,
pancakes in the van. Washed it all down with apple juice.

11AM: Stopover at K-Mart for more H2O. We ran clean out.

2PM: Ruyata & Queennandi had a heated argument over whether or not
Amerikkkan Blacks are ignorant of their history. Ya-Ya chimed in with the
history of Capitalism, imperialism & economic globalisation & how those 3
things affected Africa, North & South Amerikkkas & their peoples. I put
in my measly 2 cents into the big conversation by talking about the
Eurocentrism that passes for "history lessons" in grade school [in
Amerikkka, that is]. I thank Ya-Ya for inspiring my part of the
conversation.

2:35 PM: We stopped at Chester's, a fast food restaurant that sold fried
chicken & doubled as a petrol station & convenience station.

3PM: We left Chester's and hit the road again, treated to a horrible
remake of " Love Will Keep Us Together " by Captain and Tenille. Yuck. I
hated this song when I was 7. My feelings about this particular song has
not changed with age.

4:30PM: Our group arrive at the New Mexico state line. Joe, Ya-Ya,
Ruyata, Arnolfo & Queen Nandi took the opportunity to take a picture in
front of a big orange sign: " Welcome To New Mexico, Land of Enchantment "
Corny poses & all.

5:30PM: We stopped at a Conoco petrol station. The cooler was quickly
re-stocked with ice & bottle H2O.

10:50pm: Stopover at Chevron petrol station in Tuquaceri*, New Mexico.
Picked up dinner at a Subway restaurant with Joe, Queen Nandi & Ya-Ya,
while Arnolfo & Ruyata pick up their dinner from the subject of " Fast
Food Nation " and " Super Size Me, " McDisease. Before hitting the road again,
Arnolfo gotten petrol for the van. Ruyate, little Marcos & myself cleaned
the van windows and windshield that had been caked with mud flecks. They looked hella
spotty. That changed immediately. Mutual aid put into practise.
*Translation: "The woman's breast". Language: Unknown, possibly some
Native Amerikkkan language.

MONDAY JUNE 25, 2007:

12:20AM: We reached the Texas state line. We keep ourselves entertained
with a comedy album by George Lopez. There's a lot of things in this life
that don't even make me laugh anymore, and when someone tries to make me
laugh, they only succeed in pissing me off. Not so in this case. I was
cracking up all the way through the Lone Star State, off of George
Lopez's hilarious take on La Raza life.

5:30AM: Stopover at Hinton Travel Centre-Sonic restaurant in Oklahoma.
Barely slept at all getting there.

8:45AM: We reach the Arkansas state line. Ruyate holds the camcorder for
the sign for "the natural state". [What the hell does that mean?]

9:10AM: Stopover at McDisease in Alma, Arkansas. Fucking rednekkk
central. I hate this state already.

1:16PM: Woke up to the sound of a politically-charged Rap song with a
dude slinging verses about Gulf War 2 Dolemite-style. Our group arrived
in Tennessee.

1:43PM: We finally spot a Tennessee state line sign. No pic was taken.

2:32PM: We roll into Mississippi----a lot quicker than I expected!

4PM: Our group reached Alabama----in a matter of 88 minutes! Ya-Ya broke
out the camcorder & Arnolfo, his digital camera. To take pics of the sign
at the state line. " Alabama The Beautiful. "

4:15PM: Upon crossing into Alabama, the van gets treated to sudden rain.
Then fog. The inclement weather ended as quick as it began 7 minutes
later. This reminds me of rainfall in Atlanta.

5PM: Our group made it into downtown Brimingham. Ya-Ya parked the van in
front of Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, across the street from the
Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was
the building that had been bombed in 1963 by Klansmen. The resultant
blast killed 4 little Black girls and wounded others that weren't
fortunate enough to have evacuated.

When I stepped out of our white
rental van, I knew that I was staring Amerikkkan Black history in the
face.
Giving our group of 9 a guided tour of downtown Birmingham was a thin, intelligent sixty-something dude named Juan. Juan began his
tour by walking towards Kelly Ingram Park, the site where 3,000
non-violent Black youth were brutalized by racist White Brimingham cops.
Juan had shown us the sole Black-owned radio station sign, the pharmacy
next to it, the old N.A.A.C.P. office---all across from Kelly Ingram
Park.

Our party of 9 was guided down a path of the park called the
Freedom Walk. We stopped at a statue of Martin Luther King, followed by
another statue featuring a White racist cop in sunglasses siccing his
snarling, aggro dog on a lone Black boy. The third statue consisted of 2
walls; one wall had a couple of Black youth [boy & girl] standing around
it, with the engraved slogan " I ain't afraid of your jail " the other
wall had iron bars in the centre, with the engraved slogan--upside
down--" Segregation is a sin. "

At the edge of Kelly Ingram Park, we
stopped at a few white stone pillars, each one contained an engraved
picture & biography of local Black civil rights pioneers, including an
early mentor of houseless Black youth and the the very first Black
registered nurse. [I need to get better at remembering names.] Juan
directed us to the last statue in the park: A stone assembly of 3 Black
Protestant ministers in robes kneeling. All of these Black Protestant
ministers particpated in the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s.

Juan made a thought-provoking observation: Birmingham was in the national
" Bible Belt " [the Southern United States], yet there were no statues of
Christ or stone crosses anywhere in its downtown area. To prove his
point, Juan had shown our group 2 statues of Greco-Roman gods, 1 on top
of each downtown Birmingham building. Vulcan, god of fire. Electra,
goddess of light.

The statues that gave me chills the most [second to the cop and
dog-on-boy statue] was the one that had two water cannons aimed at a wall
with Black kids near it. Imagine being hit with 600 ounces of water
pressure.
Once the tour was over, Juan asked our group for donations for his time.
Each of us gave Juan cash. I gave him a 5-dollar bill for his impromptu
tour.

I'd like to have see the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, but it was already
closed.

7:30PM: Our group stopped at the Relax Inn, a motel nearest to the
interstate. Arnolfo & Ya-Ya went to the front office to check prices on
hotel rooms. A few minutes later, we all found out that the rooms are
$55.00 each, same as the Knights Inn in Kingston, Arizona. Arnolfo used
his cellphone to call around for other hotels. Among one of them was
Motel 6.

8PM: We roll up on the Comfort Inn, across the street from a barbeque
joint, a Hardees & other motels. The kids & Ruyate got a big kick out of
the swimming pool. Arnolfo & Ya-Ya went to the office to check prices on
each room. Again, like at the Relax Inn, our group waited outside the
van. A few minutes later, Arnolfo & Ya-Ya tell us that the rooms at
Comfort Inn are hella more expensive than the last place.
Our group met, heard the room prices & we had to bring this thing to a
final vote. Joe and me wanted to go to Motel 6. I expressed my concern over
Poor Magazine's budget & opined that Motel 6 was reasonably priced
enough to be within our means. Everyone else wanted to stay at Comfort
Inn for the swimming pool, free complimentary breakfast buffet & its
nicer aesthetics compared to the other place we've stayed at in Arizona.
Comfort Inn became our motel for the night.

