by Bruce Allison/PNN - Media Faclilitator Thornton Kimes/PNN

When Care Not Cash got started, a training program was begun at San Francisco General Hospital for Certified Nursing Assistants (CNA’s) and Licensed Vocational Nurses (LVN’’s).  This was to help CalWorks clients find a new career and jobs.  This time around, during the budget crunch, the CNA’s and LVN’s are being laid off as too expensive; both being replaced by administrators who may well have not beat feet on the hospital wards as actual nurses in years.

As a former CNA I can tell you this is not an easy job;  aside from the taking of pulse, respiration, blood pressure, temperature, and other tasks (like installing or changing catheter bags), dealing with people who are sometimes confused and angry about their situations is part of the work.  You either love it or you are in Job Hell.

If you like doing this, you become a better person and commit to making the job your career.  You become who you would like to see by your bedside when it’s your turn.  They are never paid their full worth. 

Mayor Gavin Newsome has taken CNA’s and LVN’s from S.F. General, plus the unit clerks who do clerical tasks and are unofficial nurses assisting the professionals and  social workers who direct homeless clients into respite housing until their illnesses and wounds get better or heal. 

Respite beds at Next Door  (Polk and Geary Streets), other shelters and SRO hotels, have been cut in half along with their staff.  A few days ago, this poverty scholar went to a rally for the nurses who have been laid off.   Patients and health care activist organizations gave testimony. 

A heart attack survivor who had been treated at the nationally known and respected S.F. General Trauma Unit (which has also been deeply affected by the cuts) said that he wouldn’t have survived his ordeal without the professionalism, loving care, and badly needed conversation, humor and laughter of the CNA’s and LVN’s;  a social worker from Child Protective Services (CPS) spoke about the children seen in the unit suffering from parental abuse (cigarette burns, stab wounds, and other horrors)—the experienced staff cheer the kids up and make separation from their parents less scary. 

Waiting time in S.F. General’s Emergency/Trauma waiting room, which is no picnic to begin with for any uninsured person waiting to be seen for anything, will increase by at least another 4 hours—as they sit in uncushioned uncomfortable chairs (possibly bought on sale or acquired from the lowest bidder—to put it nicely; designed by the Marquis de Sade if you want to be mildly mean about it).  The nurses stood in a circle at the Emergency Room entrance to say goodbye to their laid off comrads as the rally ended. 

From Bruce:
Dear Mayor:  your adversary, this Poverty Scholar so far left-wing he can’t make right turns, wants to know if you are getting this tired old ball of wax rolling again—setting up hopes for another “generation” of homeless mothers to be trained into medical jobs and careers (or the next career fad that comes along), only for them to be crushed and disappointed by the next cycle of economic doom and gloom invented by The People Who Brought You The Sub-Prime Mortgage Meltdown and their proteges?  You’re not getting my vote for Governor!  I have a lot of friends on Facebook and they feel the same way.

by Staff Writer

I am the welfareQUEEN
By Tiny aka The welfareQUEEN

I am the welfareQUEEN

Marginalized, criminalized, a bum at best

Your bitch

Got to beg you for money
have no right to privacy family secrets,
Underground work- Tell you all kind of personal stories bout struggle, survival, unbelieveble hurt I am used by you and you are used by the sys

I take your disrespect, act like I agree with it
Internalize your hate and hegemony and believe in it

Love you like I am you feel your disgust-

I am the welfareQUEEN
I am human, I am beautiful , I am a mama, I am
an artist, a philospher, caregiver, an advocate, I
navigate a complex welfaresystem and the non
profit industrial complex by any means necessary
i exist in a scarcity model that destroys people for asking for help-
I beg for child care, food stamps, housing subsidies and I do it good

by Zackary Whitehead

I believe in Miracles

Since you came along

You sexy thing

--You Sexy Thing, Hot Chocolate

It is 7:15 AM and I’m standing guard at a supermarket. The shelves are stocked with soups, toilet paper, cereals—everything. It is cold and I begin pacing back and forth. I think of tigers in cages. I feel a brotherhood with them although I am not locked in a cage. Music is piped into the store’s overhead speakers. Suddenly I hear the famous guitar riff of the 70’s hit “You sexy thing” by Hot Chocolate. The song was featured in the movie, “The Full Monty” where a group of unemployed steel workers in England—some of whom work as security guards for lack of anything else—devise a scheme to make big money as strippers. The final unforgettable scene shows the group dressed in security guard uniforms stripping at a club before an audience of screaming women.

I look at my uniform and want to dance—to tear my uniform off and dance while cans of soup and other items jump off the shelves and into the pockets and outstretched arms of people who walk right out the door and into the sunshine—no questions asked. I am jolted out of my daydream when the manager calls for a price check over the loudspeakers. People begin filtering in—I acknowledge each with a nod. They are elders, youth and migrants. I’m the first person they see.

My job is to be a deterrent to shoplifting. Would-be shoplifters are supposed to look at my uniform and see me as a symbol of authority--making a 360-degree turn and heading out the door. When I take my 10-minute break I go to the bathroom. I look in the mirror. I don’t see a symbol of authority but a symbol of a bad economy.

It’s been almost 20 years since I last worked as a security guard. To work as a guard you have to be licensed by the California Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. I got my “guard card” by taking a class provided by a security officer training school in Oakland. I remember the bold words captured in a frame in one of the school’s offices:

Those who adapt

Survive

Those who don’t

Die

Those words made me think of dinosaurs. I sat through the “powers of arrest” and “duties of a security officer” sections before watching a video on the security implications of the threat of weapons of mass destruction. The class was a cross section of elders, migrants, people of color and ex-military folks. One young man was given an ultimatum by his father, get a job as a security guard or join the marines. Another young man had ambitions of joining the California Highway Patrol. I sat in back of the class next to an elder from Fiji. We looked at each other, he nodded—he knew.

It’s 8:10 AM. More and more people filter in. Many are migrant Raza with families, many are African descended, Chinese and Russian elders. I am part of what is known as Loss Prevention—LP for short—making sure the store doesn’t lose potato ships, toilet paper, and freeze-dried noodle soup. But what of the losses that come through the door, each with a face that tells a story? The list of losses include:

Languages

Lands

Cultures

Identities

His(her)stories

Wives

Husbands

Children

Homes

Jobs

Sanity

Do those losses count--do they ever count? I stand at the front entrance and nod in acknowledgement.

Private security is one of the fastest growing industries in the US. 34 billion dollars a year is spent on private security services to protect private property. This reflects upon the rampant privatization of public safety services, shifting from protecting people to protecting property. In a report by www.themorningcall.com, between 11,000 and 15,000 companies employ over a million security officers—double that of police officers. According to Service Employees International Union (SEIU), the occupation of security officer has a turnover rate comparable to that of a fast food employee. In an economy that is spiraling downward, it is ironic that the only job many people can get relates to the enforcement of laws governing property rights. Prior to my security job, I worked as an employment counselor for a local non-profit. I helped low-income people find work and take part in community organizing campaigns. Now I work as a guard—it’s the only job I can get right now.

There were several candidates applying at the security-company that eventually hired me. All were African descended, a couple elders. One fellow had worked in the Tennessee prison system and had failed the test to become a San Francisco Police officer. His eyes lit like pools of flame when he talked about the starting salary of a SF cop. Another applicant was a woman who wore brown polyester suit with fingernails a deep shade of red. She looked like a muni bus driver but could have easily been my auntie. She expressed frustration of ageism in her job search. She then talked about her daughter who was attending classes at UC Berkeley. "My daughter is so smart," she said, her face beaming.

It’s 9:50 AM and the traffic in the store is picking up. A houseless man walks in. According to my post orders, I am to ask all undesirables to leave the premises. Our eyes lock. I nod and wait for “You sexy thing” to come over the loudspeaker.

by Staff Writer

Queer Boi and his HIStory with Biological Males

By Queer Boi (WSR)

The first one

Bought me Suszy QÕs, cherry cokes, and let me pick the Fantasy Five on Fridays.

