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

Scroll down for English

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…

----------------------------------

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

by Marlon Crump/PNN

Wow, I thought to myself, I just purchased some groceries, and I hadn't even gotten past the security monitor checkpoint, and here was a supermarket employee profiling me!

In the aftermath of my near-death police brutality experience surrounding "racial profiling" and even "class profling" by a dozen members of the San Francisco Police Department on October 7th, 2005 at 11:50 p.m, I felt that I wouldn't be "profiled" by any law enforcement official ever again or at least in this lifetime.

Thus far, I have not had any problems with law enforcement officials. It's fair to say that people are profiled by other people 24/7, not just from people of the law enforcement persuasion.

Given my years of unrelenting efforts towards raising vast public awareness of police abuse, racial profiling, unwarranted actions into poor people's housing with my voice/attendance to the S.F Police Commission, writing stories for POOR, filing a civil action (as my own attorney) against the City of San Francisco, and even going to the S.F Police Academy last year to motivate the youth recruits to deter from such actions; I figured that all forms of "profiling" was now dead............at least for me.

Unfortunately, the death of "profiling" was reincarnated. It descended upon me on a fairly warm and nippy-like March 21st, 2009 on a 12:50 p.m. Saturday afternoon from an unlikely source..................... a supermarket employee who was "acting security."

FOODS CO, a supermarket part of a network grocery chain located at 1800 14th/Folsom St (just a ten minute walking distance from where I live) has been a significant food chain for people in poverty to purchase relatively affordable groceries.

Many customers, (including myself) have depended on FOODS CO, for quite some time now, to keep their food prices relatively low to satisfy poor people's budget, at some degree.

Right after the illegal October 7th, 2005 S.F.P.D raid in my Single Room Occupancy Hotel, I went to FOODS CO to operate my food stamp card to get just enough food to satisfy the hunger pains in my stomach, as well as to the shock of my conscience of nearly losing my life to a dozen cops over "mistaken identity."

I walked into FOODS CO to satisfy those same similar hunger urges I had back then. What I did NOT anticipate was for similar shock consciousness (mental elements from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) to resurface in light of that deep, dark fateful October 2005 night. Only this time, there weren’t going to be any deadly firearms to be pointed at me, by police officers:

Today, the ignorance of an employee was pointed at me, as a possible shoplifter!

I glanced at the construction renovations that were taking place, outside the store as I approached the entrance. Walking inside the store was like passing through a mini tunnel, due to the outside construction. This was somewhat of an inconvenience to the shoppers, because this was both the ENTRANCE and EXIT, temporarily.

The night before, I was told by a cashier that typically works the evening shift that the store would be closed for most of the week. FOODS CO was getting a "face lift" according to the flyer he handed to me.

This supermarket was always packed with customers, sometimes even at night where there weren't alot of cashiers.

I looked around various store aisles to determine what kind of food would make my heart content for the day. "Hi, do you need help with something?" an employee asked. "Oh no, I'm fine, but thank you." I replied, with a warm smile. I knew him from my frequent store visits, and he was always customer courteous.

After packing my basket with a pack of hotdogs, a can of chili with beans, a loaf of bread, a gallon of fruit juice and two cans of beer, I headed to the express checkout line. Fortunately for me, the line was very slim, and I only had a five minute wait.

"Your total is $6.35, please." said a FOODS CO cashier--a young Latino man, with short low-cut black hair, wearing square-rimmed glasses. I reached into my wallet, took out six dollars, and gave it to him along with 35 cents. He quickly gave me my receipt and tended to the other customer.

I packed my groceries into one shopping bag, doubling them to ensure strong quality, and began to head out the entrance/exit.

I was just barely a foot away from the store's security checkpoint scanner, when out of nowhere, a short middle-aged Latino woman, wearing a green apron bearing her employee FOODS CO I.D., stopped me literally dead in my tracks. It was as if she was Wonder Woman or Supergirl poised against her prey, though I was hardly the villian.

"I need to see your receipt and check your bag."

My jaw tried to drop to the ground, but it knew I was too shocked to pick it back up, so it stayed where it was. Why did this employee even stop me before I even went through the security monitor checkpoint scanner?

Three years, counting every single hour, minute, second, day, week, daylight savings time, spring, summer, fall, and winter. Counting every single food stamp transaction, cash transaction, A.T.M/Debit card. Three years, counting good days, bad days, depressed days, stressed days, emotional days, sick days, alive and well days.

Three years, I have NEVER had ANY problem at FOODS CO, with its employees, and/or store management. The employees gave me respect, and I gave it back to them in return. Some of the managers delivered warm smiles, and I returned the exact same smiles. Even the store security guards gave me respect, with a friendly nod, and I also returned the same.

Three years, and none of that began to matter! Today on March 21st, 2009 at approximately 12:50 p.m. my humility and reputation were in the danger of being shattered. The uncomfortable feeling that you're being treated as if you did something wrong (even though you had not) grasps your dignity and humility.

"Look at this. I don't see beer on the receipt."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't see it on your receipt."

"That's kind of strange, because everything that I had on the checkout belt should've been rung up," I replied. I showed her on the receipt where it said "Age Verification Bypassed" which indicates that a customer has purchased an alcoholic beverage or a tobacco product, without having to show their I.D.

Unfortunately for me, it was revealed that there was only one beer sale listed on the receipt. Rather than get into a heated argument exchange with her and cause a scene, I suggested that we both go confront the cashier who rung up my items.

I followed her over to the appropriate cashier. He nodded to her that he did ring up all my items, until he studied the receipt further. "Uh, no, I only charged you for one beer and not the other."

Then came the real shocker: "I didn't see you with two beers, only one was on the counter." My eye lids perched upwards like a hawk, as I was surprised by his words.

"What!" I exclaimed. "That's strange, because I placed all of my items from my basket onto this belt. You scanned all of my items. I come through your checkout lines a lot and this never happened before. How could you have missed this one beer, when it was with my other items...........on the counter?!"

The cashier coldly looked away from me, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that he might have errored, irresponsibly. If he would've said, "I'm sorry, I must have forgot to scan it through." Then I would have at least understood, because everyone makes mistakes. He didn't want to appear to have been doing his job improperly, so he shifted the blame towards me.

Even so, what ever happened to the cardinal consumer rule that "customers are always right?" I guess it didn't apply to me, today.

Three f@#%$king years!

After a few brief back and forth exchanges, I ended up paying for the beer, which I had absolutely no problem doing in the first place. Why wouldn't I? I'm not a thief, and I always pay for my items. But from what I was understanding it clearly from the cashier, he was implying that I must have snuck the beer from underneath his "radar." Buy one, steal one free?

I shot them both an angry glare and asked them for the store manager. They referred me to another cashier who called the manager on the store intercom. As I waited, I alerted my comrades on my own phone to what was taking place.