8:40PM: After dropping my big green duffel bag off in room 125--a
non-smoking room--and busting out a change of clothes, I went to the
barbeque joint across the street. Checked out their menu upon sitting
down at the bar. The only truly meatless options were baked potatoes,
cinnamon apples & salads. Side dishes. Not too surprising in a restaurant
that had majority meat items. I had to beg the bartender to make their
wood-grilled quesadilla vegetarian, a dish this barbeque place normally
prepared with chicken, beef or pork. Fifteen minutes later, the bartender
approached the bench near the front, where I sat, and gave me my meal in
a brown paper bag.

9:25PM: Back at Comfort Inn. I dust off my spicy dinner, take a
much-deserved shower, shave, right before Ruyate returned to room 125
from the swimming pool. Once he came back, Ruyata managed to successfully
irritate me and Joe before I switched resting-spaces [from near the
bathroom/sink to near the front door] and pass the hell out.

TUESDAY JUNE 26, 2007:

8AM TO 11AM: Ate 2 raisin bagels & drank horrible orange juice, hit the
exercise room and sat through a couple of " I Love Lucy" reruns on TV Land
in preparation for our departure from Comfort Inn.

11:30PM: Our group returned to the 16th St. Baptist Church; this time, we
toured the inside. The 16th Street Baptist Church tour began in the
basement area. It was a museum of sorts, filled with an array of
photographs of past ministers, the Civil Rights Movement in action and of
course, the 4 Black female Sunday school students--Addie Mae Collins,
Carol Denice McNair, Carol Rosamond Robertson and Cynthia Dianne
Wesley--who were killed in the explosion of a bomb planted by Klansmen.
There were dioramas in memory of the slain 4 Sunday school students and
the Middle Passage, complete with a model slaveship, Black slave
figurines & a lone White ship captain figurine. Those alone gave me
chills.

For a moment, I broke away from our group and did some exploring
of my own. I continued my tour of the chapel on the upper levels by
taking the elevator. In the sanctuary, there were high school-aged
children sitting in the front pews, along with a female adult tour guide,
watching a VHS documentary about the 1963 16th Street Baptist Church
bombing on a steel cart-held television. I took the stairs to the balcony
and confronted the famous " Wales Window For Alabama. " The beautiful
stained glass window was created in 1964 by Welsh artist John Wetts and
donated/dedicated to the 16th Street Baptist Church on June 6, 1965. The
stained glass window depicted a crucified Black man with a rainbow halo;
below him are the large slogan: " You Do It To Me. "

Meanwhile, Joe was conducting a one-man tour of his own: At the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute across the street. Dude's lucky. I never went inside of that place, at least not after Ruyate said that the admission price was $10.00. I was hoping to get in for free. Oh, well.

After touring 16th Street Baptist Church, I walked towards Kelly Ingram Park. There, I met Arnolfo, Ya-Ya, Ruyate and Queennandi. Much to my own disgust, I saw hella White juniour high and high school-age children lounging around and clinging onto the statues as if they were jungle gym items. They totally disrespected the memory of those who lost and risked their lives confronting racist Southern White cops in the name of Black Civil Rights. This was total disrespect to me and my people.
Our group reconvened at the white van and drove away from Birmingham, for the second and final time.

3:30PM: We finally smash through Georgia. I never thought I'd come back to this state. Or return to the East Coast. When I started seeing licence-plates on cars with peaches on them, kudzu on trees and bushes and red clay instead of dark-brown topsoil, I knew I was home. Next destination: Hartsfield Airport.

4PM: Hartsfield Airport in Clayton County, one of thirteen counties that make up Atlanta.
We've made it. Ruyate, Joe, Queennandi and me stepped out of the van to meet someone who used to roll with Poor Magazine ages ago. All 4 of us was to look out for a half-Pacific Islander, half-Native American woman, her name was Mariposa. Until that point in time, the only Mariposa I knew was a street in Potrero Hill. We don't even know what gate she disembarked from the airplane at.

While waiting for Mariposa to show up, Ruyata, Queennandi and me ran into a celebrity. We met comedian Bruce-Bruce from B.E.T., by himself with no bodyguards or paparazzi. Sweet. My little brother is not going to believe this!

Queennandi and me occupied our time with talk about interracial sex, blood diamonds, hate crimes from the Jim Crow era, the police, our childhood friends and some black market documentary on Gulf War 2, where 2 Amerikkkan soldiers in the field equate shooting innocent, unarmed Iraqis to wild game hunting. We return to the airport, no sign of Mariposa. Queennandi and me wound up getting something to eat in the food court. I pick up a vegetarian bag lunch from the Atlanta Bread Company restaurant. A portobello mushroom club sandwich, apple juice and plain cheesecake.
Ruyata and Joe found Mariposa and the van left for Fulton County. Inner-city Atlanta.

Being on I-85 brings back memories. Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel, with the revolving Sundial restaurant on top. Coca-Cola. Turner Field. Olympic Park. The Underground. C.N.N. North Avenue.

5:30PM: Atlanta International Hostel. The three-story house with the old heart-shaped Woodruff Inn sign in front. I've been here once before. This place will be home for 5 days, while me and the Poor Magazine crew are in town for the United States Social Forum. I really knew I was back home when that oppressive 100-degree heat hit me upon leaving the white rental van. Extreme humidity. No bodies of water nearby. Among two of several reasons why I left Atlanta in November 2002.

Our cross-country journey stopped here.

by Anna Kirsch/PNN

Come to Barnes & Noble in Tanforan Mall 1150 El Camino Real in San Bruno Friday September 14 @ 7p.m. to hear Vet read from Purposes!

Vet Williamson has kept a diary for as long as she can remember; a sacred journal describing her most personal experiences and life struggles. Most of which would have been easier for her to forget than re-write, re-tell and share with the world.

But, unlike most, Vet, a race and poverty scholar and former Bayview resident, decided to unearth her painful past and share it in her recently published book, Purposes! A Real Love Story. To do so, years ago Vet began the heart wrenching process of digging back through her old journal entries to create her compelling memoir.

“It was pretty difficult to relive certain circumstances and remembering those feelings, passion and anger, was hard,” says Vet, “but I wanted to offer encouragement and hope to those who may go through some of things I experienced in my life.”

Written as a love letter to Jesus, who Vet wholly credits for her existence and survival, Purposes takes the reader on Vet’s moving journey through life. From drug abuse, racism and homelessness to poverty, welfare and motherhood, Vet writes in a simple, brutally honest manner that the reader can easily empathize with and relate to.

The story begins with Vet’s birth and the extremely close bond she shared with her mother through childhood. “I slept with my mother every night and would pull her arm over me to feel safe,” she writes. We then feel her grief when she loses her mother as a teenager and must support her family while struggling with her father’s alcoholism.

From this moment on the reader connects to Vet and becomes extremely engaged in her words and story.

We learn about the racism she suffered, even within her own race, living as a dark-skinned woman in Cincinnati, Ohio. We read on, as she becomes a teenaged mother in an abusive relationship. We see her life almost completely unravel, as she struggles with an addiction to crack, becomes houseless and survives rape.

Her story is interwoven with biblical passages, quotes and poems, each telling of how she managed to survive and overcome. While Vet credits much of the strength she found to her own community church, she also boldly points out that many churches today don’t operate in love and truth, which she believes are “the only means to set us free.”