He would wake up at 4AM five days a week to go shine-up new cars so I wouldnÕt have too

He carried me asleep in his arms, up the stairs to our two-bedroom apartment

His actions spoke his affection

Especially on nights when he would blast Vicente Fernandez while drinking his Budweiser

Doors slamming, Vases flying, his screaming, my mothers crying

ÒIÕm not enough,Ó was the feeling my seven year-old lips sobbed onto my pillow

The second one

Made me lunches and fruit punch Kool-Aid during our summers at home alone

Beat the S-H-I-T out of any boys who made fun of me

And let me be Laserbeak to his Soundwave on our Cybertron

Unlike the one before him, whom we both called father, he let his words speak to his affections

ÒI would rather you be a criminal than turn out to be gayÓ

ÒIÕm not enoughÓ was the thought that crept into my head as I fled home

The third one

Made me feel like I belonged

Raza, Gay, English major who spoke Spanish w/ a gringo accent, and was estranged from family

One night, he rode in on white clouds that I inhaled when we kissed and enraptured my mind with the false strength and security I always wanted.

His actions spoke of his intentions

In the morning, he took my social, credit card, and the man I though I was

He stole my security and left in its place an empty stained pipe

ÒIÕm not enoughÓ

The current one

Caused the scar on my legs and arms and the loss of this front tooth

Looks to drown out insecurity and loneliness with Bacardi, fast men, and pretty shoes

My actions speak my affections

Now it is my father and brother who cry when I drink

Now they tell me I am enough

by Staff Writer

All of you know I love finding musicians with disabilities around the world especially Hip-Hop artists with disabilities. Well it is time to take it to the next level! Read on and pass it along!

My Dream for 2010 is to take Krip-Hop Project and my research on disabled musicians especially Disabled Artists in Hip-Hop to Africa & Europe, face to face to get the artists' stories on paper and on camera!

I got to go! And the goal is 2010! If you know any good deals please hook me up. Plus, I've connected with some amazing disabled musicians and activists in Africa and throughout Europe. I've got to go and 2010 must be the year. If you can assist or put me in the right direction please do! There are so many disabled musicians outside of the USA that I want to meet and get their stories. The internet is cool but nothing is like face to face and 2010 is the time to take my love of finding disabled musicians to the next level!!

I'm on a mission!! If you have any suggestions please hit me back!!

I would love to get some kind of sponsor or grant to do this for 6 months. My dream. All the connections to disabled musicians especially Hip-Hop disabled artists I made through the internet has brought me to this stage and that is to visit all of the artists and write and record their stories throughout Europe and Africa. This would be amazing and has been tugging at me for years. Anyway I need to reach out and tell you anybody that can assist with this vision. Iʼll be writing up a full proposal in the upcoming months and will be asking for letters of support from artists from all over the world that will be apart of my proposal packet. Like I said the connections, friendships and research has been made with disabled musicians throughout Africa and Europe but can you assist in completing my vision?

Stay in contact. Read my articles on disabled musicians on www.poormagazine.org column Illin-N-Chillin, www.kriphop.com and www.myspace.com/kriphop

by Staff Writer

Livin on Concrete

By. V.L. Hain aka Superbabymama

When yu walkin thru the downtown, and lookin in around, yu see the down of humanity, who was once somebodys baby, layin down on the concrete, street, on the ground

And do ya dare to care, and say what you want to say, step on and stare-

by Irene Marr/PNN Race, Poverty, Media Justice Institute Intern

Carpooling. It's fun with friends, saves on gas, AND you're going green. Many have the option to share their vehicular luxury, but for others, it's a way of life.

Thousands of Californians rely on sharing gas costs and roadway incentives for adding passengers to their car, not necessarily because they're devoted to "sharing is caring"ideology, but because they can't afford not to.

I grew up in Los Angeles, and if you know the "City of Angels", you know that in no way do people have wings and fly--they drive, everywhere. Gas was always an issue, and no matter what people may think, has never been cheap. My friends and I always relied on asking for rides or pitching in on someone's gas tank to go somewhere. For most of us, without this, none of us would have gone anywhere. It's how we went to school and work. It was how we did the things we needed to do 'cause we couldn't afford to buy a car ourselves. My father moved to this country and found himself carpooling from the beginning. He found that it was a way to save on transport costs since he was struggling to establish his new life. Not only that, it's hard to take the bus when you're work is 30 min. by car, up to 45 during rush hour.

For the majority of the laborers in California, carpooling is the only way that they'll get to their jobs and contribute to the State's workforce. The State even fosters this notion when providing carpool lanes and waived bridge tolls for carpoolers. From a policy perspective, this decongests the roadways, helps the environment, and encourages mobility. Economically, the State can not afford to lose out on people traveling to their jobs, especially the blue collar ones.

As the analyzing archaic duo Matier & Ross reports in the San Francisco Chronicle, the Bay Area Transit Authority is looking towards riders to help seal their $140 million budget by raising the bridge toll and even eliminating the toll waiver for carpoolers. Somewhat compromising, the authority proposes a ˜discount rate to still keep a touch of incentive for those who are riding the eco-friendly cause.

What's concerning about this matter isn't that they're hiking up the toll, but who they're squeezing money from. I know for sure that if I were back in L.A., my friends and I would have more of an obstacle getting around. My family and I would struggle incredibly if we had to run around picking up the kids from different schools while running errands without personal vehicles. I also know that the neighboring Beverly Hills would have a lawn and garden crisis. It's hard to fit lawnmowers and weed wackers on a bus, let alone a safety risk.

As families and workers who rely on carpooling personal vehicles to fulfill their daily obligations, this proposed toll increase is going to thicken the barrier of transportation obstacles that hinder their means of financial support. On the other side of the income fence, it's a contradiction to doing things the ˜environmental way". Given this, there is definitely an extreme disconnect between what we perceive as "going green".

The experience of low income people (who are the majority being of color and migrant) is inherently "green" by default. Low income people are reliant on the carpool factor and therefore gain the right of benefiting from no-cost bridge crossings. In opposition, the higher income population would take from it one more price to pay to be labeled "green". In these times of drive hybrid, eat organic, and other types of "green-washing" campaign, we can see that to be an environmentalist, there are ways to direct your money in order to make help the earth. To carpool and be taxed for it is no different. Those who are inherently green can no longer afford to continue their already helpful ways. It's almost as if carpoolers are being punished in many ways.

"For the poor, an increase on tolls is money that can't afford to be taken away", says Vivian Hain, Poverty Scholar and mother of three. "If the toll proposal goes through, I won't be able to come as often. The bridge toll [currently] takes at least a third of my budget. It's the reason why I carpool. If I have to come 2 to 4 times a week, it's not going to work. Gas on top of bridge tolls is going to make it harder for me to do the things I have to do to make ends meet". As victims of American poverty, Vivian and numerous amounts of Bay Area families like hers are going to be limited in their ability to pull themselves out of their financial hardships. If they can't get to work, how are they going to support their families?
Family includes their elders as well. Like kids, they too need to be supported by being taken to doctor visits, the market etc. This reality is all too familiar with the majority of low-income people, one where cultural obligation is stunted by barriers of finance. Like most families, having a car is key to taking your kids to school, your mother to the doctor, getting yourself to work. This is reality for Tiny Gray-Garcia, also a Poverty Scholar and street survivor. I needed my car or I wouldn't have been able to do it. The carpool lane allowed me to cross the increasingly high-priced privatized bridge It also pushed me to stuff multiple other family members in one car instead of multiple cars. Without this cost-saving perk we couldn't afford to go to work and take our elders to the doctor's across the bridge at all. The cost of travel is getting so that only the rich can do it. If the poor travel they end up becoming much poorer.

Not being able to mobilize on the basis of affordability discriminates the impoverished, people of color, and most of all, a population of people who do a hard day's work to survive, support themselves and their families, and serve their societal duty. To instill a policy where financially fragile people are impacted harder is careless and unfair. People like me, Vivian, and Tiny, who rely on tagging along and bringing people along to accomplish deeds needed to just get by are going to have to yet find more ways to survive and make it work. Maybe I'll start asking people with a Prius for a ride next time.

by Staff Writer

This call is open to all artists familiar with the experience of disability, especially artists from queer communities and/or communities of color. Submissions can include all types of artistic expression – performance art, video, spoken word, dance, storytelling, song, visual media, and words on page – whose core expresses sexuality, power, healing, embodiment and activism.

We define disability broadly to include physical impairments, sensory minorities, emotional disabilities, cognitive challenges, chronic/severe illness, and others whose bodies do not conform to our culture(s)’ idea of “normal” or “functional.”

Sins Invalid began in 2006 as a performance project that incubates and celebrates artists with disabilities, centralizing artists of color, queer and gender-variant artists as communities who have been historically marginalized. In 2007-2008, Sins Invalid grew to include an annual show, community-based performance workshops, political education workshops, and our growing presence online at www.sinsinvalid.org.

Submissions will be looked at for all Sins Invalid projects, including performances, workshops, online blog, and possible printed media and/or visual art shows.