The manager, a short heavy-set Caucasian woman with blond hair and slim dark streaks came from upstairs to talk to me. I politely explained to her what was going on. As heated as my temper was, I refused to lose my composure. I thought that she would've been more understanding to this situation. Something in her pupils told me a different story.

As a spiritual person having been prone to people's various levels of energy, negative and positive, I immediately got the feeling that she did not believe a word that came out of my mouth. When she started talking to me, her voice, eye contact, body language confirmed the vindictive attitude I received from her based on my observation(s) of her.

"He's already told me what happened. I believe his word over yours," she said. "He's worked here for quite a while, and I doubt that he would be making all of this up. Why are you complaining about an unpaid beer? It’s not like it’s free." Tricia then took the "undetected" beer out of my bag, and was getting ready to put it back, until I told her that the cashier had just charged me for it.

"Where's the receipt?" she asked. I searched both of my pockets, and my bag that contained my groceries. I realized that amidst this madness, either the cashier or the woman that stopped me must have kept it. Now I only had the second receipt he gave me, verifying that I had just paid for the second beer. I showed it to her.

There have been many terms that define the term "profiling." One of them in recent years is "Shopping while Black" which gives a definition to African Descent customers when they walk into an average consumer business, such as a shopping mall, a grocery store, a department store, a liquor store and even a restaurant, and are harassed because of their descent.

Yes, it's important to acknowledge the existence of criticisms, "Oh that can happen to anyone, regardless of skin color." (Which is very true) However, statistics, reports, surveys and especially history itself, has proven time and time again that black people are always the most watched than any other race in the world.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been immune to the problems, speaking from SO many experiences, as a young African-Descent man.

This is especially true if there are black shoplifters caught and subsequently, there becomes a red alert on many black shoppers because of that one or two that were caught stealing. Notwithstanding, what a person wears also gives off the wrong signals, judgments and assumptions. These are the attributes that lead up to "profiling" and "racial profiling" via "shopping while black."

You can tell if you're being "profiled" or "singled out" when as soon as you walk into any kind of merchandise store, along comes an employee who decides to follow you around, or asks "If they can help you" barely giving you a minute to even shop for an intended item.

Even singers, celebrities and performer have encountered "profiling" incidents committed by store employees and cop........................that is until the profiling perpetrators recognize who they are.

The manager wanted to see both receipts. While I kept asking her to go ask the cashier to get confirmation, she stared at me for a few seconds, indicating she still didn't believe me. The reasons the manager had for not believing me were evident in her eyes.

The manager finally asked the cashier and he did confirm that I had JUST paid for it, so she then gave it back to me. Then I thought to myself, "Evidently I must have just paid for it, else what do I look like having a bag full of groceries, with only ONE receipt for ONE purchase?"

I argued that their store security cameras could ultimately validate all my claims. I suggested that we both could view the cameras. The manager's eyes flashed, and she sternly refused. "There is no way I am going to have you go upstairs and look at the camera!" I said that was fine by me.

"But I wanted to lodge a complaint against this store. I know you guys have complaint forms, and I want one."

The manager said that they didn't have any complaint forms. She wrote down the number to the corporate office, "Ralph's Food 4 Less" and gave it to me. I took the number from her, rolled my eyes at her then I walked out the entrance/exit past the Latino woman employee that stopped me, who was now wearing a skinny smirk on her face.

I quickly walked past her with a dirty look, shaking my head at her, as I departed from my former favorite supermarket, narrowly missing and dodging the incoming customers pushing their shopping carts.

Total embarrassment and humiliation, I was nearly put in a position where security could’ve sided with the store employees, if they would've been called on me. Even if he would've recognized me as a frequent customer, there is no question in my mind that he would've sided with them for the safety of keeping his job.

There's also no telling what could've taken place. A mere "misunderstanding" could've elevated into an unnecessary chaotic scene, where security personnel and cops could've been called on me, and who knows what could've transpired?

Three f@##king years down the drain, caused by three people's foolishness, resulting in the birth of my disinterest to continue my business at their store, and maybe in any of other FOODS CO stores, for that matter. No r-e-s-p-e-c-t FOR me, no c-h-e-c-k FROM me. Unbelievably unfair!

I'm a living testimony of "misunderstandings" and the effects it can have on someone. They nearly cost me my very own life. It's strikingly ironic that after my October 7th, 2005 S.F.P.D encounter, I went down to this very store before closing time, after being "racial profiled" about thirty minutes before. Here I was years later being profiled at a store, just a few adequate walking distance from my home, by an employee that apparently lacks security experience.

From where I see it, FOODS CO needs more than an outside "face lift" to attract more customers. The real plastic surgery should begin with spiritual surgery, with accountability to the characters of some of its employees and management.

The Ralphs/Food 4 Less Foundation to Donate Over $60,000 to African American Organizations as Part of Black History Month Program.

In recognition of Black History Month, The Ralphs/Food 4 Less Foundation will accept donations from customers throughout the month of February in more than 450 Ralphs, Food 4 Less (Southern California, southern Nevada, Illinois and Indiana), Foods Co, Bell Markets and Cala Foods stores.

All funds collected will be donated directly to African-American organizations with a focus on education, culture and heritage. Customers can support the Black History Month fundraising program by donating their spare change in specially marked collection canisters located at the checkstands in their neighborhood Ralphs, Food 4 Less, Foods Co or Cala/Bell supermarket.

http://www.prnewswire.com/cgi-bin/stories.pl?ACCT=105&STORY=/www/story/02-02-2005/0002944982

by Marlon Crump

"Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see."

"Sometimes your words just hypnotize me."

"And I just love your flashy ways."

"Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid."

(Lyrics from legendary rapper, Christopher Wallace a.k.a, The Notorious B.I.G in his hit single "Hypnotize" from his 1997 album, "Life After Death."

The mid-1990s, found the entire rap and hip hop world being divided between the fame, rivalry, and media exploitation(s) of two leading legendary rap artists on two different coasts, with two rap names, two death similarities, both with one youth group of proteges, with one goal in mind:

Making it big. (No pun intended.)

They accomplished this goal (even after their untimely deaths.) by using their vibrant verbal ability into the art of rap.

One of those legendary rap artists was Christopher Wallace, a.k.a "Notorious B.I.G" also known as "Biggie Smalls." On Friday January 16th, 2009 found hip hop fans (including myself) storming to movie theaters, nationwide to catch the motion picture film premiere of "Notorious."

Notorious is about the life of Christopher Wallace and his road to becoming the legendary rapper, "Notorious B.I.G" a.k.a "Biggie Smalls."

It briefly narrates his childhood experience, his dis-interest from having any further interests of high school, his open arms to the drug dealing, the life leisures that motivated him, running from the common cop on the block, brief incarcerations, bearing a daughter, marriage, his ultimate rise to the top of rap fame in the rap game (industry), until his fall from grace into unknown gunfire, are all wrapped up into this film.