Although rooted in Vet’s religious beliefs, Purposes doesn’t preach but openly demonstrates the healing and strength that can be found for many struggling with issues of racism and poverty through Jesus and prayer.

As Vet eloquently stated, “I was able to overcome because of the fact that I had a relationship with God…it was the way he built me, I just don’t know how to give up.”

Vet’s is a story of love and forgiveness and by the end of the book, her strength and courage are undeniable. Her life is a true tale of survival, thrival and resistance.

Purposes! A Real Love Story can be purchased online at amazon.com, as well as at Barnes and Nobles.

by Lola Bean

The Whites of your eyes

Can’t find my light

See my shape right

Unless your lids are locked tight

Or your eyes are cast down.

The curves of your ears

Deflect words

Left unheard

Without tone

Unless my lips make your sounds

The wind in your throat

Blast sirens over notes

Lost songs to the monotone

To drone out my wide mouth

And the pain and the love that&actures pouring out

And you cover yourself in your skin

Hide the motion and electricity

With thin tint

Believing it is

Where you stop and where I begin

Stop

My Eyes See just fine

I find light through your lines

Sense the motion behind

And see yours as what&acutes mine

My ears hold

Vibration from your soul

Shake words free

Lets loose tone

And then fills me

With you

Whole

My throat cuts notes

Makes waves out of air

Beats drums in your ear

Fixes your stare

And reveals what you fear

And my Skin

Created When

You meet me

A living process where light meets being

And I can feel you

To know your meaning

In this moment we create each other

You sense my eyes

Locate your light

Pull out that dim spark

You&acuteve spent lifetimes trying to hide

And your muscles grow hot

And your breathing slows deep

And you swell with my words

Spoken with intimacy

And so I reach through your hot soft shell

And into your soul sleepy and scared

And seek longingly for your connection

For passion and revelation

And you fear what you feel

And accuse me of obscenity

Say my eyes blindsided

Everything that you claimed to be

And you knock out my shine

Just to teach me a lesson

To you I&acutem not human

I&acutem just something lesser.

by Dee Allen, Joseph Bolden, Queennandi Xsheba, Jewnbug, Luis, Vivian Hain, Dharma, Ruyata

Yesterday the POOR Magazine crew embarked on a our journey to the US Social Forum, traveling from San Francisco, California to Atlanta, Georgia. Though half of the POOR crew traveled via van and even on bus, a group of POOR Magazine folks, including myself, traveled by air. For me, this would be my first time traveling with POOR Magazine. The journey would be quite a harrowing and learning experience for me.

The night before my journey, I was up all night, packing and cleaning the house. I was feeling a lot of anxiety and anticipation, especially since it is the end of the month and for me, it is always a tough time financially. I am on welfare, so my food stamps and money usually runs out, so I was a little nervous about leaving my kids. I wanted to make sure that they had everything that they needed while I was away. By the middle of the night, I was still frantically packing my things and feeling very restless. I didn't get any sleep at all. I went into my children's bedroom and kissed each one of them on their little foreheads and quietly whispered goodbye, as their little bodies lay asleep in their peaceful bliss.

By 6:00 in the morning, I was feeling even more anxious and a little delirious, yet I continued to get myself ready for the travel. By 8:00 a.m., I was out of the door to meet Leroy Moore, POOR Magazine board member. Seeing Leroy made me feel better and more relaxed, as we made our way to the BART train station three blocks from where we both live. We took the BART train to S.F. from Berkeley, riding on a hot, packed and overcrowded train full of dull-faced 9-5 commuters. We arrived at the POOR office, met others and got on our way to SFO, where things went quite smooth. Even the security check was not so bad, but I didn't like the way they treated Leroy. The airport staff were pushy and rude toward him, rushing him through and not taking in consideration of his disability. This made me angry inside. I made sure that Leroy had whatever help he needed.

We got on to the plane and were packed in tightly in the mid rear seating area. The airline crew didn't seem too friendly. We managed ourselves well and got ourselves settled in on the plane. Though the plane ride started out smoothly, it got very rough during mid flight with turbulence. This put a lot of us on edge, feeling as if we would not make it! The plane bounced around in the big thick clouds. We were scared, yet I knew that we would get through it, just as we always manage to do in our lives of daily struggle. We had no food offered on the plane and were very thirsty. We had crappy snacks. We landed safely in Atlanta. The minute we got off of the plane, I felt the hot air hit me like a big punch, knocking the breath out of me. The air was hot and humid. I felt as if I was breathing inside of a hot metal drum that was left out in the middle of the desert.

Yet, for me, being here in Atlanta for what and why we are here is most important, as the issues that we deal with in CA are endemic throughout the US. As we drove through downtown Atlanta, I could see many lone silhouettes moving about the dark streets. I knew that no matter where I go in America, the same issues effect many like myself. Also on this trip, I am filming a lot of video footage. I want to catch the raw essence of our experience at the USSF and beyond it. I hope that we can bring forward and share the 'truth' to why this whole forum is what it is meant to be, not just a gathering for social justice groups. It is important to keep it real and get the message out of this reality.

I know that the same issues affect communities here in Atlanta just as they do in the S.F. Bay Area. As we drove in the hot van through the city center of Atlanta, I saw the same images despair that I see back home; the vacant streets of closed business as many roam the streets looking for a place to rest their bodies upon. I can only imagine how difficult this must be with this suffocatingly hot weather. I wonder where they go to get out of the heat, out from under the scorching sun, where can they go when all I can see is nothingness for them out there..

We drove in the hot van for another couple of hours, dropping people off, picking people up. I was sitting in the back of the van. Every time we stopped, it was very hot outside. It was still very hot after midnight. By the time we reached the hotel, my asthma had kicked up, making me feel very listless and exhausted. My chest felt like it was going to burst, my heart racing like a horse. I needed water. I felt very suffocated, but remained calm and quiet. When I got into the hotel, I immediately went to sleep. My body was beyond its capacity.

As I drifted off into a much needed deep sleep, I thought of all of those lone silhouettes I saw walking through downtown Atlanta in the night heat and how I was very privileged to be able to lay my head on this pillow in an air conditioned room. This is why I am here in Atlanta to give voice and send a message to the world that this type of social dynamic must change, for everyone should have a pillow to lay their head on in an air conditioned room here in Atlanta and everywhere throughout the US and the entire world. This is where eminent change must happen and we are here to be part of that.

by Vivian Hain

May 8, 2007 was the 10th Annual Hunger Action Day at the State Capitol in Sacramento. Many advocates and low-income people from the California Hunger Action Coalition (C.H.A.C.) were in attendance to urge state legislators to support several state senate and assembly bills that would enable food security to many who need it in California. The event, consisting of mostly St. Anthony participants from throughout California, started out early with a morning rally at the Westminster Presbyterian Church.

My twelve-year old daughter, Jasmine and I, both of us poverty scholars representing POOR Magazine, got the audience pumped up and energized, along with advocate Frank Tamborello and his group from L.A. singing their own rendition of ‘California Dreaming’ with the lyrics:

We're black and white and brown

Yellow, red and gray

We're going for a walk

To the Capitol today

We came from the Central Valley

Oakland, San Diego, L.A.

