Name
2010
  • Voices for Climate Justice

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    cayley
    Original Body

     

                In the wake of endless corporate media reports on whether or not climate change is real and how many polar ice caps are melting, a 48-page classified report created by Homeland Security was released last year at a special house subcommittee hearing chaired by Representative Anna Eschu on the "security impact of global climate change."

    This briefing confirmed what many of us poor people already suspected: climate change is likely to result in the ratcheting up of a police state to “control” us, the crowded masses, as we riot for food, water, and land.

    It’s no mystery, what will happen to our poor in a future crisis. Look at what’s already happened to low-income communities in the past. From Haiti to New Orleans—in extreme cold, we have frozen to death; in extreme heat and drought, we’ve died of thirst, hunger, and exposure—with no more crops, livestock, or land.

    A forecast of the what’s to come can be seen in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s infamous jail for immigrants. “Poor people have been dying of thirst with no access to water or air conditioning in the heat,” reports Michael Woodard, poverty scholar and Poor News Network correspondent.

    In essence, that’s the risk that climate change poses. Poor people can’t just move to higher ground, purchase imported foods, or upgrade their roofing, windows, and foundation to keep from being displaced by the next hurricane.

    “We are forced to live in poor neighborhoods near poisonous industries that already are killing us. If you add increased heat and decrease of land to the sick soup—we wont last long in a global warming reality,” says Ingrid De Leon, with Voces de Immigrantes en Resistencia.

    The surprising thing is, we already know a lot about how to reorganize our economies for moving from “surviving” to “thriving.” Indigenous and poor people have long known that sharing resources with each other, practicing interdependence, and building real community are the best route to independence.

    POOR is an indigenous and poor people-led organization of revolutionary poets, artmakers, multimedia producers, educators, and poverty scholars (as we call ourselves) who see the urgent need to be producing and educating so we can stop being talked about, researched, reported on, criminalized, and legislated against.

    We have launched an equity campaign for a project we call “homefulness,” a sweat-equity cohousing model for landless families, which includes a community garden for localizing and producing our own healthy food, and several micro-business projects to build sustainable economic support for all of us. So far we have established a social justice and arts café, a family-friendly project-based school, and a community media teaching and production center.

    My mother, Mama Dee as she was called, died from complications of her smog-related asthma and heart condition. As I was growing up she and I talked constantly about how to get away from the poisonous environments where we were forced to live—near power plants, freeways, and factories. In the end, Mama Dee succumbed to the illnesses our poverty caused. But her spirit of resistance lives on in our community and in the mobilizations to work for climate justice across the planet.

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  • A home is where you’re respected. Nickelsville is a home!

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Lola Bean
    Original Body

    A home is where you’re respected. Nickelsville is a home!

    We enter the camp through the back alley. Immediately a sense of organization and protection is felt from all whom we come in contact with. We check in and are guided back to the community space where there will be others to talk to. As we walk to the other end of the campsite I pass several tents, faces peep out. Young face with innocent eyes peeping out at me. I know there are families in these tents. I am keenly aware of myself; everything I do, where my eyes fall, where my feet hit the concrete. I know this land is special and priceless for those who live here and look at me with curious glances, yet with a distinct air of distrust residing over the camp. I am an outsider, a status with a history of potentially bringing great harm onto the Nickelsville community. There is this undeniable sense, as though at any moment it could all end and anyone could be the cause.

    As we approach the community living room area of the camp a fresh faced and bright eyed young woman is sitting in a chair along with a couple of others. We explain why we are there and that we are looking for anyone that wants to be interviewed about their experiences at Nickelsville. Erin Miller is her name and her words describe a place very unlike the images and ideas I have heard in the mainstream media. She challenges everything I have learned about Nickelsville in her first sentence. I know by the genuine look on her face and the very deliberate tone in her voice that she is the truth.

    She explains to us how this is a family, a home, unlike any she has lived in before. Not only does everyone look out for each other, but the neighborhood around Nickelsville greatly benefits from their watchful eyes and concerned actions. It struck me how incredibly organized the camp was. Everything from food distribution to security duty to tent functionality is given a process and structure for implementation. There is a point person within the camp for anything that might come up or any camper who might need help or assistance with a camp related or life issue. Beyond the remarkable way the camp is planned and prepared and the inspiring ways the campers take accountability for their neighborhood’s safety and well being what hit me hardest was the strong sense of community and belonging they had cultivated at Nickelsville.