Violetta Wallace, (mother of Biggie Smalls) and Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs (founder of Bad Boy Records.) helped produced "Notorious" during its October 2007 casting call for the movie production.

"Do or die Bedsty."

Bedford-Stuyvesant is the section of Brooklyn, New York where Christopher Wallace (played by Jamal Woolard, a real life Brooklyn based rapper.) was born and raised. My ears snatched these words, as they boomed into movie audience, alongside of the sound quality of "surround sound" that deafened people's ears, in addition.

The movie begins with Biggie's death, on March 9th, 1997. Biggie, his friends, and other artists of the record company called Bad Boy, are planning to attend an after-party hosted by Vibe Magazine and Qwest Records, in Los Angeles. While the sounds of their happiness could be heard distinctively as they drive along an intersection, the sound of a car pulling up to Biggie's, with a gun, a single shot, then Biggie's head jerking sideways were heard up close.

Woolard narrates throughout the entire film, of his character portrayal's life story, beginning with Wallace's childhood, and the cruel comments made by a couple of girls at him because of his large weight size and unattractive looks. Though saddened by these remarks, Young Christopher Wallace (played by the actual real Christopher Wallace Jr, Biggie Smalls son.) turns his attention toward writing rap lyrics on his notepad, and practices rapping the lyrics, aloud.

"$100, is that all he's worth to you?" scowls Violetta Wallace, in a scene (played by actress, Angela Basset) to the father of their son. After the father leaves, Miss Wallace comforts Christopher and assures him that she would take care of him, no matter what.

The movie accelerates into scenes where Christopher longs for the finer things in life, as he began to view the world around him. Young men like him were wearing expensive clothing, coats, jewelry, shoes, etc, immediately enticed him into wanting to make big dollars, which found him on the neighborhood block selling drugs.

He ignores the pleas/warnings/face slaps from his mother to stop his criminal activity in the streets. In school, Christopher solves a seemingly-difficult algebra math problem, at the surprise of his teacher, then clowns him when he does a math problem of his own, on the blackboard.

After Christopher does a comparison between the difference between what he, a professional worker and than the other would make on their salary; Christopher subtracts the problem and gave his sarcastic thought to the answer: "I'd be making $4,000 more than his dumbass!" The classroom erupts in laughter, while the teacher erupted with anger telling Christopher to leave.

When Christopher gets busted, his mother refuses to bail him out of jail. Along with administering "tough love" she asks him to recite the Bible verse, "Yay though I walk through the shadow of death......" Those words seemed to echo at Christopher, causing him to read more verses to the Bible, as well as commit to improvements towards writing down his lyric skills as he lay in his jail cell.

Christopher finds himself in a rap confrontation competition with a well-known neighborhood rapper. Proving that he was worthy of being the future "Greatest Rapper of all time" Christopher's words swiftly spit out like rapid ammo from an AK-47, resulting in his opponent's rap beat defeat much to the delight of the onlookers on the street.

After a second arrest occurrence for illegal possession of a firearm, Christopher is arrested along with his friend, D-Roc. D-Roc takes the blame for Christopher because he sees his ability to one day become successful. "If you make it, we ALL make it!"

Notorious shows the women in Biggie's life. Jan, mother of Christopher's first child, T'yanna his sexual relationship and verbal assaults to rapper and female vocal artist of Bad Boy Records, Lil Kim (played by Naturi Naughton), and his marriage to R&B singer Faith Evans.

"Don't chase the paper, chase the dream!"
(Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs to Biggie."

Notorious mildly shows the intimate relationship between Christopher Wallace and Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs (played by Derek Luke). Their first encounter begins with a bit of uncertainty because Combs is concerned about Christopher's "steady income", and how he gets it.

Despite the barriers that gets thrown in their face, such as Combs getting fired from Uptown Records A&R, Christopher's mom diagnosed with breast cancer, and his depression; they both finally make the big time after Combs establishes his own record label, which came to be Bad Boy Records, along with the big success of Biggie's "Ready to Die" album, where he quickly shot to the top of the music charts, and appeared on many big named magazines publications.

It is here where Christopher Wallace truly becomes the Notorious B.I.G, a.k.a Biggie Smalls to the world.

As I continued watching the film, the most anticipated scene I awaited in Notorious arrived: Biggie Smalls and his friendship-turned-rivalry with another legendary rapper, Tupac Shakur!

I think that it was here when I believe people's excitement began to rise onto movie theaters everywhere, and not just in the movie theater that I was in, in anticipation of this film's depiction of the feud between these legendary rap artists that fueled the"East Coast vs West Coast" rap war phenomenon.

Those that might have been sleeping, going back and forth to the bathroom, or making out with their girlfriend became immediately attentive in this scene and the ones that followed, throughout the film.

Even just from the film's depiction of Biggie and Pac's relationship and rivalries on the big screen, raised some emotions for survivors, members, and observers of the "East Coast vs West Coast" rap war, which died (or at least died) down down when its rap lyric leaders died.

Tupac Shakur a.k.a 2Pac (played by Anthony Mackie) is already well-known in the rap and movie industry. For a few short scenes, and occasions, Shakur and Biggie talk about how much admirations they have for each others success. It was almost hard to believe how these two rap titans would become mortal enemies.

Although Tupac believed and contended even to his death that Biggie and Puff Daddy had prior knowledge as to the information of the man that robbed and shot him, as he entered the lobby of Quad Recording Studios, in Manhattan, New York; Biggie and Puffy always denied Pac's accusations.

From the "Notorious" version of that event, Biggie questions Tupac of how well he knew of the man that was hanging around him, who wore army fatigue. Tupac said he was cool, but Biggie felt otherwise.

I felt the surround sound in the movie grow louder indicating something intense was getting ready to happen in the next scene, where Pac was shot in the 1994 New York robbery shooting.

Lil Cease, Biggie's cousin (member of Bad Boy's Junior M.A.F.I.A and Biggie's protege rap youth group.) happily greets Pac from the rooftops, and Pac returns the same love.

The scenes of Lil Cease going back downstairs via elevator, hearing shots ring out, having a gun and and an angry voice instructing him to get back on the elevator, Biggie being informed of the commotion by Lil Cease, Biggie grabbing his gun to investigate, N.Y.P.D Police members appear brandishing their own firearms, became the emotional embodiment for everyone worldwide that loved Tupac in what took place next.

"Which one of ya'll motherf@#%% shot me?! Ya'll motherf!@# set me up!!" Tupac screams, as he struggled from his bullet-wounds to get to his feet, and as he struggled to light his cigarette in front of a crowd of onlookers. Puffy comes to his aid, but Pac screams at him to get away from him.