Please submit a CD or DVD of your work (those submitting written work for publication can email or send a hard copy), along with a short personal statement about why you are interested in working with Sins Invalid, and how your work relates to issues of sexuality and disability.

Sins Invalid Submissions
c/o 1370 University Ave. #316
Berkeley, CA 94702

Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you want your work returned to you. We will contact you to confirm receipt of your work. If you do not have examples of your work on CD/DVD, please contact us for alternate formats.

Deadline for entries: Received by April 25, 2009.

Please feel free to email any questions to info@sinsinvalid.org or call (510) 689-7198.

by C. Ali

I was working my security guard job at the supermarket when the voice over the intercom said, “Security, register 3!” I moved slowly. I had been called to the same register earlier in the day when a young man had said some not-so nice things to a lady in line. I approached the young man. He was short, not too big but looked like he’d fight anyone. “You need to leave,” I said. As we headed to the exit doors he pleaded his case--“I didn’t do nothing, man” and “I’m gonna sue you Motherf**kers.” “I hope you do,” I answered, “And I hope you get all the money you can get”. I imagined him suing and winning and treating me to dinner at the House of Prime Rib, dining with big smiles on our faces, washing it all down with ample amounts of foreign (and/or domestic) beer. We parted shaking hands-—but not before he left a six pack of Pacifico Beer behind him.

I got to register #3 expecting someone combative; or perhaps someone the manager or clerks suspected was concealing merchandise down their crotch or some other. I asked the checker what the problem was. She pointed to an African-Descended elder in the line.

“Yes dear?” I said, approaching. “How may I help you?”

“My ride is outside, can you tell her I’m in line? I’ll be out in 5 minutes.”

“No problem ma'am,” I said. “What is your name?”

“My name is Ms. Taylor. My ride is one of those mobile transport vans.”

A metal cane hung from the crook of her arm. Her eyes were two blossoms whose brilliance was hindered by thick glasses. I headed for the exit door.

Before I reached the door a voice called out “Hey!” I turned around. It was Edgardo the Assistant Manager—all 24 years and 125 pounds of him contained in a short-sleeve shirt. He marched towards me with the gait of a commissioned officer, nametag affixed to his chest like an official stick of gum. Like a scholar, I saw his evolutionary chart with every step he took: 1st step: 40 pounds heavier; 2nd step: double chin; 3rd step: hunched back; 4th step: hacking cough,
and so on.

“Hello senor,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to tell the customer’s ride to wait.”

The little man looked at me, disappointed he hadn’t found anything wrong.

“Just let us know whenever you leave your post for any reason.”

"Whatever you say senor".

I proceeded out the exit door.

I approached a white van with a red stripe painted across. I walked to the driver’s side window. A young woman sat talking on a cell phone. I gestured for her to roll the window down.

“Are you waiting for Ms. Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“She told me to let you know that she’ll be right out. She’s in line and—“

The young woman sighed.

“She knows I'm supposed to leave in 5 minutes. She always do this. You tell her I’m giving her 3 minutes…if she ain’t out in 3 minutes I’m taking off.”

And with that information I galloped back to the store.

The checker was ringing up Ms. Taylor’s merchandise.

“Ms. Taylor, the driver says you got 3 minutes…then she’s leaving”.

Ms. Taylor hurriedly reached into her purse and pulled out a smaller coin purse. She opened it but spilled her coins on the floor in the process of rushing. I scooped up the quarters and dimes and began bagging the groceries. I bagged as fast as I could—-fruits, veggies, meat, cooking oil, cookies, ramen noodle soup. I put too many cans in one bag causing the handles to tear. Ms. Taylor was busy counting her money. The cashier rang the grand total and gave the change. 3 minutes have surely passed, I thought.

“Where’s my cane?” Ms. Taylor asked, craning her neck up and down.

“It’s right here,” I said, pointing to the cane hanging on the crook of her arm.

We pushed the freshly packed groceries towards the exit.

“I hope your ride is still there,” I said.

“I hope so,” said Ms. Taylor

Outside the van was waiting amidst a mosaic of shopping carts, baby strollers and people. The young woman was on the cell phone. I guided Ms. Taylor up the steps. The young woman continued to talk.

“Yeah girl, this woman is taking too long…fuck!”

Ms. Taylor sat down in silence, her eyes looking straight ahead. The young woman started the ignition. I loaded 7 bags of groceries onto the van as if someone were pointing a rifle at me.

“You know,” said the young woman, “You only supposed to have 3 bags of groceries. You lucky I’m letting you bring more in the van.”

“I was the one who bagged them,” I cut in, “I didn’t know about the limit. I guess I owe you one.” The young woman didn’t reply.

I got all the bags into the van. Ms. Taylor was strapped into her seat. She reached into her purse and pulled out 2 dollars.

“I owe you this.”

“No…the only thing you owe me is a smile.”

Ms. Taylor smiled. I stepped off the vehicle. The door closed and the van drove off. I headed back to my post. I hope Ms. Taylor got home okay.

by Joseph Bolden

Platinum Period: Visitor from Lil’America

It is a far distance I’ve traveled and many others unknown since “The Day.”

When people say that we all know what it means from our eldest citizens to children in nursery school.

As an elder, I’m supposed to have looked this up in the archives, where it is permanently in my eidetic memory.

Most people alive today have eidetic memory.

My case differs in that I’m one of the few to have been alive and lived through that great time.

At the time all I could understand was the sheer magnitude of Senator Barack Hussein Obama’s Presidency meant to citizens
who had been slaves and never had much trust in America because of America’s ongoing mistrust and hatred of her freed citizens.

Tears of joy, pride, accomplishment fell from me and everyone whichever spectrum of the rainbow we were from.

Yes, there is still disbelief and hate from those few refusing to see this new day and those unable to comprehend and live suicide seemed the only way out of their peculiar dilemma.

All I can say is from that day forward infused with a new direction somehow I became a better person making few errors along the way.

In my travels met many people who’s someday be new leaders, scientists, researcher’s, artists, and entertainer’s.

Applied science quantum leaped from Biotechnology, Therapeutic Cloning, Medicine, Cybernetics, and ultimately the global improvement of human species.

We stumbled but kept rising.

I couldn’t explain how eight years of one Presidency meant so much but it did and after the initial quantum jump of President Obama every literally changed!

In my early 50’s to 135 or 2089.

I had enjoyed great health, married, had children, grand children but before this had decided if given a chance, return to life is what I wanted.

Though the science of Cryobiology had vastly improved still it was a gamble.

I was old,worn out but wasn’t ready to die without a fight.

Way back in the 2015 had decided to be whole body frozen.

As a member of A.A.R.P. Association of American Retired Peopleand the Common Wealth Club I knew both of those organizations and a few others would be around watching over one of their own.

On org. said good luck sarcastically while the other already had other beloved members on ice waiting.

It was my last adventure and I was ready to depart for the unknown shore.

First I am cold and shivering and back to sleep the next moment-Young! Strong, overflowing with energy yet groggy.

“Hey old guy, ya’ made it!

It was another member of the Common Wealth Club who had taken the deep-post-death-sleep years before me.

What skills had I for this new age of 2211 over one hundred and some odd years?

My choice massage, writing, languages, and the hard fantastic sciences of molecular nanotechnology.

After acclimating to this new age by reading through the archives it is less difficult by 2215.

There are elder groupies young people born of the current century fascinated with elders of past era’s.

Young or middle aged they all eventually asked one question:
How, when, can you pinpoint how the world changed way back in 2009?

With money from investments while I lay dead I emigrated off world manmade planetoid to live out my life which would be long because life extension technologies has passed into medical immortality. Man!

To have lived, grown old, died, be revived and now medically immortal!

What can possibly top this?

Only time travel!

I,by having lived in the timeline of Obama was picked for possibly a one way journey to 2009.

I told them the exact date but gave myself a two week window because of the paradox of meeting my past self.

I want a glimpse of him but that’s all but he is not to see me.

My advanced thermal tech clothes will keep me toast warm in that cold Washington day.

The motel is near the state capital and my restored youth made it impossible to be recognized then a though came to me
“I may not be the only space-time traveler observing this event then again I wasn’t there for them but to observe, take part, and participate in this historical event.

Over two centuries have past yet hear, now as President Elect Obama spoke I began to weep from overflowing pride, emotion,feeling honored to again witness this great day.

Curses on those who made Photographic Memory a norm,the images too crisp,new,and way too clear.

Though not having a seat near the dignitaries it is humbling to be part of something new even for a few weeks.