    When Erin Miller describes the folks living at Nickelsville she explains to us with great pride how many skilled minds live there and have come from feeling like outsiders most of their lives, trying to find somewhere they belong. I immediately knew why Nichelsville existed. Memories of me sitting in my room alone, being yelled at for not being part of the family flooded my mind. “Why don’t I want to be with the family, why was I always locked in my room,” my father would demand to know. I couldn’t tell him that I hated his family; I hated his wife and all her children whom I consistently felt alienated and hurt by. It wasn’t their actions it was their thoughts, the way they saw the world and themselves in it. I would treasure the moments I got to escape and go back to my mom’s house for the week. A well needed rest from the harsh realities of my father’s family, one that mirrors the society we live in and not the community feel that Nickelsville offers its residents. Alone and isolated is what living in America has to offer the majority of its citizens. Seeing yourself as separate from others and in direct competition for resources and love. Not in Nickelsville though, a place that represented a location of safety and protection from the daily pressures of a Capitalistic society. A society where every man is for themselves; where any native culture and community is stripped in favor of hoarding and attaining as many resources as possible.

    I knew that distinction well and when Erin said, “Cause this is our house, it’s our house and it’s different from any situation I’ve ever been in except when I was a kid at home,” it became even more clear. A home is where you are looked after and respected, not necessarily the place where wealth is accumulated. Although, my father’s house was warm and had four walls and a roof it never really felt like home. I knew I had to find my own home and what home meant to me, luckily I had my mother’s house to help figure that out, but everyone isn’t so lucky. Some people have never had a home until they find Nickelsville. Being an outsider is a lonely and segregated place that cuts people off from one of the most essential parts of being human, showing others your humanity and receiving theirs. I hadn’t seen so much humanity, so much caring and so much concern for fellow people in a very long time. Knowing Nickelsville and the amazing community they had created was in constant threat of losing its’ land was a rude awakening from the amazing words that fell from Erin Millers lips. How could anyone not see this was a place this large family needed and any others looking for a little support in a time when true community and a sense of belonging is a rarity.

    Nickelsville has been made to move every two to six months for over two years, each time the mini-society they have created is devastatingly torn apart with no respect for the time and effort it took to create. Seattle has a long history of atrocities against the homeless communities of the city. Starting as far back as the mid 1930’s Seattle twice burnt down the wood and tin shacks of what was referred to in those years as “shanty towns” or “Hoovervilles”. It is estimated that those arsons burned down over 639 people’s homes living in the pop up town near where the sports stadiums are now located. Modern day arsons now consist of “sweeps” as the city calls them. Accompanied by arrests or detainment of Nickelsville residents and confiscation of the little possessions Nickelsville residents have managed to accrue. The despair of losing your belongings is no secret to anyone who has been robbed or had something lost or stolen, but to Nickelsville it is time, energy, and goods that they may never, ever be able to get back. Moving families is also a destructive force. Children are pulled away from their schools and friends over and over, being traumatized repeatedly. Stability for anyone is a necessity, but for young ones it is even more of a priority.

    Nickelsville has been able to bounce back and recreate their community, which goes to show how incredibly important and necessary it is for the people who are part of it. I can’t help, but wonder where these families, these young eyes with entire lives ahead of them will end up if Nickelsville does not find a permanent location. What Nickelsville provides for its residents reaches well beyond the normal functioning of an average shelter or mission and many folks would lose an amazing community without it. Feeling alone and lost in the world is a horrible place to be, finding a family is not an easy task. It took me many years to find a community that allowed me to believe and see that it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t fit in or see things the way my father and his family did. I am lucky to have that support and confidence now. Without it I don’t know if I could face the world everyday with a brave face and an open heart.