It was at this moment where the rap war of "East Coast vs West Coast"is born. One thing that I noticed from this entire situation was that corporate mainstream media IMMEDIATELY seized the advantage to perpetuate the so-called "Black on Black." (A derogatory term by media in defining the homicidal deaths between young African Descent men.)

Rather than give exposure to the onetime friendship of these two talented rap artists and performers; corporate media hyped, elevated, and exploited the rivalry to further encourage even more violence in communities of color, by a way of competition.

Media furthermore blatantly refused to view and acknowledge them as two multi-talented artists with a feud, to justify its negative definition of rap/hip hop as being nothing more than "gangsta rap" in their campaign to destroy a cultural art.

From that time on, from the 1994 Tupac shooting, his release from jail on a sexual assault conviction after being bailed out by Death Row Records co-founder, Marian "Suge" Knight (played by Sean Ringgold), Pac and Biggie were verbally vicious at each other throats, by ways of hit song singles, music events, and even television onstage appearances. (One of those was the 1995 Source Awards.)

"So I f@#$$ your bitch
You fat mutha-@@#$ {Take Money}

West Side

Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}

You know who the realist is
Ni@@# we bring it to {Take Money}

[ha ha, that's alright]"

?

Lyrics from 2Pac's hit single, "Hit Em Up!" This song attacks Biggie, and Bad Boy. Pac boasts that he had a sexual intimate encounter with Biggie's wife, Faith Evans.

"Who shot ya?"

West coast mother@#$s...

West coast mother@#$%s... hah!

As we proceed, to give you what you need

As we proceed
to give you what you need

Get live mother@#$%s

9 to 5 mother!@#$#$s

Get money mother@#$%s"

Lyrics from hit single by Biggie Smalls, "Who shot ya?" from his 1994 album, "Ready to Die." 2Pac, Suge Knight, and many fans believe this was a subliminal diss (attack) by Biggie following the 1994 New York shooting, but Biggie and Puffy deny these allegations.

Notorious began to come to a close with the shooting deaths of 2Pac on September 7th, 1996 and the death of Biggie Smalls, six months later on March 9th, 1997. Biggie finds hardship in dealing with the shocking death of 2Pac, his dying relationship with his friend, Lil Kim and wife Faith Evans.

"I'm going, going.

Back, back

to Cali, Cali."

Lyrics From the Biggie Smalls hit single, "Going back to Cali" off of his 1997 album, "Life After Death."

Just the way "Notorious" started, is the way it ended. Though Biggie found himself in a car accident, life flashbacks, telling his daughter to never let a man disrespect her by calling her a "bitch" or his ignoring the constant death threats he received, or the pleas from his own mother to not to go to Los Angeles; Biggie was determined to move forward with his rap career.

Biggie says "We're in L.A, I want to give it all back, and "I felt that on this night, God was giving me a clean slate."All I could hear was that same surround sound level quality in the movie that alerted you when something bad was going to happened.

In the remarkable similar scenario as his hip hop rival 2Pac had encountered just six months before, Biggie is tragically felled by bullets, unknown, probably never even hearing the first shot.

All could be heard next, is the distinct yells, pleas, and cries for help as his friends of Bad Boy rush him to a nearby hospital, and the sound of his signature dark brimmed top hat hitting that dark deserted intersection of L.A.

After Puff Daddy asks Violetta Wallace if there was anything he could ever do for her during Biggie's funeral, her eyes met his, still clouded with her tears.

"I just want to take my son home."

In that, she returned his body to his birthplace where she and her son were quickly greeted with a hero's welcome. The sounds of "Hypnotize" could be heard among the deafening cheers of the massive fans that suffocated her and her son, Biggie Smalls.

Notorious is not only just a film about a legendary rapper, but it is also a film that exposes struggles for every young man of color everywhere to climb out of poverty, and many wanting to be rich.

It reveals their struggles to be seen and heard while trying to earn a shot in the hip hop spotlight, the extra-barriers and hurdles thrown their way, their combat against the coverages perpetuated by media's racist stereotypes, their engaging or resisting temptations that will corrupt their careers, and their prayer to Almighty God that they live to continue on with their work.

by Thornton Kimes/PNN

“The city! The city belongs to us!
We don’t need more budget cuts!”
--Dee Allen protest chant

The GA/PAES (San Francisco welfare) worker said, “We can talk to
everyone about you except the Unemployment people. That’s your
responsibility.” I felt like a tennis ball, bounced from a desk in
one building to one in another with a phone on it—and the Unemployment
voice on the other end of the line asked questions from I don’t know
how far away.

How did I get into this mess? Short answer: come close to that “You
can’t fire me, I quit!” knife-edged cliff, decide my last job lost
whatever charm was left even if HR wanted to do more than issue me a
pink slip. I resigned from Goodwill.

The long answer goes back to 1989, just before, during, and after the
earthquake in San Francisco—-though, in truth, it goes much farther
back. But TODAY is, among other things, my 4th time to be enrolled in
the city’s “Hellfare” fun-house hall of mirrors
more-than-3-ring-Catch-22 circus.

Today, we’re eyeballs deep in the economic crisis (Calgon, um, Obama
Take Me Awayyyyy...) that the high stakes capitalists of Wall Street
created and could no longer hide (sort of like those guys you see on
street corners playing that game with the pebble or the coin hidden
under one of three cups, the game that usually empties some of your
wallet—-THOSE guys are good at deception...).

The national and world economy is a ghost of itself, the California
economy was in trouble before the sub-prime mortgage filthy
mcnastiness raised its ugly head to the light of day-—and, yes,
yup-yup, San Francisco is in deep waters too.

The Board of Supervisors and the Mayor are faced with a $500
million-plus budget deficit, though it does seem like Gavin Newsom is
acting like a damsel in distress tied to the railroad tracks, wailing
about how there isn’t anything to be done but what must be done—-that
train is gonna shred some flesh from the bones no matter what!

Millions of dollars in cuts have already been made to health care and
other services to very low-income and no-income, barely-housed and
homeless citizens of San Francisco, some of them so stunning in the
scope of what they do to everyone like me that I’m fer sure havin’
that deer in the SUV-blinding-halogen-headlights feeling.

I’ve spent time in the homeless shelter now called Next Door (Geary
and Polk Streets) twice, both times for about 6 months. Next Door and
its country cousin MSC (Multi-Service Center) South, at 5th and Bryant
Streets, are, as you read this, no longer providing 6-month-long case
management beds to stabilize the transition from homeless to housed
for men and women who are healthy, have jobs or want to work. If the
next round of proposed cuts happen, there will be no shelter in San
Francisco providing anything you could call a “stabilizing influence”
for anyone in need.