My time is up as I waited for a normal looking Audi with an iridescent paint job.

When it turned the corner it goes into mirrored-cloaked mode before its silent cancelling anti gravity engines lifts us off speeding to my new home in 2215.

My report will be clear concise full of emotional touchstones.

What a life and ordinary guy like me to lead.

It was called a platinum age beyond golden.

The disguised car-spaceship lands on “Little America” where I now reside away from the planet of my birth old Earth.

One day I may return to stay for a century or two avoiding paradoxes of people time and events but for now its time to remind my neighbors what it really meant in the far gone past the true meaning of the Obama Presidency and all that happened afterward.

Send Comments to
telljoe@poormagazin.org or

deeandtiny@poormagazine.org

by Staff Writer

The Trouble with Poverty

After Billy Collins’ “The Trouble with Poetry”

By the Bronx Bomber aka Oscar Bermeo

The trouble with poverty, I realized

as I walked from Orchard Beach one night—

icy Bronx gravel under my sandals,

a show of skyscraper lights in the sky—

the trouble with poverty is

that it encourages the promotion of more poverty,

more cousins crowding a one bedroom apartment,

more babies making babies

hopping out of their mothers into the jobforce.

And how will it ever end?

Unless the end of the month arrives

and we have compared what little we have

to what we have been promised,

and there is nothing left to do

but quietly close our overdrawn checkbooks

and sit with our hands folded over our stomachs.

Poverty fills me with joy

and I rise like a plastic bag in the wind.

Poverty fills me with sorrow

and I sink like a refrigerator in a landfill.

But mostly poverty fills me

with the urge to write about poverty,

to sit in the dark and wait for Con Edison

to appear at the tip of my stove.

And along with that, the longing to steal,

to break into the poverty of others

with privilege and a badge.

And what a trifling crew we are,

identity thieves, white collar criminals,

I thought to myself

as a sharp hunger swirled in my poetry

and I, an American poet, view the City

as if through a window

which is an image I stole directly

from Billy Collins—

to be perfectly white for a moment—

the visiting poet of the Bronx

whose book of troublesome poetry

nips and retreats from the corners

of my mind as I stop and enjoy

the streets of my borough.

by Teresa Molina/PNN-Voces de inmigrantes en resistencia

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Miercoles 25 de Febrero, San Francisco- “Ya estamos cansados de que la policia nos paren y nos quite nuestros carros sin razon.”

Sin escusa, la policia municipal detienen y abusan a nuestra comunidad inmigrante con los retenes policiacos en la Mision para decomisar a algunos, la unica fuente de transporte que nos lleba a nuestro trabajo y a nuestro ninos a la escuela. Tambien estan tratando de criminalizar a nuestros jovenes sin darles la oportunidad de peliar su caso o ser cargados como menores de edad. En muchos casos, hemos reportado que la policia esta trabajando con la migra para deportar a nuestra juventud sin darles una oportunidad igual a la que le dan a los ciudadanos. Cuando la policia nos quitan nuestros carros, arrestan a nuestros hijos, y abusan de su poder, rompen a nuestras familias. Yo soy Teresa, mujer trabajadora y luchadora, madre de cinco hijos y reportera comunitaria de la Prensa Pobre que lucha contra abuso policiaco en comunidades de color local y global. El problema mas que nada es la descriminacion hacia las comunidades pobres de color.

Especifiquamente, mi comunidad latina estamos muy enojados por tanta mala fama que nos estan dando los medios de comunicaciones grandes. Nosotros no asemos mas que trabajar y buscar como mantener a nuestros hijos y pagar impuestos en este paiz para prosperar la economia. Nadie merese que la policia los detengan sin ninguna razon, a lo contrario, todos meresemos respeto.

Estubimos tratando de buscar soluciones para resolver esta crisis de familia que esta produciendo los retenes policiacos. Hubo una reunion comunitaria “townhall” el 25 de febrero a la 5 de la tarde en la escuela Horace Man en la calle 22 y Bartllet en la Mision. Fue patrocinada por como 30 organizaciones comunitarias. Entre las organizaciones presentes hubo la Raza Centro Legal, La Colectiva de Mujeres, el Comite de Vivienda San Pedro, Mujeres Unidas y Activas, Carecen y unos grupos de iglesias que luchan por los derechos de los imigrantes. En todo, heramos como 200 personas discutiendo el problema de acoso policiaco en la Mision, tratando de buscar soluciones. Con todo el apoyo que hubo presente en la reunion, nos sentiamos confiados en que ibamos a ser escuchados, y eso es lo que necesitamos. Con todo el temor en el que vivimos, de ser detenidos, de ser arrestados, de que nos quiten el carro, de que trabajamos y trabajamos y nunca nos alcansa el dinero, de que la sociedad nos considera terroristas, la lista nunca acaba… el punto es de que a veces todos estos temores nos quitan el fuego que necesitamos para luchar para una mejor vida en este pais, y peor que todo, nos pone en nuestra mente la mentira que no meresemos vivir en mejor condiciones. Pero el hecho de saber que tenemos el apoyo de organizaciones y de la comunidad nos ase fuertes y nos da la esperansa de que pronto bamos a tener respuestas positivas y bamos a salir triunfantes y ganadores.

Mi testimonio fue entre los muchos testimonios que todos oimos esa noche, y fue asi.

Yo recuerdo un dia mi hija iba manejando conmigo, y mis otros hijos sintiendose muy confiada porque todo estaba bien. Su aseguransza, su licencia, y sus placas todo bien a simple bista, cuando de repente de un Rincon sale una patrulla y nos para. Ibamos mi hija, mi nieta, mi hijo y yo. Era un dia como estos dias llubiosos y frios. Mi nieta solo tenia 2anos y mi hijo solo 7 anos. Ellos estaban vien asustados, sus ojitos engrandecieron de panico, y llorando desesperadamente. Mi hijo Marcos gritaba, “Por que nos queiren cuitar el carro?”

“Esta haciendo mucho frio… y la casa queda muy lejos de aqui.”

El policia no encontro ninguna razon para poner un tiket. Solo queria demostrar su poder y invento que la silla de mi nieta no era la adecuada. Por esa razon, y solo esa razon, nos quito el carro y nos dijo que tenia que rebisar el carro porque tenia sospecha de que teniamos drogas.

“Se miran muy nerviosos.” Nos dijo el policia. “Por que? Hay una razon por que estan nerviosos.”

La verdad es que no estabamos nerviosos a ese punto, estabamos enojados. Como ibamos traer drogas cuando tenemos ninos en nuestro carro? Es ilogico. Que tipo de personas nos creian. Nos mando ala casa caminando con lluvia y frio no le importo. Cuando entrego el carro en el corralon , no entrego las llaves la policia. Al otro dia que fue mi hija por el carro no abia llaves, y tubo que esperar 4 dias porque la policia tenia 4 dias off. Por ultimo tubo que mandar aser una llave de 80 dolares y pagar la sacada del carro.

Hubieron muchos testimonios parecidos a el mio y de mi hija y la injusticia fue obia. Aunque esta noche fue solo un paso para cambiar esta injusta realidad, yo se que siempre vamos a seguir luchando hasta tener las respuestas que meresemos. No nos venseran nunca y lucharemos hasta la victoria siempre…

_______________________

Engles Sigue

Wednesday February 25, SAN FRANCISCO-
“We are tired of the police taking away our cars for no reason.”

Without any good excuse, the SFPD detains and abuses our Raza community with police checkpoints in the Mission District that racially profile and take away the only source of transportation that takes us to work and our children to school. They are also trying to criminalize our youth by arresting them and deporting them without giving them the opportunity to be held as minors. When the police take away our vehicles, arrest our kids, and abuse their power, they tear apart our families and our community.

I am Teresa, migrant struggling mother of five, struggling everyday to survive and community reporter with POOR Magazine who fights against police brutality on communities of color living in poverty locally and globally. Specifically, my community and I are very angry for all the bad rep that corporate media is giving us. We work and find ways to survive, all while raising children and paying taxes to this country. Nobody deserves the police pulling them over for no reason, on the contrary, we all deserve to be respected.