From all over California

For Hunger Action Day

Had to stop into a church

Just to get a meal today

Food stamp office wants my prints

Why they need that anyway?

Gonna tell the Terminator

What we're here to say

California Feedin

On Hunger Action Day

Need breakfast for the kids

So they can learn and play

No sanctions on the families

And a C.O.L.A.

Gonna tell the Terminator,

What we're here to say

California Feedin

On Hunger Action Day

The morning rally at the church ended with a procession of over 100 strong, banging big metal pots and carrying large signs demanding food security to the west steps of the State Capitol where another rally followed with awards given to two California state legislators for their work in helping to get food security to low-income families in the Central Valley during the recent crop freeze.

After lunch, Jasmine and I led a group of low-income participants, like ourselves, from the Alameda County Community Food Bank and St. Mary's Center in Oakland to meet with Senator President Don Perata (D-Oakland) to discuss several legislative bills and seek his support on bills requiring more support for low and no income families, such as a bill requiring breakfast programs for low-income students in California schools (AB-92) and another bill that makes it easier for those on MediCal to apply and get food stamps in a simplified process (AB-433). In addition to many other bills eliminating current bans and requirements to receive food stamps.

Currently, there are a multitude of obstacles that prevent many people in California from having food security. With the Schwarzenegger Administration continuing to target California's poor, it is imperative that these bills are supported by state legislators, especially when it concerns food stamps, which are a federally funded program. In addition, it is important that there is less USDA food in food bank bags each year, as this food has low nutritional value, especially for the elderly and children.

Next we headed to Senator Perata's office, located on the second floor in the historical part of the State Capitol building, where amongst the fancy wood and marble architecture the voice and noises of visiting children moving about in groups could be heard. Upon opening the large, wooden double doors, I entered a lavish office adorned with large paintings, chandeliers and wooden furnishings. We were then lead into a conference room by one of Perata's aides.

As we sat down around a big wooden table surrounded by plush burgundy velour chairs, Senator Perata entered the room, placing himself at the end of the table, and welcoming our group. I sat about three feet away from him, introducing our group as part of C.H.A.C. and telling him the reason we were there to see him.

Each member of the group took on a bill issue and asked Senator Perata for his support on each bill. Senator Perata said that he supported all of the bills and said that Governor Schwarzenegger would probably not support most of them due to his inexperience and lack of knowledge about low-income issues in California.

Jasmine advocated for AB-92, a bill sponsored by Republican Assembly member Bonnie Garcia that will require breakfast programs for low-income students in California schools. Senator Perata listened carefully as Jasmine articulated her own personal experience of being a houseless, hungry child with such eloquence that the Senator complimented her brilliance and asked when she was running for office.

Jasmine also stated that: “A school breakfast program is brain food, which helps us students get better test scores.” Senator Perata listened intently and took notes, along with his Finance Director as several low-income people, including myself gave our personal testimonial to why these legislative bills should be supported.

After our meeting ended, I felt a sense of hope. Then I remembered the grim forecast of Governor Schwarzenegger’s May Revision proposal with its draconian legislation that wants to permanently abolish cost of living adjustments for welfare and freeze them for the disabled and elderly, while paying back bond loans to Wall Street bankers a year in advance. Although it looks like the poor will most likely be targeted another year by this administration, we will continue to protest to get our voices heard on these issues facing all low and no income families.

Vivian and Jasmine Hain have recently co-authored a book, My Life x 4, sharing their experience as a houseless family in America. For more information on this and other POOR Press publications, please call 415-8636306.

by Lola Bean/PNN Community Journalist

This story was produced in POOR Magazine's community newsroom at the US Social Forum in Atlanta.

" I felt safer in the box than I did in the shelter. " A lot of the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans gender) Community would rather stay on the streets than subject themselves to the violence and abuse running rampant in the New York City Shelter System. A stoic woman with steely eyes and a salt and pepper crew cut sits with me in a grey and musky cubicle, as she recounts gut twisting stories about being beaten, sexually assaulted, and tossed like a worthless and used up sack of garbage down a flight of stairs in a shelter that was supposed to be there to provide her with a safe place to sleep - all because she is queer.

" I talked back to one of the shelter staff, and she just grabbed me and threw me down the stairs, " she recounts with an accent of stern dignity

I met Jay Toole in POOR News Network's Community Newsroom at the Atlanta Social Forum. She is a strong and unapologetic butch dyke that spills the brilliance of her scholarship and uncompromising dedication out of her thin, light pink lips. She is the Homeless Shelter Community Organizer for Queers for Economic Justice, and a queer woman with close to three decades of poverty scholarship with a focus in houslessness under her belt. Jay probably knows more about the New York City Shelter System than anyone else in the Big Apple.

As she details the inhumane and violent stories the New York shelter system has written in her mind, my stomach began rejecting the pizza I had eaten just moments before and my headlight wide eyes began to fill with tears. As a poverty and abuse scholar myself, I immediately connected with Jay's experiences of being physically, emotionally, and economically violated because those with authority and access considered me to be less than human. The mental and physical blows she described almost knock the wind out of me.

The abuse she sustained was not limited to single instances. It was an unsaid contractual obligation in exchange for the right to sleep under a roof. " The guards would be in the same room I was being beaten in. They just turned their backs until they were done." She could be attacked in the bathroom, in the stairwell, in the main room – there was no safe space in the shelter. In addition to physical abuse, Jay sustained mental blow after blow as the shelter system psychologically battered her will.

When asked what the most difficult part of her experiences was, she immediately answers, “The loneliness. It was just lonely not being able to talk about who I am.” The shelters forced Jay to participate in group talk therapy. This was supposed to help her in her healing process and recovery, but actually served to further alienate and isolate her. Jay wanted to talk about her relationship, about the experiences she had as butch lesbian, about the trauma she was forced to endure for being a queer woman. All of these things were at the root of her joblessness, her houselessness, and her addiction. The counselors said she needed to talk about her problems, but when she did, she was told that her problems were to be kept to herself. The consequences for speaking were violent.

Jay was also separated from her partner of 14 years, Shiela. They were not allowed to stay at the same shelter together, although they were each other’s main source of support. Jay not only had to deny her own legitimacy, but that of her partner as well. The shelter system did not want her to exist.

Again my stomach turns. I hear so much of my story in her own. I’ve taken many beatings, lived in conditions I would not wish on anyone, and fought through trauma and its accompanying self medication. The most painful part of these experiences was, and in many ways still is, the lonliness. It crushes your will and dulls your sight. It leads you into dark places and traps you there. It eats the lining of your stomach and bleeds your tears dry. It is where you live with the flashes of memory and the shock of fear.

" Homophobia – it's alive and well in New York City, " Jay says with an upturned eyebrow elevated by dark irony. Jay's queer scholarship spans decades, and I follow her word all the way back to the mid sixties. Saturday nights, to be exact. Which one doesn't really matter, they all ended up the same. Jay and her crew would get together, go out for a night on the town, and end up arrested by the end of the night. Back then, women were legally forced to wear three articles of "female" clothing. Anything less was considered to be male impersonation and violators were charged with sexual deviance. As butch women, their clothing style was a criminal offense.