So much for the “10 Year Plan To End Homelessness”. Feh! to “Care Not
Cash”! Newsome and the Supes say the budget is effed and you and you
and you are too. They don’t have the will, unless many San
Franciscans pressure them to cut other things from the budget—items
like the Opera, Symphony, Ballet, that have deep-pocketed patrons well
capable of covering whatever the city can’t, plus the true
administrative fat--some of it bulging from Newsome’s administrative
waist.

I’ve been to two meetings of the Human Services Commission and given
short public comments. The second one was attended by Newsome, who
told the Commission he hates cutting social service safety net
budgets-—but ya gotta do what ya gotta do! Badda bing.

Newsom almost had a shoe thrown at him, but the man behind me trying
to take off the symbolic missile he was wearing was stopped by someone
else demanding that he “show
some respect”.I started wondering if I will regret not shoeing Gavin
Newsom myself, since the man who did it to Bush has considerable
popular support in Iraq.

I went to the March 2nd, 2009 Town Hall Meeting at the Unitarian
Universalist Church at 1187 Franklin Street, just a few blocks from my
SRO hotel, to find out what some Supes in attendance had to say. The
public was going to have its say too and I wanted to deliver some of
my increasing displeasure, fear, and well, regrets about shoes.

There’s an old saying: not enough room to swing a dead cat. Even the
welfare social workers are getting to know what that means. My PAES
case manager recently said her department had been “decimated”.

Decimation, an old word and a nasty punishment—-the Roman Empire used
it, executing 1 in 10 people, be they ordinary citizens, slaves or
soldiers, for mutinies, riots, and other uprisings. City Hall workers
and welfare social workers were hacked and slashed with pink slips
before the Town Hall meeting, and I have a new case manager. Probably
no need to guess what happened to the “old” one.

There were other people there to speak as well, members of the staffs
of organizations helping those of us most in need of assistance.
Colleen Rivecca of the St. Anthony Foundation gave an overview of the
city budget process. She would have had more fun with the “monopoly
money” version that was recently enacted for the education of
interested folks at the Coalition On Homelessness. There were
certainly more than enough people sitting in the pews who would have
volunteered to be chunks of the budget.

Several other people spoke eloquently about what is happening now and
what fresh disasters may be soon transpire; Cindy Gyomi of the Hyde
Street Clinic provided a truly mind-bending example of the
merry-go-round Catch-22’s a low-income mental health system user will
experience, ultimately ending up homeless if nothing is done to at
least hold the line.

Of all the speakers, Melvina Hill, Recreation Director of Kezar
Stadium, got the most enthusiastic, loudest applause. She is well
loved by everyone who uses the stadium, including Special Olympics
community members who later spoke in her defense: the San Francisco
recreation and parks system is also being decidmated, the department
losing half its staff by Summer 2009 due to decisions made February
27th. I wondered if all this frustration and pain might contribute to
the rise of a new local political star on the horizon listening to Ms.
Hill and her supporters.

As for me, the Unemployment folks said no. Not enough room to swing a
dead cat, unless we remember and enforce what the Mistress of
Ceremonies, Tiny (Lisa Gray-Garcia) of Poor Magazine asked the
audience repeatedly: “Who’s budget is it?”

The answer: “Our budget!”

by Phil Adams/Race, Poverty, Media Justice Intern

I know what it is to be used by the government for the profit of a few corporations. Since I have become a veteran I learned the planes I flew in were from Lockheed Martin, weapons I used were from Colt-Remington, and the computers I used and soda I drank were procured from Haliburton. I have learned that the blood shed in Iraq was for the purpose of buying items from these corporations. At this point I believe that private corporations play more of a part in decision making within the government than the citizens do. With this corporate bail out I believe our country has transferred public finances to private hands and private debt onto the public.

It was around Ten o'clock in the morning when I showed up at the Mortgage Bankers Association's annual conference. I walked into Moscone Center and immediately felt out of place. The hall was empty with high white ceilings and empty booths. Bland colored banners with lame catch phrases and stock photos urging me to invest in real estate, obviously designed by a drowsy office worker somewhere only to be tossed into the dumpster the next day. I knew I stood out, the only people in the room were pale fat sixty year olds with saggy faces and business suits, six uniformed police officers, the hazy eyed brow beaten convention staff and me, a twenty something year old from Richmond in a leather jacket. Eventually one gray-haired convention staffer mustered up enough courage to ask me if I needed assistance. I saw him eyeing me through his thin-rimmed glasses. I took a breath and looked at him for a second knowing he was making minimum wage and probably coming on retirement age, the placard on his chest reading event staff made me want to ask him the same question. I told him I was interested in learning about the Mortgage Bankers Association. I must have touched some type of robotic knee jerk reaction for his occupation because he pointed me to the information desk and went back to standing at the door with his walkie-talkie. At this point I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere and I knew I was about to be asked to leave.

About an hour later the protest started. It was organized by A.N.S.W.E.R. SF. The reason I was there was to find information and do a little venting of my frustration. I knew that there was a corporate bail-out and I knew it had something to do with the mortgage industry. The whole time I was asking myself, why should we give money to corporations. Don't they have enough already? It was fairly cold that day--on the sidewalk the protestors formed a semi-circle off to the side of Moscone Center barely enough to fill the sidewalk. That's when the chanting started. Natalie Hrize stepped up on the two crates she was using as stage and shouted "jail them don't bail them!" We were loud, we were charged but unfortunately it seemed like there just weren't enough of us. I think the problem is not enough people know exactly what happened with the corporate bail out plan.

I recently attended a lecture by Dr. Jack Rasmus. He enlightened me to a few of the facts on what's happening on Wall Street and how the elites are furthering their war on the poor and working class of this nation. There isn't one direct cause of this economic downturn but there is an explanation behind it. It's pure and simple greed.
Politicians have been in the process of deregulating the banking and lending industry since the mid-90s. Basically they are putting fewer rules on how these guys trade and go about business, pretty much letting them make it up as they go along. The real problem started in 2002 when our fearless leader George W. Bush got together with Allan Greenspan to lower the federal interest rate to 1%. That means that the banks could borrow money from the government at a 1% interest rate. I wish I could get a loan at 1% interest, I guess I have to have a huge banking corporation first.

The reason behind this rate decrease was that Greenspan was on his way out and didn't care and our fearless leader needed to win an election and keep the illusion that everything is fine. During this brief rate decrease between 2002 and 2004 mortgage companies wrote 4 trillion dollars in mortgages and half of them were bad loans that they would not have written under normal circumstances. This made their companies look so good on balance sheets that they would sell stocks in their companies around the world. Other countries were investing in our market because it looked really good even though there were bad predatory lenders giving people houses knowing that they wouldn't be able to make payments. Eventually the federal interest rate went back to normal and it came to light that the people they convinced to take these loans would not and could not pay them.
The problem with the bailout is that it's like throwing money in the closet hoping the monster will go away. The bailout is based on a strategy called liquidity. That means if you give the bank some money they will lower the interest rates on these mortgages and people can stay in their homes and pay off these debts. That or possibly lend to other people honestly at a fair rate. Instead what they are doing is hoarding the bailout for their balance sheets serving their shareholders and investors. This is the systemic root of the problem.