    I’ve got walls comin down
    I've got noise all around
    I'm hearin so much, so much sound
    And I'm drownin, drownin now
    And I can't see it clear
    But I still have stear
    And it feels like it's too much
    And evils comin up the rear

    And I'm drownin, drownin
    Too much to fear
    And I'm drownin, drownin
    My make-up's smeared
    Down hollow cheeks and snotty nose
    All around, the noise, it grows
    And help only feels like show
    Cause no one really, really knows
    or gets
    or hears
    unaware

    Still I try
    Nice to have someone on your side
    Even if the noise they ride
    I write,
    They ride
    I write,
    They ride

    Stormy seas of acidy insides
    Billowing breeze
    Blocking my mind's eye

    Pressure headache
    Pressure can't take
    Falling all around me
    So fake
    I am to them
    Hope I can swim to them
    Cause I'm drownin, drownin                                                                                                                                                                                                                   In all of them

    I don't even want to win
    Giving up begins a trend
    Filling up on others sins
    Starting the descent begins
    Harsh Winds
    Dig In
    Your heals
    Try and stop the spinnin
    Spin-in, Spin-in
    Inside I spend when
    The outside's too cold
    Behind the door I fold

    Cheery demeanor melts away
    Tired and weary ends my day.

    Check out these articles and more on our sister sites at Real Change and the International Network of Street Newspapers: INSP Vendor Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/ INSP Main Website: http://www.street-papers.org/ Real Change Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/realchange/ Real Change Main Website: http://www.realchangenews.org/

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  • Intellectual Masturbation (Sex is not only physical) ( Poem)

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Leroy
    Original Body

     

     

    Bring it on baby stimulate me

    Not only physically

    4play with the mind leads to the body

     

    Intellectual masturbation

    Can keep up with a conversation

    Twisting concepts & politics

     

    With one lick

    From the brain to the tongue

    Whip me up

     

    Having sex with our clothes on

    Got me in your palm

    Jerking me off with word play in your songs

     

    Intellectual masturbation

    Can keep up with a conversation

    Twisting concepts & politics

     

    Like a chess game

    It’s all about concentration

    Next move could be pleasure or pain

     

    Got me mentally wet

    Intellectual orgasm

    Now that is the real sex

     

    Gives us spasms

    Shaking off racism & ablism

    So the world can get off from our intellect

     

    Salt-N-Pepa

    Want more than to talk about sex

    Intellectual masturbation got all the spices

     

    Salty & peppery sweet & sour

     Intellectual masturbation ejaculates brain power

    Make u do strange things without lifting a finger

     

    Intellectual masturbation

    Can keep up with a conversation

    Twisting concepts & politics

     

    Intellectual masturbation

    Like this mind f-ck

    She’s no tease baby got me unstuck

     

    Use to want only eye candy

    Hypnotized by MTV hoochie mamas

    Baby got back but no brains

     

    Now music videos just bore me to tears

    I got no fear

    So bring it on baby

     

    My mind is waiting

    For your intellectual masturbation

    Head to toe full body satisfaction

     

     

    By Leroy Moore

    12/14/10

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  • REDSTONE RUNAROUND: WE DON'T NEED ANOTHER CON-D'OH! PART 2

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Redbeardedguy
    Original Body

    1. San Francisco and the Redstone Building, a Micro-History

    Poormagazine's Elderscholar Bad News Bruce Allison first walked into the Redstone Building in 2000 when Chris Daley, and Mission Resistance, had an office there.  A very small office, but Daley used it as his headquarters to run for Supervisor.  The Redstone has a long history of involvement in the affairs of San Francisco's labor unions and other organizations.

    The building is registered as San Francisco Historic Landmark Building Number 238.  The block (its official name is "Block 34") and the building are zoned commercial, and the Planning Commission promised that this zoning would remain in place through the implementation of the Mission Plan of the Eastern Neighborhoods Plan.  One would think that "Historic Landmark Building" status would make a structure immune to the games that Planning Commissions and building contractors play, but this is not so!

    One of the reasons the building has Historic status is that it was around the 1906 earthquake.  It was destroyed and burned to the ground by the ensuing firestorms, and rebuilt a few years later.  Today, the building has solar panels on the roof that would be shrouded in the shadow of the proposed new structure.

    The Redstone's tenants are in considerable danger of being evicted because of a re-classification to Mixed-Use Zoning status.  San Francisco has a lot of history, like the Redstone, some of it dark and vicious:  struggles over the I-Hotel, redevelopment that destroyed the Western Addition neighborhood community and left it in limbo until the power-players-that-be deemed it time to gentrify the Fillmore with Yoshi's jazz club and much more; Lennar Corp owns the Bayview-Hunter's Point area and is content to have its way or the highway with the Navy Yard whitewash...I mean "environmental clean-up"...with the cooperation of Mayor Gavin Newsom and other folks who should know better.