This is especially offensive considering that on the whole, it was impossible for butch women to get jobs unless they pretended to be men. " I used the name Melvin. " But even as Melvin, Jay could barely earn enough money to pay for a hotel every once in a while. She explains that it's hard to find work and that she was forced to live on the streets because with no work, there was no money.

Her words echoed in my ears loud enough for me to momentarily believe that they were my own thoughts replaying. In a flash, I relived countless failed job interviews, years spent moving from couch to couch with all of my belongings in my car, hours and hours of dumpster diving to try and find hopefully that last bag of bagels that would feed me for at least 3 or 4 days if I spread it out right. My stomach started turning again and the dry slice of starchy pizza started climbing once again up my throat. Most nights, I could find places to sleep and today cleaning houses helps keep me fed. Jay, a woman who lives to find safe spaces for houseless LGBT community members, spent decades living on the streets of New York City.

With a depth of experience that is only paralleled by her depth of dedication, she admits that as difficult as it was for her to earn a living, it was and still is even more difficult for queer people of color. Without skipping a beat, Jay proclaims, "It's a brown community in the shelter system in NYC. " To take it another step further, the most vulnerable population, is the trans gender community. They used to send the trans gender women off to an island. Ward's island, to be exact. " You're not going to believe the name of the building they were sent to on that island. It was called the Charles H. Gay building, " Jay said. Jay as fought for years to get transgender off of that island and into safe shelters. This task is all but impossible considering the general abusive treatment experienced by the trans gender community in most sectors of Amerikkkan life couple with the fact that out of 53 shelters, only 4 of them are considered acceptable by Queers for Economic Justice. In a recent victory, though, QEJ won a long fought battle and now trans gender men and women are allowed to self determine their placement in shelters.

This is unacceptable in and of itself, but considering the large number of queer folks in the New York City shelter system, it is outright appalling. Between 40 – 60% of homeless youth in NYC shelters are from the queer community. Jay explains, "“The kids I'm seeing on the streets today are the people I'll be seeing in the adult shelters tomorrow.”" Identifying as queer in the United States often leads to forced conditions of violence and poverty. Many men and women in the LGBT community are separated from their families and communities, find it extremely difficult to find work and places to live, and are left vulnerable to hate crimes and other acts of violence. It is no surprise so many queer youth and adults must pass through the shelter systems in New York City and throughout the nation. The large number of poor members of the LGBT community passing through shelters coupled with the high rates of abuse establishes the New York City shelter system as an institutional system of violence against queers. Jay Toole is working to change this.

" Education in the shelter systems is #1." Jay has spent years advocating for sensitivity training in the shelter systems. She worked tirelessly for three years to institute a pilot program in which shelter staff in 4 shelters would be trained on queer issues, especially in trans gender sensitivity. She conducts monthly “Know Your Rights” Trainings for houseless LGBT folks and has run outreach groups in a dozen shelters throughout New York City. Jay is fighting for the right of houseless domestic partners to have access to the family shelter system so they don’t have to be separated as she and Sheila have been. She is also active in the "Shelter Safety " campaign which seeks to end violence in the shelters.

When people are taught that some of their brothers and sisters are less than human, whether it’s because of their race, gender, sexual orientation, class, etc., it takes a lot of work to undo the damage that kind of teaching causes. When that damage causes hate and fear and violence that goes unchallenged in any system, it takes a great deal of strength to fight these battles. Jay and those in struggle with her are forced to face violence at all levels in order to secure a safe place to sleep for those in her community. There’s a lot of work to be done before shelters are safe for the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans gender community. There’s a lot of work to be done before any of us can find a safe place to sleep.

by Bruce Allison

I started my 3 day journey on the Greyhound bus early Sunday afternoon. I was taking the bus from San Francisco to get to the US Social Forum in Atlanta with Seniors Organizing Seniors. Along the way, I noticed the death of small town America.

There are very few family farms left in middle America. Farms have died. They have been killed by the corporations. Main St. America, too is dead. There were vacant houses and bulidings for miles. Signs everywhere read for rent or sale.

This is due to the building of big box stores like Wal-Mart and Home Depot. Their low-cost and imported products are locking people into poverty all across America. Low pay and non grossing jobs as greeters and clerks at these big box stores also force people to stay in positions of poverty with limited education. These folks are also prohibited from earning livable wages and actions such as striking that might lead to livable wages. This is how the serf class has been and continues to be created in America.

The death of middle America has also been caused by big corporate farms. You can see this clearly in Texas. These large corporate farms pay low wages to employees and often use prisoners as laborers.

The death of the working class in middle America signals the rebirth of the middle ages where the chamber of commerce rules.

by Joseph Bolden

Here,My Core Belief's Boiled to 1 essential mental constuct.

The core of my being have limits to what I'll do to live.

1)Be myself. If it means losing bedmates or a few friends.

2) If I'm beaten up defending a woman unless she says "no." Must keep up martial arts, stay healthy and in shape for life.

3) Never beat women,children,walk-run, leave those potential situation(s).

4)What's told privately stays private unless a lives are at state.

5) My capacity for love,huge marriage may not be for me then its love the ones who like me for me.

My one real addiction is enjoying life as is and improving it over time.

A better bod',brain, other powers, I woudn't mind, why not.

As for women, men both come/go we're both replacible.

As long as I know this no fem can drive me crazy. Great song that cuts both ways.

Boiled down to its essence my basic core belief is...

(1)Be myself-true to my core and adapt, evolve when needed.

by Mari Villaluna/PNN Youth in Media Washington D.C. correspondent

We are the children of the migrant worker…
We are the offspring of the concentration camps…
Sons and daughters of the railroad builders…
We will leave our stamp on America.

- a song lead by a Reverend Norman Fong from Presbyterian Church of Chinatown in San Francisco at the Washington DC May Day API Mobilization

When I was little, I knew nothing of how my mother came to this country. My guess was that they had just moved here. As I got older my Nanay and Lola would reveal to me their stories to carry on their voices of diasporia. My Nanay would always make it clear that first my Lolo (Rest In Power) came to San Francisco by himself. He lived in a house with many other immigrants, who were saving up money to bring their families over or to send it back home. My Nanay told me, " Your Lolo (Grandfather) was already waiting for us in San Francisco. Then I remember hearing on the radio that Marcos declared martial law. We were already trying to leave the islands, and now it seemed it would never happen."

These words rang again in my head when I was living in my ancestor’s homeland and then again when I visited Tagatay, and saw the vacation house that Dictator Marcos built for U.S. President Reagan. They were best buddies, and when Marcos was kicked out of our country he was given political exile in Hawaii. What a slap in the face to my People. This infuriated me to the very core of my soul. My family left the islands to escape political oppression only to have to survive another form of oppression in the United States, a country that caused and supported the oppression of my family and our nation.

So when it came time for May Day 2007, I knew I had to represent for all my ancestors and their struggles. I was born here, so to many I am not an Immigrant, yet to many others I am from the outside, an Immigrant. When asked by an Associated Press reporter why I was participating in the march even though I was a reporter and a U.S. citizen, I stated simply, " My mother immigrated to this country. If I don't support immigrants then I would be denying myself. It's important to be here."