We were trying to find ways to resolve this crisis that police checkpoints in the Mission are causing. There was a community townhall meeting on the 25th of February at five in the afternoon at Horace Mann Middle School on 22nd and Bartlett in the Mission District. About thirty community organizations were present at this meeting, among them La Raza Centro Legal, Mujeres Unidas y Activas, CARECEN and a few religious groups that fight for immigrants rights. In total, we were about two hundred people discussing the racial profiling issue in the Mission, and trying to find solutions. With all the support that was present at the reunion, we felt confident that our voices would be heard, and that is what we need. With all the fear with which we live, the fear of being detained, arrested, the fear of having our cars decommissioned, the fear of never having enough money to survive, the constant fear of being considered terrorists by society, the list never ends… the point is that sometimes all these fears take away the fire that we need in our hearts to fight for a better life in this country, and worst of all, it imposes a defeatist mentality that internally perpetuates the lie that we don’t deserve to live in better conditions. The fact that we know that we have the support of organizations and the community makes us strong and gives us hope that soon we will have positive answers and we will see a better day.

My testimony was amongst the many testimonies that were heard that night, and it went like this.

I remember one day my daughter was driving me and my other children back from school feeling worry-free, because everything was going well. Her insurance papers, her license, and plates we’re all legit. Suddenly out of an alley a squad car peels out and stops us. Riding in the car was my daughter, my granddaughter, my son and I, one happy family. It was a cold day and I can remember hearing the rain beat down hard on the roof of the car. My granddaughter was only two years old and my son was only seven. They were very scared, their eyes grew big with panic and then they began crying from their desperation. I could still hear my son Marcos scream.

“Why do they want to take our car away?”

“It’s too cold and we’re too far away from home!”

The cop didn’t find any good reason to give us a ticket. He still just wanted to flex his power and he wrote us up for not having an adequate child seat for my granddaughter. For that reason, and only that reason, he commanded us to get out of the car and told us that he was going to search the car because he suspected we were smuggling drugs.

“You look really nervous.” The cop said. “Why? Is there a reason why you are so nervous.”

The truth is that we weren’t nervous at that point, we were mad.

Why would he think we were smuggling drugs? We had our kids with us. What kind of people did he think we were. And just like that, the police sent my son, my daughter, my granddaughter and I marching home, in the rain, for no reason. Worst of all, when the cop turned the car into the impound, he didn’t turn in the keys. When my daughter went to go pick her car up, there were no keys waiting for her and she had to wait four days because it was a long weekend. Finally, she had to have the key remade which cost her $80, and she had to pay everyday that the car was in the pound.

There were many testimonies that night as bad as ours, or worse and the injustice perpetuated by the police was obvious. Although this night was just one step to change this unfair reality, I know that we will keep fighting until we see the results that we deserve. They will never defeat us and we will fight until victory, forever…

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by Adrienne Aguirre/PNN

American hands pry into other nations, wagging their fingers at all colonization that isn't their own. In this transparent pretense of a post-imperialist world, the United States insists on preaching against the evils of non-democratic states when back home, true democracy is myth. As American resources are funneled out of our country to aid the United States' reconstruction of countries abroad that have been continually raped by American greed, closer to home, the 500 year old colonization of the indigenous people of North America goes overlooked and unaddressed.

Before Israel vs. Palestine, before the injustice in Gaza, the Indigenous peoples of North America were robbed of their homeland by white colonizers who decided that they had to commit mass, systematic murder instead of sharing the land peacefully with its rightful owners. Since then, the Indigenous people from North America have been forced to inhabit the 3rd world corners of the United States, perpetually constricted and relocated due to the ever-homeland-shrinking policies of the US government. The lands of their ancestors, the sacred sites where spirits once thrived, have fallen victim to libidinal greed. These sacred sites that once held the legacy of the culture and spirituality now lie in ruins as golf courses or made to bleed uranium for money hungry miners.

Today, new oppressors have joined forces with the old. These oppressors bear the same faces, have the same blood coursing through their bodies and face the same burdens as their victims but greed has infected their vision. Now, for the love of money, they have systematically been executing cultural genocide upon their own people. It is called disenrollment. With the Indian gaming industry raking in billions of dollars every year, it's disturbing that Indian universities lay in ruins. D-Q University, the only Indian university in California and the site of the Longest Walk”the historic event that basically paved the way for casino development in 1978, is direly underfunded while the Indian gaming industry in California alone generates billions in revenue each year. We've all seen the casino commercials, heard the claims that the money generated from these resorts goes towards helping the community ; what isn't stated is that the community mentioned doesn't seem to include indigenous people, doesn't care to invest in their education. On top of that, while the vast majority of Indian gaming occurs on either coast, all Indian universities, with the sole, extremely underfunded exception of D-Q University, lie between coasts. So where is all this supposed community funding going?

With rampant classism amongst the Indigenous people, resulting from the greed generated by the gaming industry, casino owners on tribal councils feel that it is necessary to strip the citizenship of certain tribal members, effectively deciding who is and who isn't Indian. One of the main reasons this is coming up now is because these leaders controlling our tribal nations today are sellouts, said Quanah Brightman, VP of United Native Americans. We have had illegal occupation over here [in the United States] for 500 years but no one cares because of these casinos. The people who control most of the money aren't even Native American!

As more and more tribe members are disenrolled and disenfranchised, the Indian movement to preserve what's left of Indian sacred sites is divided and ultimately weakened.

On February 5, 2009, United Native Americans will demonstrate in at the Capital in Sacramento, CA. We want to give platform to the Indian movement, for our demonstration to call to thousands of people nationwide who have been disenfranchised, disenrolled, and hurt by our leaders who have basically sold us out. We want to expose them for what they are and we want to put an end to disenrollment. We want to build our tribal colleges and invest in our healthcare education and our general well-being, Brightman said in closing.

by Teresa Molina/Voces de inmigrantes en resistencia

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Yo soy Teresa. Reportera de Voces de Inmigrantes en Resistencia en POOR Magazine. Yo soy Mujer inmigrante activista y madre de cinco hijos. Yo pienso que la guerra en Iraq es pura basura. Cualquiera persona puede ver que el ejercito de los Estados Unidos nunca lograra lo que quieren. Sangre se derama por todos lados en Iraq y a los pueblos pobres, los dejara mas pobre. Es tiempo de ponerle un alto por que yo como persona que vive en los Estados Unidos y madre de un hijo que me lo quieren quitar para entrenarlo a matar a personas pobres, estoy cansada de vivir en tiempo de guerra.

Estaba revisando el correo, y veo que hay una aplicacion de los Marines para mi hijo. “12 Semanas”… es lo que dice en el remitente, “Listo para ver lo que 12 semanas puede traer?” Sin abrir la carta ya puedo ver que va ser una mentira despues de mentira. Abro la carta y hay una foto de un joven y debajo de su cara dice, “Quien seras en 12 semanas?” Es un librito que detalla claramente lo que pasara en el entrenamiento de los Marines cada semana.

“Entrenamiento de Armas- Semana 1”
“Tecnicas de Combate-Semana 2”
“Sobrevivir en el Agua- Semana 4”
“Preparando para Combate-Semana 9”
”Honor, Corage, y Compromiso- Semana 10”

Mirando ese volante me asuste. Me asuste por que en el pasado yo recibi esa propaganda para mis hijos mayores y por mi ignorancia y las mentiras que nos dicen, yo empuje a mis hijos mayores a envolucrarse en esa maquina de muerte que es el ejercito. Despues que me involucre en mi comunidad y conoci a personas con informacion que no nos dicen en los medios de comuncaciones grandes de este pais, realize que yo estaba equivocada. Yo pensaba que ver a si mis hijos en ese uniforme de militar tan bonito, me entraria orgullo y seria feliz sabiendo que mis hijos son gente de provecho, sirviendo su pais, en una guerra justa. Pero e>>n realidad, no es una guerra justa, y no sabia que los estaba empujanda a una muerte segura.

Jose Gutierrez, 22, de Los Angeles, fue entre los primeros en morir en este guerra. Los papas de Jose murieron cuando el tenia 14 anos. Hizo el viaje de mas de 2,000 millas, saltando de tren en tren solo para llegar a ser detenido por la migra, y encarcelado en la Carcel Juvenil de Los Angeles. Este joven emigro a este pais por necesidad, una necesidad que pudo ser ayudada por el imperio de los Estados Unidos si no fuera una imperio global tan egoista que solo quiere quemar los recursos naturales de todo el mundo. Jose Gutierrez murio el 21 de Marzo, de 2003, nunca sabiendo la verdad de que el pais por el que el se sacrifico, nunca ayudo a su paiz de Guatemala a progresar, por lo menos al punto de tener comida para los pobres, tratamiento medico para los enfermos, y seguridad para sus padres que murieron cuando el solo tenia 14 anos.