There is a way to solve this problem. These companies don't need or deserve a Bail Out; we the people deserve a Bail Out. We need to reset all the rates to the way they were before 2002. This would alleviate the strain that a lot of people are feeling right now with high rates that these companies have imposed trying to save their own asses by screwing over everybody. That and instead of using tax money, the government needs to repatriate all those offshore tax shelters in the Caribbean and in Europe that these CEOs and investors have hid their stolen money at. Force these cowards to bail themselves out instead of profiting off of conning honest workers.

by Joseph Bolden

The Claus Crap, Correct It!

My turkey day was tiring.

I went to my first Sunrise Ceremony

On Alcatraz, in fact its my first visit ever.

Slightly chilled, solemn but nearly spoiled by my worries of being on time and literally missing the ship, I tend to get lost easy just like my flaky gay/gayelle radar, my geographical sense of direction is equally wonky.

Arriving in the early dawn along with dozens of cold citizens awaiting instructions on embarking, disembarking and safety tips while cruising on the ship.

I'm glad for the experience, may do so again� maybe?

Later in the day a pre Thanksgiving party where I live then off to meet family and friends out of town.

It was then I begin noticing something slightly off or odd from the corner of my eyes.

No big deal but on Bart going away, in advertisements, returning to the city I see�

Ads on a new product which usually isn't unusual but Santa Claus looks slightly different.

Thin with traditional red suit, white beard, sack of toys on a sled � then it hit me!

Santa looks soft because he's a she!

My first reaction is, "Aw Crap, can't we guys even have our St. Nick without him being feminized?"

Wait a sec', why am I steamed at a new cell phone ad?

An old movie came to mind "Skin Deep" staring the late John Ritter.

One shapely women is a lovely, stacked, sexy, bodybuilder Ms. Raye Hollitt in a black bikini showing off her muscular physique and ready for Ritter.

I think, why not place her, Ms. Leslie Morris, or one of the Weather Girls of "It's Raining Men" fame.

Maybe sensuous Plus Size Models, or a just as lovely naturally over developed busty magazine stars.

I wouldn't mind sitting in their laps feeling warm and comfy telling em' what I'd like for Christmas.

Ok, not too massively muscled ladies seen on websites of giant amazon women though maybe too they also can wear the red suit and beard as well as Santa's extremely healthy helpers.

I just want Santa male or fem, be they caucasion, black, brown, red, yellow, or any of rainbow hew in between to be a strong, fierce claus able to kick the mud out of Christmas hating folks.

Oh, and the elves should be just as well built, fit and healthy looking cause Santa sometimes needs backup.

I may not be on radio for a while because an un greatfull or desperate grinch-DJ ripped off radio equipment at San Francisco Liberation Radio (.) Net.

But manure happens and one rolls with it.

Joining a gym, bike riding, walking, swimming, raunchy, dirty, naturally healthy sex with a woman or two also an added bonus when it offered.

Folks, my short term goal is owning a Jack LaLanne Power Juicer and finding Terry Grossman, M.D. "The Baby Boomer's Guide to Living Forever."

I must say its hard to find that book to buy it's borrowed from the library, that book for me as is worth keeping as a reference for when its promise is done.

I'll place it with other immortal works in the Smithsonian Institute.

I don't want much out of life� living way beyond my appointed exit visa well, that's something I gotta' try for.

This could be my first test as one of those future immortals-who-don't-know-that-they are.

At least I have a heads up clue to the proposition being that I'm a mid boomer.

Born between 1946 and 1964.

I was born 8 years after the first crop of boomers, 10 years before the last '64 group so when I heard of and saw the book I knew I'd better buy it if possible and other reference, guideline books for this new age we're in.

Besides I'm curious to find out how bad the
80's and 90's or Gen'X and Gen' Next er's will do.

How badly will they screw things up in the 21st Century as each generation before them had fouled things up before correcting some of it.

It is time to go and to everyone enjoy both holidays safely and stay alive to see next year.

Send Comments to
DeeandTiny@poormagazine.org or
Telljoe@poormagazine.org

by Marlon Crump/PNN

"S.F.P.D, don't conspire with I.C.E!"

(Immigration and Customs Enforcement.)

"No Human Being is ILLEGAL!"

"Stop Illegal Raids!"

"Municipal I.Ds NOW!"

"Free Trade is not Fair Trade!"

"Newsom, meet with us your constituents!

40% of all San Franciscans are Immigrants!"

The sounds of these protest signs by numerous Immigrant Rights protesters and supporters couldn't have spoken louder than the outcries of the protesters, themselves. These signs, carried by protesters and supporters took their siege on the steps of San Francisco City Hall on a nippy, dew-dropped sunshine-shifting, Thursday afternoon, in response to the sieges/ raids (deportation) that were unrelenting against migrant workers, at the hands of I.C.E (Immigration and Customs Enforcement).

The lack of intervention(s) by the City of San Francisco itself, vs the immediate intervention and outrage for numerous San Franciscans, shows everyone that once again the real power comes from the voice and actions of the People...........not the politicians.

This day of December 18th, 2008 marked the day of the International Migrants Day as proclaimed by the UN General Assembly. This was also a landmark, in sink with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which celebrated its 60th anniversary a week ago.

As "proclaimed" by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights:

"All human beings are born free and equal
in dignity and rights
and that everyone is entitled
to all the rights and freedoms set forth therein,
without distinction of any kind,
in particular as race, color, or national origin."

The ongoing battle/movement for the Rights of Undocumented migrant Families, Youth, Workers, and people in general in the face of City, State, and ultimately the U.S Government continues.

This year's Migrants Day occurred at a time when S.F's Immigrant Community is facing unbearable budget cuts to critical public services.
Today's Migrants Day also occurs at a time where the Human Rights of all Undocumented Immigrants are constantly under attack, alongside of the budget cuts.

"My basic concern is that they (I.C.E) are deporting the Youth, 12 and up." Ray from H.O.M.E.Y (Homies Organizing the Mission and Empowering Youth) explained to me as I kept my other ear to the rally. "They're deporting these kids to unfamiliar countries with no money, no clothes, and no families to go to once they get to that country that they are deported to."

H.O.M.E.Y was just one of the estimated 30 organizations that saturated the steps of S.F City Hall to voice their total opposition to the rampant attacks against Undocumented Immigrants.

Teresa Molina of POOR Magazine's Voces de Inmigrantes en resistencia program which teaches POOR Magazine’s brand of revolutionary – change journalism to migrant workers was there with me re-porting and sup-porting on the important action for PNN.