    Thus and thus and thus, the San Francisco Planning Commission has been working at Warp Speed to morph the 16th Street end of the Mission District (and the Mission Plan of the Eastern Neighborhoods Plan) into something unrecognizeable to anyone paying attention at the official (Sunshiny-like?) beginning of the process of planning...whatever.

    The parking-lot make-over, it turns out, isn't the last word in this episode of The San Francisco Twilight Zone.  Another Con-D'oh! slated to be built as part of this project will replace a gas station and car wash across the street.  Anyone remember the song "They Paved Paradise, Put Up A Parking Lot"?  Ironic, perfectly nice pavement (and buildings) being abused, replaced with con-d'ohs.

    2.  What's Wrong With This Picture?

    The Redstone Building is like many houses that have been built and sold by developers who wanted to make quick bucks from flood-prone areas and didn't bother to tell the hordes of home-hungry folk seeking to become part of the property-owning class.  The area is flood-prone.  The manager of the building, deals with a virtual daily invasion of water in the basement, which would fill it to the ceiling were it left alone.

    Division Street (one of many Bermuda Triangle-like streets in some large cities that create pedestrian-unfriendly micro-environments where two neighborhoods meet), at the beginning of Potrero Street--sort of part of the base of the Potrero Hill 'hood--which is within a few blocks of 16th Street, is another flood-prone area.  Residents there have endured several rain-related floods in recent years that have caused a lot of damage and traffic nightmares. 

    The combined area once included Mission Creek and Dolores Lagoon, which were covered over and forgotten.  "Gone", but, actually, not forgotten.  Like the ghosts of the "Poltergeist" movies, they keep coming back to wreak havoc. 

    Across the street from the Redstone is an underground electrical vault hosting pumps to get rid of more of you-know-what.  Like many other aging and long-unimproved electrical-power-channeling underground vaults in the city, which have exploded and sent human-hole covers flying into the air (sometimes severely injuring people), the pump vault is prone to catastrophic "accidents" every 3 to 5 years, leaving parts of the neighborhood in the dark.

    Will the people who want to sell the condominiums they want to build next to the Redstone tell potential buyers of the risks and the frustrations (like a perpetually flooded parking garage!) they will inherit?

    The Redstone also sits on top of the ancient neighborhood of the Chutchui village of the Ramaytush-speaking Ohlone people, which came to the light of day during the re-construction of the Redstone (1912-1915) when artifacts were discovered. Back in the day, often, nobody cared and artifacts were either carted off to a museum or ignored.  Today, after many Native struggles for sovereign nationhood, respect, and the honoring of burial grounds and other manifestations of historic Native presence (battles which have to be re-fought too often), one wonders if the Planning Commission knows any of this history...and if they give a damn.

    Again, readers seeking to save the Redstone, preserve what little is left of the Mission District, should contact Jeanie Poling, an Environmental Planner in San Francisco’s Planning Department.  The address is 1650 Mission Street, Suite 400, SF, CA  94103.  Contact by phone is:  415-575-9072 (fax # 415-558-6409).  Poling’s email address is:  jeanie.poling@sfgov.org.

    Readers should also contact Corey Teague, the case planner on the project approval (not the environmental review), at corey.teague@sfgov.org  Bill Wycko, her boss, can be contacted at bill.wycko@sfgov.org  Last, but never least, anyone concerned about this should contact San Francisco Supervisors Chris Daly and David Campos, at chris.daly@sfgov.org and david.campos@sfgov.org

    In 2011 concerned people will also need to contact Jane Kim, one of several down-town un-friends of poor people candidates for District 6 who won election to that seat on the Board Of Supervisors, to let her know this is important to you.

    The address of the condo project is 490 So. Van Ness Avenue, the case number of it is #2010.0043E.

     

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  • A place of safety, refuge, sanity, and quiet contemplation.

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    cayley
    Original Body

    What Homefulness means to me

    ....A place of safety, refuge, sanity, and quiet contemplation.

    Not Always fear-near the-1st of the month a place where I can invite

    guests to stay as long as I choose.