Yo no quiero que sigan enganando mas jovenes. Yo no quiero que los Marines les llene la mente de mentiras a mis ninos. Yo no quiero que mi hijo sea el proximo Jose Gutierrez, que muera para un paiz que no lo quiere, y lo consideran un criminal illegal solo por hacer el ezfuerzo de sobrevivir al venir a este paiz.

Esto es prueba de las mentiras perpetradas en las familias pobres de color. Me enteré que una de las formas en que el gobierno federal recibe los nombres de nuestros hijos es a través de la legislación, No Child Left Behind-No Nino Dejado Atras. Mi editor, “Tiny” Lisa GrayGarcia de POOR Magazine llama esta legislación "No Child Left Alive- No Nino Dejado Atras- a causa de esta parte de la legislación y su impacto en las familias de color que viven en la pobreza.

Asi que, la respuesta a la pregunta que nos hacen los Marines, “Que seras en 12 semanas?”… Seras otra statistica de muerte en una guerra injusta.

Engles Sigue I am Teresa. I am a mother of 5 children . I am a Migrant and poverty scholar and reportera for Prensa POBRE and I believe that the war in Iraq is destroying this country. Blood is shed everywhere in Iraq, and poor communities are left further in poverty while the rich get richer.

I was checking the mail last week, and I see an application from the Marines with my son’s name on it. “12 Weeks”… is what it said on the cover, “Ready to see what 12 weeks can bring?” Without even opening the letter I could already tell that it is going to be one lie after another. I open up the envelope and there is a picture of a young man and under his face it says, “Who will you be in 12 weeks?” It’s a little pamphlet sent by the Marines that clearly details what will happen in the Marine boot camp each week.

“Week 1- Weapons Training”
“Week 2- Combat Techniques”
“Week 4- Surviving in Water”
“Week 9- Preparing for Combat”
“Week 10- Honor, Courage, Commitment”

Staring at this pamphlet I got scared. I was afraid because in the past I would receive this propaganda and give it to my older sons out of my ignorance and the lies that they fed me. I encouraged my older sons to become involved in that death machine that is the US military. After becoming involved in my community and meeting people that provided me information that was withheld from me by the major corporate media outlets, I realized that I was wrong. I thought that seeing my sons in that Marines uniform would make me happy and proud knowing that my sons were being all that they can be, serving their country, in a war with a just cause. But in reality, this isn’t a just war, and I didn’t know that I was pushing my sons into a coffin.

Jose Gutierrez, 22, from Los Angeles, was among the first to die in Iraq. Jose’s parents died when he was only 14 years old. He made the trip from Guatemala traveling more than 2,000 miles, jumping from train to train just to get to the US and be detained by ICE, and locked up in the Los Angeles Juvenile Detention Center. This brave young soul migrated to this country because of necessity, a fate that would’ve been different had the empire of the United States not been such a greedy, selfish global empire that doesn’t help any developing countries unless there are natural resources to be burned. Jose Gutierrez died March 21, 2003, never knowing the truth about the country he died for… The US never helped Guatemala progress, at least to the point of having sufficient food for the poor, adequate health care for the sick, and security for his parents that died when he was only 14 years old.

To further prove the lies perpetrated on poor families of color, I found out that one of the ways the federal government gets the names of our children is through the legislation, No Child Left Behind. My editor, Tiny GrayGarcia at POOR/PNN calls this No Child Left Alive-due to this part of the legislation and its impact on families of color living in poverty.

I don’t want my son to be the next Jose Gutierrez, to die for a country that doesn’t care about him, and considers him an illegal criminal just for making any effort possible to survive, even if it means migrating to the mouth of the beast (US).

So, the answer to the question made by the Marines, “Who will you be in 12 Weeks?”… You will be another statistic of death in an unjust war.

by Stefana Serafina/PNN

Homelessness always seems to happen to others: third parties that have nothing to do with the rest of us. Until one is faced with houselessness herself, it is the problem of “those poor people out there” that evoke--depending on the observer-- either pity or disgust. Faced with the tangible possibility of losing my own roof and bed for the first time in my 33 years, this is no longer an issue in the life of others. With unemployment money growing insufficient and unpaid bills invading both my wakeful time and my dream space, homelesness has hit home.

Yet, every Tuesday evening, when I join the circle of POOR Magazine's community newsroom, I am reminded that I have it easy: I am well-educated, with a pretty resume and a by-line, and have access to many privileges that most people in this room could only dream of, including a credit card. The reminder comes as I listen to the poor folks in the newsroom report on their own stories, in their own voices, hoping that by doing that, they can de-construct the media and social stereotypes created about them without them.

One story that sticks with me for weeks after it was told in the POOR newsroom is that of XXXXXX, a single mother of three who was evicted unexpectedly from her “affordable” home and put into the street. As she remembers the chilling reality of eviction night, her voice trembles: the little ones kept asking where they were going, the baby pulled on her shirt ready for a meal, and the world was a vast, hopeless place.

by RWS

Uncle Anthony always said funny things. When he coughed he coughed up words, names, dates and visions, some of which were wrong but somehow always right. Uncle Ant is my father's younger brother. Dad named me after him. Uncle Anthony is fearless, never afraid to say what's on his mind aloud for anybody to hear. I wish I were fearless.

Uncle Ant, tell me that story

He had a thousand stories, some untold. He had a way of getting names wrong but in his unintentional wrongness made the names better, gave the mundane some spice, the murderer a shard of laughter. He once related to me a story about a man responsible for the deaths of millions of people in Southeast Asia. He was the top dog in the country's ruling party. What's his name? I asked my uncle.

"Pot Pie"

"Pot who?"

"Pot Pie. That cat slaughtered millions of folks, a real son of a bitch. They even did a movie about him. I think was called "A killing in the cane fields" or something like that".

I sit as my uncle described the torture, the suffering. His eyes dampened in the dark glow of his living room. He shook his head and poured a drink. I sat near his conga drum near the wall. He'd just gotten it out of the pawnshop. It ached for my uncle's touch. My uncle poured brandy into a glass, making the ice crackle and melt. As he spoke my internal voice started a monologue:

No Uncle Ant, the man's name wasn't Pot Pie, it was Pol Pot. And the movie was called, "The Killing Fields", there wasn't any reference to sugar cane in the title. You always get the names wrong--always. Oh no? Remember Saddam Hussein, when he got captured? You phoned me in the middle of the night, your voice wrought with urgency, as if a relative had just committed suicide. You said, "Man, they just caught Sadat! Found him in a rat hole under the ground. The Americans got his ass now". I thought to myself, there you go again, butchering the names; it's not Sadat, it's Saddam. Sadat was the president of Egypt who was assassinated, shot dead through 14 layers of security. He's been dead almost 30 years, remember?

Uncle Ant sits next to me. He still looks young, like he did in the 70's. The dim light falls upon his skin, the color of sweet coffee. His eyes are small and see the smallest things. He never ran from a fight, or a mirror. I look around the room. Pictures of black and brown people blanket the walls. Everywhere you look there is a face in a picture. There is a picture of Jesus on the wall. He's black too.

"Come on Uncle Ant tell me that story again"

He puts down his glass.
"Ok, this is what happened. I was about 25 or 26. It was 1968 or 69. Anyway, I was in my prime, solid. I had 16-inch arms, narrow waist. I was in shape, weighed 135. I could move too. When I was a kid I used to knock dudes out twice my size. Bing! I'd lay 'em out with either hand, lay 'em flat out. One time I got into a hassle with this motorcycle dude, some kind of Hells Angel. He cuts ahead of me in the line at the liquor store. I was polite. I said, excuse me but I was here before you. The guy just smiled and put his beer on the counter."

"What did you do?"

"I lit him up. It was a beautiful right hand to the jaw. He flew across the counter. That was the way I was back then. I grew up with black and brown warriors--blacks and Filipinos back in the 50's and 60's. Anyway, after I knocked that guy out I went out to the park by the lake. I was never into drugs, you know, not heavily anyway. My friend Dave gave me some LSD, some acid you know. He told me it would give me wisdom if I took it, that it would open up my mind, some kind of bullshit like that. So, I dropped that acid, put it on my tongue. I'm sitting there looking out at the lake and all of is peaceful when things start breathing."

"Breathing?"

"Yeah man, the leaves were breathing. I could see the cells of the leaves and the liquid pulsating like blood. I said, damn what's this all about? I looked at the ground and it was covered in diamonds and gold. It was beautiful like some kind of palace. I was just looking at it all, going with it. Didn't feel like knocking anybody out either. I just felt love, you know, the way you're supposed to feel. The air was nice and cool like I could drink it. I got up and started walking."