On this May Day, the first day of the Asian and Pacific Islander History Month to support my ancestors and all immigrants, I participated in not only the May Day March, but also the National Mobilization of Asian Pacific Americans. This action was made by a coalition of Asian, Pacific Islander, and Raza organizations. This powerful action with interfaith leaders, US Representatives, API Organizations and Korean drumming circles, was made by a coalition of Asian, Pacific Islander and Raza organizations. In the few days before May Day, these organizations and many Asians and Pacific Islanders lobbied on Capitol Hill to speak out on the injustices of the current immigration policies that the U.S. upholds. First there was a press conference, in which Congressman Mike Honda stated, “" There is a stereotype that Asians are quiet, We aren’t going to be quiet about this right? "

I found it fascinating that there were so many preachers of color out supporting immigration reform. I spoke with Reverend Eun Sang Lee of Warren United Methodist Church, and asked him to comment what Christianity has to do with immigration, “" In God there is no border. This is a human right. We (Christians) have an obligation to care for marginalized and oppressed… There is a biblical mandate to protect the vulnerable." He went on to speak about third world peoples’ need, especially Christians, to stand in solidarity with each other, " We, as persons of color, we are playing into the politics of fear. Pitting one group against the other. We are getting played. In God there is abundance when we lift up each other."

After the press conference, a stage was set up for the rally. There was a moment of silence given in remembrance of the students and faculty of Virginia Tech. After the silence, someone shouted out " Go Hokies! " Throughout the rally there was one constant chant, “What do we want?” The answer was always, " Immigration reform! " Solidarity from other third world communities was shown when other immigrants came and stood beside the Asian Pacific Islander community.

The NAACP came out as an organization and spoke about immigration. Hilary Shelton, Director of the Washington Bureau, NAACP, stated, We " must move from the politics of scapegoating immigrants…Indeed we must move together." Later in the rally, Congressman Guiterrez commented upon immigration reform, " We have only begun the fight." After he spoke, many started to chant, " Si se puede!"

We started to march toward the Democratic National Headquarters. The Korean Drumming group led the March and provided the beat for the movement we were all a part of. When we all reached the DNC we encircled the front of the building, while chanting about Immigrant rights. The Chants never stopped. Even when the chant leaders took breaks, a Grandmother in the contingent would make sure that we continued chanting together.

People never stopped marching in that circle, even though the sun was blazing upon our backs. I felt that this march was part of and connected to all the other walks/marches/protests that had been taken place before. This was not a march that was separate from any other movement; it was one that was intertwined with all movements, especially the movement to have one’s human rights recognized, implemented and respected.

We started to march again. While heading out to march, I lead one of the chants. I chanted " We didn’t cross the border, the borders crossed us." As I chanted, I thought about this land. This land has always been and always will be First Nations land, and the first illegal immigrants were Europeans. One difference between then and now is that Indigenous peoples do not believe that a person can ‘own’ the land. It is ironic that the same people whose ancestors immigrated here are the same people who are against people they view as immigrants. They themselves are immigrants, yet they continue to scapegoat immigrants.

We finally hit the Good Old Party Headquarters; which is the home of the Republican National Party. We encircled the front of the building yet another time while chanting out " Are you tired? " The protestors always responded with a firm, loud, " NO” " It was around 3:00pm and the crowd was still strong and passionate about our voices being heard in the Capitol. I thought about my Lola and her diaspora to the United States. I remember the stories of shopping at the thrift stores, carrying bags of groceries on the bus, and everyone living in a one room bedroom with her husband and all her four kids. I remembered seeing the sign that said, " Positively No Filipinos Allowed " hung inside my Tito’s house as a reminder of the racism that Filipino immigrants survived. I was continuing this walk for my family, ancestors, and community.

As I left the march with my face covered in a rag that said "Who's the Illegal alien PILGRIM?" I crossed the street from the Headquarters of the Republican Party. I passed by two white men in suits, who I could feel were speaking about me. One looked at me directly and stated, " Don't worry darling, I won't tell anyone." I was reminded of my own Lola (Grandmother) and Nanay (Mother) and their stories of immigration to the U.S. and how they escaped the Martial law of Marcos's regime. I was reminded of how my ancestors struggled to live in this country. I looked at him, and stated " I am from this land."

by Joseph Bolden

Life’s Pit Falls And Promise,

Recently I emailed a dear friend not seen in months a few words Live Long,Be Happy,Gain Knowledge, Know Wisdom.

Not profound really its just that people aren’t really living for themselves.

I sure wasn't,since my birthday will be here shortly I've pondered a little.

Yes there’s work, small businesses,or multi national corporate structures,family groups, or even the first shy steps of two people [chose sexual orientation folks].

But most of us are not living our lives to their full potential or as the late Raymond Massy said in the 1936 film "Things To Come"From H.G,Wells 1933’s–The Shape Of Things To Come Science Fiction Classic.

Don’t know which character the great actor Raymond Massy played John or Oswald Cabal but one of them spoke of living life to "Its or "The Best Effect."

That they eliminated war because if needlessly maimed and killed people."

That wasn’t living life to Its Best Effect.

We still have people who if they’ve not been in war.

Want war to prove their own mettle using, spending innocent peoples lives, wasting our best resource Human lives!

In places other folks need to work out their own issues without numerous parties horning in.

Thing is I know my own false starts,ducking, avoiding has taken years until recently to finally do what I always wanted but self loathing and fear kept me away from.

Just sent a shout out to a friend because I too will be moving in other directions testing, surprising, myself in ways not thought of before.

I’ve gone through a few psychological changes I cannot even see yet (it isn’t going political) still apolitical however more grabs at life, collecting thoughts,seeing what I went through was minor to what so many folks have lived to survive through.

Let go of certain heart felt,soulful feelings freeing the self of past losses making room for current gains.

Don’t know where all this leads but it’s a better place to feel more lively.

It like living in thick fog which blocked the brightness of opportunity.

Now,a searing brilliance has cut through this fog and I can never let it cover me inside again.

Difficult explaining any of this if it hasn’t been experienced unless its an ongoing peak experience of illuminated insight permanently burned onto my psychic retina!

A great and good friend may not see me after a while because it may become years long a-questing I’ll be going.

I’ll not be the same either.

Its been difficult (so have I) but one lives, learns,discovers,cast aside certain truisms knowing that some astounding revelations arrive too late or early to have been known.

Such is life and the living of it.

Time to live life to Its Best Effect.

by Leroy Moore/PNN

Since Bush highjacked the presidency for the second time, our country has been at war not only aboard but also at home. Although we have heightened our Homeland Security to protect from " terrorism ", all kinds of State, City, and County police along with the growing INS and Minute Men have not made our society safer, but in fact have made American society unsafe and increased violence in our communities and homes.

Last year alone Florida had at least three, probably more, violent attacks on individuals who were homeless. In California a White racist group attacked and beat a Black man who uses a wheelchair and a Latina transwoman was found dead in March. All of these cases and more like them tell us, people who are disabled, gay, transvestites and homeless that we need to be protected in hate crime legislation. Bush, however thinks it is unnecessary.

One recent article criticizes the bill, saying it leaves groups out like the police! Examining the definition of a hate crime explains why the police are not included and why such a criticism is unfounded.