    No Housing Authority visits, Exterminator visits.
    When Ill or away unable to clean up, missing appointments
    causing automatic possible loss of housing.

    No worries of danger to my guest(s) when visiting because
    other home dwellers have no bounderies, filters if they chose
    to engage or accost new comers to my one room apartment.

     Free of rent hikes, faulty plumbing, electrical systems or
    flooding from leaking roofs.

     

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  • Visioning Homefulness, alongside the scholars at POOR, has made me take spiritual leaps.

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    cayley
    Original Body

         Visioning Homefulness alongside the scholars at POOR has made me take spiritual leaps.  It’s pushed me to think and feel more deeply about so many things—and recently safety nets have been on my mind. Class privilege looks like a million different things, but one of the aspects that has stood out most in my life is how much easier it is to move through the world knowing that I have a safety net ready to catch me. It’s at the other end of the telephone line, home:  the same phone number it’s always been, always in service, with family picking up when I call, asking what I need.

         There are different kinds of safety nets, and for me “home” offers more than one kind. It’s the incalculable kind of unconditional love, knowing that I’m not ever really going to be totally on my own because there are people who have always loved me. My home has always been free from abuse: when we hurt each other it’s always been the accidental injuries of not knowing how to love each other right. I don’t pretend that this is true of all homes, and I don’t take it for granted about mine. And then there’s the material part, the part about class, which is very real: home as a roof, home as a place where I can go and be fed, home as a car I can borrow. Home as people I can call if I need money, home as there’s-only-so-bad-it-can-get. Stability, safety, shelter.

         I read a story recently about a mother buying her child a pair of real diamond earrings, not because she cared about diamonds but because she wanted her kid to have something he could carry with him and pawn for enough money to buy a one-way ticket home, wherever he was, because then he’d always be okay. I feel like that kid sometimes.

         I have those material safety nets because my parents—my mom especially—do labor that is valued more than the labor that almost anyone else in the world does. They work really hard. Everyone works really hard. They offer me a safety net of home—of unconditional love, of material support—with a really profound generosity that I learn from every day. Everyone should be able to help build those kinds of safety nets for the people they love. I watch the hours my mom puts into her job, a job she likes sometimes, a job that asks too much of her—as most people’s jobs do—because she’s trying to make the safety nets foolproof. Or, maybe put another way, so that we don’t ever have to ask for help.

          But what Homefulness and POOR have asked me to understand is that real safety nets, the safety nets that are going to help us all survive, are different from the bank-account last-resorts that I have access to because of class privilege, because of the lopsided economic pyramid that’s harming all of us, killing us. Those kinds of safety nets can’t really save us, not from the spiritual bleakness and isolation that capitalism wedges between us. The real safety net is interdependence. Homefulness is a radical vision of a different kind of safety net: one piece of land in Oakland where a crew of poverty scholars, artists, revolutionaries, mamas, and kids will be able to catch each other, fingers locked together building something strong that’s a little less vulnerable to rent hikes, foreclosure, eviction, displacement. The land that POOR will take back is the raw material for a safety net of interdependence.

         My class privilege, and white privilege too, means my struggle to understand interdependence is going to be a particularly long and deep one. Class privilege does an incredible job of hiding all the labor that other people do so that rich people feel like we’re independent, like we’re doing it on our own. I have a hard time asking for help. I come from a family where people often walk out of the room before they start to cry. Often we don’t know how to ask for things that can’t be calculated, or paid for, or that leave us spiritually or emotionally indebted to each other. What I’m trying to learn every day is that those debts we owe each other are the fabric of real safety nets, those messy cords that enmesh us together too tight to pull away. Those are the kinds of safety nets I’ve learned about through Homefulness.