"What happened then?"

"I felt like a king walking on golden streets heading home. I walked for a few minutes when I saw a black man and an Asian lady. They looked normal, the way a black man and an Asian lady should look. Then I saw a white man and I almost shit my pants."

"What did the white man look like?"

"He looked like a clown! He had a face that was red, white, yellow, blue. He had a rainbow colored wig on his head. I started laughing. I kept walking and I kept seeing more white people. They all looked like clowns out of the circus, their heads looked like balloons, one of the heads even popped! I'd stop and look at them and laugh. They looked at me like I was crazy. I even saw a cop. His face looked like one of those droopy clowns of the 1950's. I looked at him and I couldn't stop laughing. The cop looked at me hard. It's not a crime to laugh. He wanted to beat me, I could tell. I've survived that in the streets, you know. I keep walking and stop by the liquor store. There's this white dude who works at the register, a chickenshit kind of racist, always looking at me funny but he gives me credit so he ain't all bad. That dude looked like a clown too! I never laughed so hard in my life. The man just looked at me and asked me if I was high on drugs. I was high on life but I didn't bother telling him that."

"What happened after that?"

"I went home. I got to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I wasn't no clown, that's for damn sure. That was a long time ago, I can't believe how long it's been, thirty years? Clowns come in all colors. I've been around them all my life, the bosses especially. All clowns. I never touched LSD since. You don't need no LSD to see clowns all over. That was the last time I ever saw gold in the street."

Uncle Anthony and I sit in silence for a while looking at all the black and brown people on the wall. Finally he breaks his silence.

You know, I found God--I mean, he found me. He talks to me. It was never really about color, man. When you die do you think God's going to ask you what color you were down here on earth?

Uncle Anthony looks at the pictures on the wall then at me. The ice in my glass has melted. My uncle gets up and grabs his conga drum. He takes a sip of brandy. He tells another story. With his hands this time. And again I listen.

by Bruce Allison/PNN

As the crew at POOR Magazine are settling into our new digs, our scholars and techscholars were busy working to get the computers and office ready. This means that the elder, disabled, and poverty scholars have a space to do their work. This elder, disabled scholar has been keeping up my City Hall beat for PNN by attending three meetings a day to figure out the budget.

During one of my recent trips, I attended the Negative Decorations rally, where groups like SEIU 1021, Huckleberry House, The Coalition on the Homelessness, St. James Infirmary, Planning for Elders, and others were present, forming to create a 3,000 foot picket circle surrounding the south-side of San Francisco city hall, a line extending from Grove St. to the east and McAllistor to the west. With voices in unison, we cried, "No Justice, No Peace!" We then marched up the steps of City Hall, heading towards the supervisor's chambers chanting, "No Justice, No Peace!" We marched into the chambers and sat down, waiting until our item was called. They were voting on other things that day, like San Francisco General Hospital receiving a new backup genorator due to it going out every other month. In case of an earthquake the lack of this would be a hardship for the community. They had already spent the money retroactively without the supervisors permission. Due to the age of the genorator, the supervisors voted unanimously to do this.

Then our item came up, the Negative Decorations. A Negative Decoration is to take away the dead-wood that the mayor has kept in his budget, such as choeffers for fire capitains at a set salary of $100,000 annually, a minister that is managing nothing with a salary of $200,000 per year, or the cost of hosing the houseless at $100,000 for four people, along with countless others that total in 90 million dollars. The order by the President of the Board of Supervisors, David Chiu. Chiu said, "All people willing to speak, line up at the center aisle"

Me and three others lined up, including Bruce, the Director of Huckleberry House, and his allies. They talked about the budget, and how it will close a 40- year program for runaway youth. Then Bruce Allison, Elder Scholar, stood up and and projected his article written about the hosing of the houseless, and how the negative decorations would give back $100,000 under this program and be able to save the SRO Collaboratives.

After 300 people spoke in favor of the Negative Decoration, only 3 people spoke against it, one was Rob Black, the Chairman of the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, claiming the city needs this business. Black was followed by a religious gentleman claiming that the prostitutes and lazy people should be cut off, pointing to senior homeless people, people with mental and emotional problems, women who have no alternative to feed their family other than prostitute, and people who are using illigal medicine to solve their problems. He was asked to leave after he had finished speaking, and I'm sure is still rambling on today. The final person to speak, the only republican left in San Francisco, said "this will raise taxes and businesses will close if you do this". This was after four hours of people speaking in favor of Negative Decorations.

When it was time for the Board of Supervisors to speak, Sean Elsbernd, through the monkey-wrench in the event by sending it back to the committee, delaying it by one month. The next day, I entered the Human Services Commission meeting to talk about a cut of one hundred people and agencies who assist in helping the homeless. This, along with comments from groups like Tenderloin Health, argued that they would no longer be able to serve the community. Tenderloin Health has 100 seats for people, wheras groups like Glide that receive the same amount of money only have 40. Due to these closures of shelters elderly and disabled homeless people will in the end cost more money because they will go the City General with aches and pains, as well as reports of loitering will increase because they will have nowhere to go.

A few days later, this pover scholar went to a private meeting with the Director of Adult Services, Anne Hinton, who used creative techniques, such as combining food services in the richer area to save meals in the poorer neighborhoods of the city. Due to federal law, all seniors in a group meal-site have to pay the same ($1.50), even though lots of them live in affluent areas. Hinton said, "I got bad news", She explained that she has to cancel the Share of Cost program that the city pays, allowing benefits for the homeless. I left the meeting.

The next meeting I went to, a few days later, was at the Department of Public Health. Dr. Marshall H. Katz said to the Health Commissioners, "you guys don't mean anything, all you are is a soundboard to the mayor. He makes the decisions in this city. What testimony these people will say, that don't mean anything either". Public comment began. 30 million dollars is going to buy new furniture for a building that will not be constructed for the next ten years. While doing that, they will have to close the Adult Day Health Center in Laguna-Honda that covers the entire western part of San Francisco. It will cost the city more money in the long run with having to put the Adults in homes and nursing facilities. As this poverty scholar got up and mentioned, "you can take a few less of your La-z Boys and open up this Adult Day Health Center".

If you are interested in seeing these changes through, write or call Sean Elsberned, Carmen Chu, or Michela Alioto-Pierce, the Supervisors of the western part of the city. Or you can email me, bruce@poormagazine.org. I will get back to you.

by Bruce Allison and Thornton Kimes/Facilitator

Now that the Stimulus package (Federal Medical Assistance Percentages) has reached San Francisco, the 50%-on-the-dollar that comes back from the Federal government for Medi-Cal, MediCare and all other gov’t funding was raised to 75%. San Francisco got $100 million extra from that. Only 2 City Departments are using it to cover losses incurred by the budget deficit.

The Department of Public Health is spending the money for Director Mitch Katz’ pet private projects, none that will help low-income people (with or without disabilities) get health care. The San Francisco General steam-powered back-up power generator breaks down once a week--a huge part of the disaster that the “Big One,” the next big earthquake that we keep hearing is going to happen in our lifetimes in the Bay Area.

All records of SF General patients could be lost because the database for the whole city is in a building that hasn’t been retrofitted to survive temblors more powerful the the 1989 shaker that burned down some of the Marina District. Katz and Mayor Gavin Newsom consider the F-MAP money a one-time gift from the government that they can use as they see fit.

The Department of Adult Aging and Disability programs are trying to cover their budget cuts with this money, and improve services were they can. Helping Seniors and/or folks with disabilities receive food, shelter and adult day health care is their job. Director Anne Hinton’s priorities are for the neediest people her department serves, not Newsom’s interests.

The Dept. of Human Services Director, Trent Rhorer, is keeping his lips zipped because he hasn’t figured out how to use the money and may be tempted to continue dealing with his duty to low and no-income citizens Newsome’s way. Stay tuned to the Bruce Channel for more on this and other budget-related news.

by Phil Adams/PNN

Up Against the Wall Motherfucker is the story of how a man made the transformation of privileged Jewish college student attending Columbia University to a civil rights attorney working in South Berkeley and all the birth pangs that go with it. Most of story is concentrated on Osha's days as a "MotherF*cker" living in slums of New York in the 60's fighting for ideals that nobody had a complete grasp of yet. The honesty with which Osha writes about his feelings and beliefs at that time is truly inspiring. It was obviously a confusing time not only for himself but for the country in general, as it seemed the whole nation was trying to figure out which way to go. I think Osha did a good job capturing the feeling and spirit of those days.