"Young Latino people are being picked up (racially profiled) by the S.F.P.D for small offenses." Abigail Trillin from the San Francisco Immigrants Legal Services explained to me. She further explained that minor offenses often turn into felonies, which then are reported to I.C.E by the S.F.P.D.

Constant questionable traffic stops of people of presumed Latino ethnicity have not gone unnoticed as well. Elizabeth Alexander of the Central City Collaborative (also in attendance) brought awareness of this issue to me, a few weeks ago as I strolled through the Tenderloin District on my way to a meeting.

"We've had multiple cases of young looking Latino men being stopped and accused of running red lights and having expired tags." said Barbara Lopez, of La Voz Latina Project of Tenderloin Housing Clinic. "They (S.F.P.D) are pretexts to uncover unlicensed drivers and tow their cars."

The San Francisco Immigrants Rights Defense Committee has revealed a platform of proposals to make Dignity a matter of Equality, and Due Process of law a reality for all San Franciscans, including Immigrants.

In recent months, the administration of S.F Mayor Gavin Newsom has taken a number of measures that have had a wounding impact on Immigrant Families and threaten to undermine the fundamental Human Rights principles in San Francisco .

The Committee calls on the City of San Francisco
to do the following:

* Uphold the 1989 Sanctuary City Ordinance, including ending Racially Biased Policing and all law enforcement's harassment.

* Revise San Francisco 's new Juvenile Justice policy, implemented this past July, because it denies due process to Immigrant Youth by requiring that probation officers refer these youths to I.C.E.........before a hearing.
(Undocumented Immigrant Youth breaking the law must be routinely processed through Family Court, not the Adult Criminal Justice System, as it now stands).

* Announce a specific date for the implementation of the Municipal ID program.

* Advocate to stop Federal Immigration raids, and any S.F.P.D collaboration with I.C.E. that tears Immigrant Families apart.

* Preserve funding for essential services for all, including Immigrant Youth and Families.

As I continued the painstaking process of reporting and supporting, the chants tremendously increased solidarity for the Rights of Undocumented Immigrants, deafening my eardrums:

"Who's City?"

" Sanctuary City !"

"Who's City?"

" Sanctuary City !"

"As proud San Franciscans, we're just asking for the right to be accepted." Adoubou Traore, executive director of the African Immigrant and Refugee Center said to me, amidst the crowd's chants. "If our rights are violated, there is NO due process. Africans are the most recent group of immigrants to San Francisco . We intend to fully participate in its community."

Se ve, Se siente"

"El Pueblo presente esta"

"We are greatly alarmed by what is a growing climate of fear and repression that is taking over our communities." Lamoin Werlein-Jaen from the Unite Here Local 2 Restaurant Hotel Worker's Union stated to me.

He expressed his growing concern to the crowd regarding the I.C.E raids, and the rapid, subsequent retaliation ramifications , retaliations that are often aimed at the Undocumented Immigrant Community, should they so much as demand their right to their very own Rights.

"¡Si, Se Puede!"

"¡Si, Se Puede!"

"For me, it is very significant that today's event really showed all of the suffering and struggles that the Youth, Families, and people who are affected by the raids are going through." Teresa Molina of POOR Magazine De Voces Immigrantes said, with a bit of hope towards the end to the I.C.E. raids.

"As a Christian Minister and follower of Jesus Christ, I believe that when we welcome the stranger in our midst, we are welcoming God among us." Reverend Brenda Vaca of Nueva Vida Ministries said to me "In the Christmas Season, we remember a young family wandering in the cold night looking for a warm place to rest. Jesus and his family were migrants."

There were numerous members of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, themselves that were apparently in support of Migrants Day and the end to the criminalization of the Undocumented Immigrant Community:

Supervisors Chris Daly, Jake McGoldrick, Ross Mirkarimi, David Chiu, the recently elected Eric Mar, John Avalos, and David Campos were in attendance. All of them voiced their concerns, and support for Undocumented Immigrants' Rights.

Supervisor-elect David Campos for District 9 gave assurance to everyone in attendance that he would exhort his fellow board members to push towards ending the attacks on the Undocumented Immigrant Community, speaking as a former Undocumented Immigrant himself, from the country of Guatemala .

"We will NOT accept second class status!" Campos ' voice splashed into the crowd. Campos informed everyone that on January 15th, 2009, the issue of "Municipal I.Ds" and the Public Safety Committee will be presented on the Board of Supervisors' Item Agenda list for review.(On public television broadcast.)

Another S.F Supervisor Elect, Eric Mar of District ended his support speech: "Keep holding us supervisors accountable!"

by Freddy Gutierrez

one of the first things we learn to do
is move
its what we do

movement is embedded in our existence
strung on the chords of our DNA songs of resilience

SO AS WE EXIST
WE MOVE
SO WE CAN EXIST

and the people moved
see how they liberated their bodies from structure
codifying migration techniques
in what can be identified
as stylistic individuality
creating their own language
bodyrock talk
mountain top vernacular
not speaking the king's GMO tongue

for their roots are grounded points of view
achievements of existence that branch out
stemming from philosophical shifts
moving in a way that moves us
so move out our way

move out the way
for we have always been a people of movement
since our pigment was one and the same
choreography the color of rubber and leather
on the tap dancing
huarachando
feet of a young child
bound on the balls that balance
bouncing crossing
an imaginary line in the sand
off the banks of El Rio Grande
or the West Bank
or the Mississippi

the people don’t dance for pennies,
never to reinforce borders
they dance they move
for movement is at the core of our universe
contracting
expansions of biological oratorio
the people move to dance personal expression
with a vocabulary of gestures
ushering urgency for an American dream beyond the currency

the people move
like barefoot tribes
with the names of our lineage lining
the souls of self sacrifice
the Rite of Spring

the people moved
before dance became acceptable in proper society
before they wanted our arms to pick their cotton
pull their weeds
and gather harvest that we planted

the people moved
presenting point of views
cultivating a world of hues
always reflecting the contemporary climate

the people moved
as an amalgam of who they descended from
with movement initiated with emotion
expressively from our own drive
and desire for a higher standard of living
for a safe place to make their children a true face

as sons and daughters
of marginalized migrant mothers and fathers
the adepts of motion,
this friday we'll move
with the moves they taught us
mobilizing the community

for this country has an ambivalent relationship to the body
motion sickness

but little do they know
that the only cure is to keep moving
and so
we MOVE
WE MOVE
WE MOVE

by Katrina Nellisa Twila Tuokoi/PNN Indigenous Scholar

My mother is a descendant of Tongan Chiefs, Fijian princesses, German-Irish businessmen and whalers, Portuguese sailors and British midwives and Anglo-Indian housewives. She was born in the capital city Vava’u, in the Kingdom of Tonga. The island which I consider my homeland is made up of lush greenery and wide sandy beaches.