If we had a President that read the newspaper and was in any way connected to the public then we wouldn’t need to waste time explaining why this legislation is desperately needed.

Another criticism of the bill by Bush and the Republican party, as well as some Democrats, is that this law creates a special class. Once again the blame is on the victim and not the perpetrators. The outrageous fact is there has not been any new amendment to original hate crime bill of 1968 that only covers race, color, religion, or national origin.

Bush and the Republican Party’s reaction to this Bill is not surprising when you realize that this is the same guy who didn’t want to talk about the case of James Bryd, a Black disabled man in Texas who was brutally attacked dragged and beaten to death by a group White non-disabled men. James Bryd's disability was only a footnote in the case.

Bush’s reaction to this bill is unbelievable considering how hard he works to fight the " War on Terror " yet won’t protect his own citizens from violent attacks in this country. We are simply asking for Bush to prevent any more unnecessary deaths and injuries in his presidency.

Leroy F. Moore Jr.
www.leroymoore.com

by Joseph Bolden

Another Birthday

As readers can see I too think of Death's Loopholes

Find 'em expand 'em and the big sleep also gets further away.

If my words offend any readers, my apologies in my bid to be truthful and honest as I can.

It has gotten me in trouble or been called pornographic. (there was a time I had three women editors overseeing my columns)

The frank topics are changing dating patterns of men and women is part of the problem another was monetary gift from Catholic Charities their rule: No discussing anything on birth control.

Well dating sometimes ends with pregnancies, abortion,or ways women are no able to prevent birth.

I wrote of other topics instead.

Yes,I’m a Mid Boomer child,born 1954(9) years after the end of World War II (10) prior the last of the boomer crop were born.

In the middle of the great B migration swept up, cursed ‘n praised for that generation did in their lives while living, discovering,changing,and dying in the world.

Other than that I, like everyone on this globe look for my niche.

Taking care of myself with Omega 3 fish oil, multivitamins,nutrients, trace elements,exercise to improve any chance living longer healthier life.

Life has been thorns, thickets, and bushes. Yes, complained until ya’ find others who survived worse things than I could ever imagine.

No soldiering,police, only temporary security guard C.N.A./H.H.H. [Certified Nurse Assistant – Home Health Aide]. Construction, lots of side jobs along the way.

Some times we try stuff out before knowing what they want.

Its like kissing frogs (guys/girls) a pointed analogy about finding princes among frogs most women do not find them and these days those that do, let them go looking bad boys/men or girls/women.

My straight orientation on that score I thank my mother,two father’s both given name and step father, and father figures on the blocks of New York City, also to girls some mature beyond their years and women who’ve gave mental/ physical ego boosts good and bad.

Recently I’ve gone through a training again for work I’ve avoided for many years however this type of work helps me in endeavors that may finally get me to my niche wanted.

Educationally speaking school was fun except for testosterone fueled competitive drive.

The fights and injuries that only now can be taken care of.

Love, more difficult than sex in that the physical is easy once two bodies in motion they tend to stay in motion (Hold Up! Isn’t that Brownien physics? oh, well most folks know what its means if not read on) bodies with enough energy, stamina for enjoyment of it.

Sex changed me isn’t it suppose to change everyone? (I feel sorry for those who walk the planet not learning anything from their travels,what sort of life is that?)

Humor helped me more than money,cars, or materials.

Its why my clothes comes off,light on/off,doors locked,lotions,food,are near be relaxed taking slow time enjoying these moments with sacred feminine which I had no idea at
the time but its always seemed like that to me.

A friend said I’m intense didn’t know what she meant ‘til recently.

Don’t know how 5 to 30 minutes or less can satisfy a women’s complex body and mind so I take time they’re happy I’m happy,they’re not I’m not.

Times change,looked at pornographic films in movies with and without girlfriends always better with than alone.

[For an unvarnished, unedited version of this column go to Myspace.com].

Yes, my mug is there photo taken maybe as a joke I believe or her part.

Our brains,biggest sexual organ its has been said.

Bad times,good times, dull,or mundane doesn’t matter life,friends,love, travel,

I need ‘em all.

I'll be a work on my B-day later at some party,that's what I like balance.

I’m hopeful my life will go on a little longer continuing to enjoy its fruits.

by Sam Drew/PNN

" They have stirred up a sleeping giant. This issue has awakened the community, " said Minister Christopher Muhammad as he looked intently at his audience at the Grace Tabernacle Community Church. He was talking about the continual poisoning of the Bayview Hunters Point district caused by the redevelopment project at the Hunters Point Shipyard headed by the Lennar Corporation.

The sleeping giant is the organized and unified community that is confronting negligent city and county officials. The sleeping giant has had his peaceful sleep disturbed and is now seeking retribution from those who committed this dastardly deed.

In previous townhall meetings that I have attended olive branches have been extended to the Mayor, Board of Supervisors, the Health Department and the Redevelopment Agency to come and test the community's land and water to see if the claims are true. But those fair gestures were met with indifference and the community is moving on to the next phase, as Muhammad calls it "the direct action" phase.

" They have ignored the poor and now the poor are coming to their door," he stated defiantly. " Next Tuesday we need to visit Mayor Newsom in his office, Tuesday is our D-day, D stands for decision" Muhammad continued. " We call for the resignation of the Director of Public Health Mitchell Katz and if he doesn't resign the Mayor should fire him." Muhammad firmly stated.

He went on to speak about how Katz never sounded the alarms when known health violations occurred in the Bayview. Minister Muhammad was referring to the four months from April to August that the Lennar Corporations had no monitors on site to check the levels of toxicity being put into the air. Muhammad smiled as he told the engrossed audience how haphazard the monitoring system was. " Half the time they put the monitors out they didn't work," he stated forcefully.

The sleeping giant has a few more doors to knock on, besides just the mayor's office since his rude awakening. " Archeology needs to be terminated, Archeology is a non profit entity that is suppose to inform the community when they have been exposed to health issues. It is funded by the Redevelopment Agency to the tune of $600,000. Why do you need $600,000 to do nothing, " exclaimed Muhammad.

In the audience was support from Supervisor Chris Daly who received special kudos from Muhammad, "Anyone who stands up for this community needs to have the support of this community but anyone who doesn't stand up for this community should be recalled-all it takes is 10%. No one should be comfortable in a seat when the community is dying," he added.

To show the strength and diversity of this giant various clergymen spoke on behalf of this successful effort for environmental justice. Pastor Joe Niumalelega, who has been with the cause from day one spoke of the joy he felt seeing all of Gods people coming together as one. "God, I want us to come together one time. Let all nations know. Let's do this thing for our young for our community," Pastor Niumalelega said.

Reverend Victor Santana told of his problems attempting to explain to the Supervisors the importance of this issue, as he said, " The last time I went to the civic center to explain to the Supervisors the Supervisors didn't understand."

To reiterate the simplicity of what the community is asking for, Minister Muhammad once again explained the reasonable demands the community is demanding. " We're asking for a temporary shut down of the construction at the shipyard, so we can access the levels of exposure from arsenic and lead and we can't trust the Health Department under Mitchell Katz to do it.we want an independent party."

To put a human face to this story of toxic nightmares, I spoke to local resident Pat Thomas who lives close to the shipyard. She told me how her life has changed since Lennar began digging and showering the community with toxic dust.