This book does have a lot to teach younger activists just stepping into the game. The whole reason people get involved with social justice and activism is because they sense some type of inequality in the social system that we live in. Those emotions that come with that can easily be morphed into anger and rage. What Osha did in Up Against the Wall Motherf**ker was he told his story on how he dealt with those feelings and how he matured and got over them. He also acknowledges how much all of those Motherfuckers who survived "sold out"and settled down. Over all the book is brilliant and how honest Osha is about conveying his emotions at the time is truly inspiring.

However, Osha does acknowledge the immaturity and naivety of the 60's revolutionary thought process. For all the wealth of knowledge and righteousness these young revolutionaries had the immaturity in the way they expressed it isolated them from the society they were trying to liberate, eventually causing the downfall of the Motherfuckers.

The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one
-William Stekel (Austrian Psychoanalyst 1868-1940)

I had problems with this myself. Originally when reading Up Against the Wall Motherfucker I felt like I identified a lot with Osha's younger days. I understand the rage at the injustice of our social system and the need to destroy fallacies that shackle the minds of people, whether physically or through language. In fact, he was about two years older than I am now. I think it's natural that young men who feel inequality want to attack and physically fight those who facilitate the injustice. The thing is the majority of the world is not young men; the world includes our elders, women, and children who don't identify as much with these feelings and who just want to live peacefully. So through acts of physical violence we are in fact exposing those who should be protected to danger. Violence may sometimes be necessary, just because you play fair doesn't mean others do, but trying to prove an intellectual argument through violence makes you a fascist yourself.

However Up Against the Wall Motherfucker was not about a bunch of violent hippies running around the lower east side. The Motherfuckers did a lot of valid revolutionary actions. Such as the take over of the Bill Graham's Fillmore East amphitheatre in response to the gentrification of the community:

Discarded sandwiches, cigarette butts, cans and bottles littered the carpets. Much wine was drunk, much dope was smoked. The program, such as it was, proceeded amidst a chorus of boasts, threats, brags and rambling fantasies shouted out from every corner of the auditorium. Bill Graham's green-shirted ushers stood by, attempting to make themselves inconspicuous, utterly powerless to control the magnificent chaos of the event.
-Osha Neumann "Up Against the Wall Motherfucker"

I don't think activism has changed much through the years. In the long view we are all people and we all have similar emotions and thought processes. Up Against the Wall Motherfucker is basically Osha's autobiography and how he dealt with the inequality he saw in the society we live in. It's the story of how a young hippie matured and became a civil rights attorney and true revolutionary

by Tiny aka Lisa Gray-Garcia/poverty scholar and daughter of Dee

"Don't look away, Jamal" From the shadows a tired and spirit-dead
adult lurked with a bowl of acid ready to burn into the eyes of an
unsuspecting orphan in the Mumbai of Slumdog Millionaire. "a Blind
child can make more money singing on the street," someone whispers
into the night sky. In a seamless filmic second Jamal and his older
brother Salim escape, tricking the omnipresent desperation,
destruction and violence of poverty that lurks at every turn
throughout their young lives. Throughout the whole movie, I
alternately cried and murmured my mama Dee's name, an orphan who like
she would say so many times, was like all orphan children across the
globe, unwanted, unseen, unloved and perhaps worst of all,
unprotected.

Iota by iota, I have lost my life, in faith,/ I've passed this night
dancing on coals,/ I blew away the sleep that was in my eyes,/ I
counted the stars till my finger burned.. lyrics from Jai Ho - one of the theme songs from Slumdog Millionaire

My mama, like Salim and Jamal and the small girl they befriend,
Latika, in the Oscar winning movie, Slumdog Millionaire, by Danny
Boyle was viewed as trash, a bother, or at best, something to profit
off of, by any adults who took the time to notice her, feed her or
shelter her. My mama was the illigimate, unwanted daughter of a
Boricua African immigrant and an Irish teenager. My mama was born in
Philadelphia.

"You should see that movie Tiny, homeless people here live in luxury
compared to those kids," a hairdresser acquaintance of mine said
referring to Slumdog Millionaire, making me cringe, Oh god no, I
thought, a movie that further creates the myth of "real" poverty
versus the experience of poor people in the US, who just need to get a
job and "pull themselves up by their bootstraps."

There are many different possible critiques of Slumdog Millionaire,
not the least of which is the increased fetishization of South Asian
peoples in poverty, with barely a U2 like, vague critique of poverty
and globalization. Playing to millions of people, who would rather
look to developing countries who have "real poverty" as it is easier,
cleaner, sexier, color-filled, simpler, rather than look in their own
backyard at the thousands of unseen, unheard , houseless and hungry
children and families in the US. Children like I was, at age 11, when
my poor abused mama was unable to silence the screams that lurked in
her head from her brutal childhood after the loss of her last job and
finally succumbed to those screams into complete disability, leaving
us in deep poverty and ongoing houselessness for the duration of my
childhood.

.... Taste it, taste it, this night is honey,/ Taste it, and keep it,/
It's the heart, the heart is the final limit..

One of PNN's former interns, himself born into wealth in
South Asia, and I discuss this movie constantly, his contention, it
presents a lie about modern day India, That a white man (Danny Boyle) colonized an art form already crafted (Bollywood) and made it from his lens. This is a very serious critique from POOR Magazine's perspective, we actively resist artistic and journalistic transubstantive errors made by default colonizers about cultures not their own. So this leaves me in conflict, because I also believe this movie depicts the reality
of struggling children in deep poverty, the desperation of survival by any means
necessary and the pimping of their poverty, by so-called "saviors" (a murderous "orphanage director" shown preying on the children) better than almost any movie i have ever seen. Then again, maybe I haven't seen enough South-Asian films.

So does this movie about poor folks, poor children, do what almost all
depictions of poor people do and have done since Charles Dickens stories about
poor folks in the ghettos of New York in turn of the century
Amerikkka. Through Dickens' Eurocentric, middle-class lens, he only saw
them as living in "squalor" "being dirty", and living in
"over-crowded" conditions and needing to be at best "cleaned-up" and
worst, "saved". In one stroke of his fountain pen, he stripped them
of their beauty, their power, their heroism, their sprit, language and
culture, resulting in the literary theft of their inherent agency,
and forever setting the narrative tone for other-ness documentations
of communities in poverty as well as the ever-popular to this day,
hygienic metaphors about "cleaning up poor folks".

To insure that more poverty scholars whose voices are intentionally silenced on all issues must less movie critiques get a chance to review this movie and weigh in on the message, POOR Magazine sponsored a movie night for our youth and adult poverty scholars in residence and our students in the Race, Poverty and Media Justice Institute that teaches folks living in poverty revolutionary media and organizing. We do a movie night, both corporate and non-corporate, several times a year as films are just another form of "media" to be read and critiqued by silenced communities. Almost across the board each of them were very impressed and overwhlemed with the movie and its message.

Our post-film discussion led me to conclude, this was a movie about what we at POOR Magazine call poverty
scholars and poverty scholarship, people whose scholarship is rooted
in their lived experience, rather than learned experience. Jamal's
brilliance, his knowledge, was rooted in lived experience. In a series
of flashbacks told to a police officer accusing him of "being a
slum-kid, not capable of that level of intelligence" was at once a
deft story-telling filmic trick but it also acted as a seamless way to
unfold not only Jamal's plight of love lost, his live-based knowledge
but also the undying hope of not only love but youth and humanity
itself.

Unlike Dickensian wrong-ness, Slumdog Millionaire was
truly a depiction of the power , sprit and strength of poor children
and families who continue to try, to work, to hope and to dream. In
fact it showed the subtleties of survival of underground economic
strategists, and ghetto scholars everywhere, who like my poor mama
managed to make it by any means necessary

No, I conclude, this is our movie , and the only problem is, other
folks, rich folks, who don't get the terror of endless struggle, the
unconditional and beautiful hope of very poor children, the work ethic
and desperation of poor workers, and poor families, shouldn't be
allowed to see it, Ever. No, we the very poor, need this movie to
remember who we are, the wealth of knowledge we hold, the deep
reality-based knowledge of Poverty Scholarship we all have, and to
remember that no matter how hard it gets, there is still hope, there
is still love and poetry and silliness, and beauty and above all, to
remember the connection between the struggle of people in poverty
across the globe.

.... Come, come my Life, under the canopy,/ Come under the blue
brocade sky!".. lyrics translated from one of the Oscar winning songs
in Slumdog Millionaire, Jai Ho, by A.R. Rahman