My father was a teacher, his father was a teacher, his father was teacher [whose mother was pure Samoan from Apia], and his father started the first school in Haafeva which is another in Tonga.

My ancestry and my family have always played a significant role in my identity. I always identified myself as Tongan but never lost sight that my lineage is from all over the world. But my heart is Tongan because the values Tongans cherish are the ones I cherish too. A huge value is humility, which deals with a wealth of spiritual and Godly knowledge and values rather than material and physical worth. We didn’t always have a tola, which is our equivalent of a dollar. We’ve mainly relied on the barter system, which is like a fisherman trading a bag of fish for a bag of yams from a farmer. Now we deal with white European capitalism.

However, Tonga wasn’t always this way. In fact Tonga wasn’t always Tonga. Chiefs from as far as the Solomon Islands, New Zealand and Samoa sent warriors to defend the islands. However the Dutch in 1616 came and were followed by an onslaught of many European countries to settle, send missionaries, spread their gospel, form colonies and eventually destroy the culture.

Today we have the last Polynesian Kingdom in the world. On the other hand, we have the poorest country in the South Pacific but we have the strongest cultural indentification throughout the islands. I myself was raised in America as a McDonalds kid, and all I know of my ancestry is what I’ve read in books and my one visit to Tonga at the tender age of twenty. Now I write of the degradation of these islands that outside forces have pushed upon them. What I recall now which sums up the poverty of the islands is my aunt’s paycheck when she was a nurse of twenty five years for two hundred pa’anga for two weeks, which adds up to one hundred US Dollars which U.S. nurses get paid twenty times as much.

Her husband also has been working in the medical field for almost three decades as a Physician’s Assistant and he makes a little more than she does. Though they do not make the “big bucks” that the American doctors and nurses make, they live comfortably in a split-level two-story home with three bathrooms and seven bedrooms that are inhabited by their five children, two grandchildren and various extended family and visitors from overseas. The plantation that the house sits on is home to many little gardens where the family grows several groves of food such as taro, yams, bananas, plantains, which are just to name a few. Therefore, although this “little” family that is headed by parents who are professionals makes perhaps less than a tenth of what they would in the United States and subsist off of less than $US20,000 a year for a family of 10-15 people, they are not only surviving but they are thriving.

Thus far, makes poverty not only a global issue but also a matter of perspective.

Lea ‘a Lina/Lina’s Line leaves this question for all you readers out there – What is poor? In essence, how do you define poverty? What does being poor mean to you?

by Staff Writer

Where:2926-2948 16TH STREET #301 (at Capp st- I blk below Mission st) in San Francisco

When: 12:00 5:00 pm - Saturday, January 10, 2008

Cost: $1.00 to 100.00 or anything in between.

Lunch Served @ 12:00 � Music, Karaoke, and Poetry REading All day!

Children and adults of ALL ages welcome � Multi-generational art lessons and activities will be offered by POOR Magazine and FAMILY Project teachers all day. Come and paint a part of four large Murals of Art & Inter-dependence. Paint a corner of a wall in honor of an ancestor, an elder, a child�on Inter-dependence

Donors of 25.00 or more will have an office machine officially named after them. Donors of $50.00 or more will have part of a wall named after them. Donors of $100.00 or more will have a doorway named after them. Donors of above $100 will receive a surprise�

For more information call (415) 863-6306 or online at www.poormagazine.org

POOR Magazine�s new classroom and offices are shared with fellow fighters for justice SF living wage Coalition, and CISPES.

by Tony Robles/PNN

Ain't nothin' I can
say, nothin' I can do,

I feel so bad, yeah,
I feel so blue.

I got to make it right

for everyone concerned

Even if it's me, if it
means it's me what's
gettin' burned.

"So Very Hard to go"

Tower of Power

The faces glide across the pane glass window. They come into focus and just as quickly fade. I stand inside a department store on Market Street of which I am a security guard. It is 1990 and I am a man. I remember walking down this street with my Grandma. I remember Market Street bearing scars and pockmarks created by bulldozers and jackhammers. I didn’t know what was going on. I imagined riding the Muni bus and getting swallowed up by the ground. I’d ride the bus with my eyes closed until Market Street was in the distance. I was just a kid. I didn’t know that San Francisco was making way for the Bart system. I only knew that I didn’t want to be swallowed up.

I’m dressed in my polyester security guard uniform. I look out the window at the new shopping center that has risen out of the ground. It’s the new San Francisco Shopping Center and people flock to it as if it was a religious shrine. I look out the window. Shoppers come in and out and are being watched by the cameras on the ceiling—especially the black shoppers. I was in the loss prevention department. The plainclothes officers in the department carry badges and handcuffs. I carry the polyester on my back.

I was mad at the new shopping center across the street. I was mad at the engineers, the architects, the cement masons—all of them. I was mad at the entire structure and what it represented. I saw the big cars and the tourists and the business people and the young. I saw them walk through the swinging doors. I watched the houseless people watching the shoppers carrying bags as they left. I watched.

I remembered what was there before the mall. The Emporium Department Store stood there alongside smaller businesses. I used to go to the Emporium when I was a kid to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. On the roof were carnival rides. It was a magic place.

Even more magical was a place a few doors down. It was a Chinese cafeteria called Joe Jung’s. My grandmother used to eat there. We’d walk inside and grab a tray. I’d slide the orange tray across the rail, gliding past all kinds of delicious food; chow mein, fried rice, pork noodle soup, roast beef, turkey and my favorite, lime jello with fruit cocktail. Grandma wore colorful scarves and big sunglasses. She would pay for the food and we’d sit with other Filipino elders. Grandma would talk and laugh in Tagalog. I would listen and not listen at the same time. I was busy with my lime jello. The elders would laugh while I sat slurping at it.

I didn’t know it at the time but my grandmother’s friends were survivors. They were the manongs and manangs (Filipino word of respect for elders) who came to America in the early days. I watched them eat their rice. They would look at me and smile. I wondered what they were thinking. I imagined what they looked like when they were young. It would be years later that I would see their faces in black and white pictures in a book called Liwanag—a collection of Filipino-American writing whose pages talked about our resistance as Filipinos against those who would colonize our lands and our minds. The words were written by such writers as Al Robles, Oscar Penaranda, Serafin Syquia and Lou Syquia. I remember the laughter of my elders at Joe Jung’s.

I stood looking at the San Francisco Center. I refused to go there. People told me of the massive floors and the circular escalator but I couldn’t have cared less. I still heard the laughter of my elders and the smell of chow mein and the sound my plastic tray made as it slid along the rail. I wondered what became of the elders. I wondered if the shoppers knew what had once stood in its place. I wondered what the shoppers stood for. I wondered if they would care.

© 2008 Tony Robles