" For the last six months my eyes are red and itching. I have headaches and I'm short of breath. I've been breaking out in rashes. Where I live at we had green stuff on the carpet. My husband had to wash it off," she said exasperated.

Host Pastor Ernest Jackson compared the movement for environmental justice to another famous and successful movement. " In the sixties I was too young to be involved in the civil rights movement. I've always regretted that [but] this movement has allowed me to be in a cause for humanity, at least I can say I was with them," he said.

The pastor added the final words to the evening's powerful meeting, as a call to all community members and anyone with principals willing to stand up for what's right.

" The doors will remain open at Grace Tabernacle Community Church."

by Joseph Bolden

B-Day, Whoop De Do.

Today is pre birthday.

Don't feel my years,am I to feel old because of a few decades of life I don't think so.excuse(?)glitch

Few aches or pains some Yoga helps,walks,sex is a great calorie reducer and relaxing,beats taking laxatives or drinking when depressed.

Food was my choice of self destruction now exercise in place of that.

I figure the more depressed I get the better I'll look.

At 54 life isn’t bad at all sure with aids or std’s [sexually transmitted disease] running riot it’s a wonder I didn’t catch anything especially being part of a floating population of what’s called houseless,transient,folk.

In this instance being negative is a good thing and I've always tested negatory thank God/Godesses
for small miracles!

Found transition housing and staid for a while.

Time to leave maybe find a place with apartments full of single ladies or share rent with a few.

With a new job, ideas of what to do next now possible.

I’m still working on chronological/biological matrix in that one does cancel the other.

Biological caps Chronological.

Here’s what’s meant if one can figure out true not cosmetic age reversal biologically then chronological numbers mean zilch.

Its as if an 80 year woman or man found ways of reversing their age 30 or more years.

They look,act,are younger chronology matters less.

So I’ll try that theory for a long time too bad governments are not testing this on people by gene manipulation or using new improved artificial genes.

I’d volunteer for slow or reverse aging therapies with a slight stipend for my time a guinea pig.

Thinking of more travel, besides Atlanta, or Hawaii (my family is helping with that).

Legal money making schemes, schools, for all kinds of stuff I’ll not mention.

Yeah,life has been exciting,ridiculously dangerous and odd at times but if I’d like a few hundred to a thousand years to contemplate and enjoy.

One thing would really please me and that’s living so freakin’ long unmarried that finally society says nothing is wrong with being a single man or woman.

I’d like to get dates because I’ve braved staying along.

Women are praised for it while are men are look at as strange short lived creatures!

To outlive the single guy,bachelor,image of someone in need of a woman or women.

The joke Married men live longer,single men don’t because they don’t take care of themselves has to be retired along with other so called truism 27 year old women as spinsters.

Imagine a world where because one has lived, loved,experienced, and continues to stay vital they get dates for my um, instructive experience.

For now society has its rules and its up to me and all of us to bend, loosen, stretch, or brake so rules that are arbitrary in nature except (bestiality, child molestation/rape or murder society is needed for the good it also does.

So lets see within a decade or two is society bends again.

In the meantime there are jobs, stuff to learn, friends to make, and lives to live.

How many isn’t know but wouldn’t be wondrous having a few centuries to take the time to find out?

That’s what I’m going for and if its against societies laws oh well, just call me an outlaw.

You I’ve never really been bad maybe this is my chance.

Got to go Life is Calling and Eternity Awaits.

by Dee Allen, Joseph Bolden, Queennandi Xsheba, Jewnbug, Luis, Vivian Hain, Dharma, Ruyata

The trip to Atlanta by Greyhound

By Dharma

I am here at the first U.S. Social Forum, a long journey away from home seeking out a justice among all.

I am glad to be here among my peers at a time of much social change in the world. Unlike many people who are here in Atlanta for the forum, I traveled by bus for 2 and a half days straight. I got on the greyhound bus in San Francisco and traveled through the nights till the bus reached Atlanta. The trip was non-stop for sixty three hours to what feels like the other side of the world.

I felt like I was traveling through time. I traveled by bus to get a feeling for what my ancestors went through during the great Black exodus to the West. I thought back to a time when my ancestors, African descendants traveled the underground railroads out of the South to escape slavery. My mind drifted to what it must have been like to find paths through the trees and land beyond the highways to escape the south. I imagined what early black Americans went through to find a better life.

I traveled by myself. The trip was long and drawn out. I kept my mind off of the long hours by reading and starring out the window. I read about the conditions of prisons in California. I was reading letters from women in prison. from mothers who are locked up while their children live without a family.

I stared out the window for many hours. The land was desolate with dark rainy skies. Thunder and rain pounded us in all five states. At the border of each state we hit thunder storms. I felt like I was traveling on another universe. The lightning struck and reminded me of our country's bloody history. We passed through hot, muggy dust storms. We passed ghost towns, abandoned buildings, empty, boarded up and burned. Nothing but cactus plants, desert flowers, barbed wire, and heat for miles. Single oil pumps dotted the landscape in Texas. The moons I saw are like none I have ever seen before with light shining out all around us. The skies, the land everything was new and frightening. Big skies I thought would never end. But I knew eventually we would make it here to Atlanta.

I leaned my face against the cool window and stared out at the long stretch of dry barren land. I was surprised by the ghost towns between New Mexico and Dallas. I could see the broken down houses in the light of the storms. A dust bowl of memories of leftover life. You can rename poverty but all across America it looks and smells the same. Small houses, trailers, shacks and old towns. One town in Texas the sign read Population 3. We stopped in towns and all the major cities on our route. Some historical and everywhere I went the American flag was flying. I can't imagine living in these small towns with nothing around.

We passed hundreds of McDonald's, Burger King's and Wendy's. They cater to Greyhound. Fast food joints sit waiting for buses and hungry drivers trying to get back on their way. I will not eat a burger again for a long time. The only good thing about eating fast food was I knew I would not get left. I never walked far from the station. The bus would leave without you. In some places there was only restaurants. Some people on my bus were left in the rain in Alabama. Every seat was taken on the bus. Extra buses were ordered.

In Jacksonville we stopped for a moment. I stepped out into the shade. I saw a disabled man ordered off Greyhound property they said for loitering. It was the heat of the day. He was looking for bit of shade, but he was on greyhound property. He told me he lost his legs in the Vietnam war. He said he can barely get by on his veteran benefits. H told me he has nowhere to live he cannot afford a house. I met one young man who was returning to Oklahoma to his father's house. He left about two months ago to escape the beatings from his father. He was forced to return because the landlord threatened to raise the rent because of him. I met one woman traveling with her ninety year old mother. They were coming from Vegas returning home to Atlanta. They befriended me.

After we crossed the border from New Mexico into Texas the driver pulled over. I thought maybe it was a weigh station. I heard the men's boots before I saw them. They wore green suits, I immediately knew they were border patrol. They walked up and down the aisles, asking each person, "are you an American citizen. If not get out your papers." Fortunately we were allowed to keep driving without further problems.

This trip has taught me humility. This trip has taught me to be ever more understanding of the hard work and dedication of the early Black Americans who traveled to California in an effort to escape the unjust and brutal treatment of the South.