         I’m living at home right now, my toes curled tight around the fibers of the safety nets I grew up in, that have never left me. I’m deep in the struggle of building healthy relationships with my family, feeling the strain in my muscles as we try to figure each other out, try to ask loving and respectful things of each other. It’s really hard, sometimes harder than I thought it would be. But we are doing all of this on the stable footing of a home, a home we’ve always had and often shared. Our tender spots, our vulnerabilities, our anger, our distance, our laughter is playing out on a steady landscape of home. To me the Homefulness project is about chiseling out a hard-won piece of land from the predatory world of real estate and gentrification so that a family of POOR compas can have a home like that. Home is hard for me sometimes, it’s full of history and patterns and moments where I see the worst parts of myself rising to the surface too quickly. Homes are complicated, sometimes violent, sometimes brilliant. But at their best they can mean some stable footing where we have the time and space to figure each other out, for us to build together. I can only start to imagine how powerful a home will be for POOR, how the revolution of interdependence will keep expanding outward from a plot of un-stolen land. For me, as someone grown at the complicated collision-site of deep, deep love and isolating, ugly capitalism, it’s an indescribable honor to get to work with POOR to keep exploding and re-grounding our ideas about what home can be.

     

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  • Somebody Else's Slave: Use of the "N" Word.

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Mad Man Marlon
    Original Body

    Picture credited from the book "Capitalist Nigger" by Chika Onyeani. It is featured online www.proverbmusic.net/.../

    Note: The following story I’ve written is not aimed as a direct attack on ANY specific race, whatsoever. It is people’s (including my own) experience, reflection, and especially survival from a word/weapon. Historically, it has destroyed human beings.

    Presently, it is still used as such in displacing human beings………….. from themselves. Bringing forth community consciousness, locally and globally. “There was a discussion about how people say that word. No matter how you say that word………....its like saying that you’re someone’s slave.”

    An explanation of the use of the “N” word by my comrade and co-founder of POOR Magazine’s Family Project, Jewnbug.

    We’ve all heard this word, this slur……………at least most people here in the U.S.A, and in other countries have. A slur spat from the mouths of European colonizers onto one race of people, while savagely stolen from their land: African Descendants into African-Americans.

    A word/weapon leading to generations of enslavement, dehumanization, segregation, criminalization, incarceration, and death of communities by European KKKolonizers. Used for “mass destruction” in present day. A word so ugly, evil, and inhumane that its very usage would even one day become a partial transformation. A reclamation effort from its enslavement to the soul.

    Metaphorically, a kiss to an ugly duckling to see it blossom into a beautiful swan. Immoral infection to their mind to re-invent, reclaim and reproduce it for themselves. A cultural form greeting of brotherhood, or despise. Soap into syrup, one or the other in the mouths of many. One race to displace their humility with one word.

    Arguably and/or accurately, it is the mother of all racial slurs:

    NIGGER

    Ugly as it seen, ugly as it is heard. According to “His-story” (among others) the word “Nigger” began as a term used in a neutral context to refer to black people, as a variation of the Spanish/Portuguese noun, negro; a descendant of the Latin adjective “Niger” meaning the color "black."

    Many conflicting stories stem from “His-story” about the origination of this word, and its original target, but who can doubt its destination? “

    When I was growing up, I didn’t know too much about that word, until I went to an all white school in Upstate, New York.” Raaddrr Van, Race, Media, and Poverty Scholar said to me regarding his experience. Van recalls the moment he boarded the “cheese (yellow) bus” the other kids began to chant “KKK, KKK, KKK!” at him. (acronym for the notorious white supremacist terrorist group) “Today, as a black man in America, that word does hurt me, and my black people.” Van says. “But at the end of the day, I’m still black.”

    I can only imagine the inner torment, and terror someone like Malcolm X endured from the sound of this word, in his childhood. In school, he was taught the reality of discouragement from his eight grade (white) teacher. Malcolm’s dream from ever becoming a lawyer were shattered from his teacher’s words, "No realistic goal for a nigger.” Hearing this hurt Malcolm’s humility enough to engage into a life of crime, until he was incarcerated.

    From incarceration, to education however, Malcolm X later became one of the most influential speakers and leaders the world would ever see.

    A word to the black man Do not point your nose too high Do not swell your chest too much Do not boast too loudly Do not be puffed up Let not your ambition be inordinate Or take a wrong direction Remember you have done nothing at all You are just the same member of society you were last week……….. Partial excerpt from an editorial from The Los Angeles Times titled “A Word to the Black Man” published on July 5th, 1910 following the July 4th historical victory of Jack Johnson over James Jeffries, in Reno, Nevada.

    The headline was the “Fight of the Century.” Johnson’s victory over Jeffries enraged whites who rioted against blacks via his victory. “Nigg-er” became a widespread into a pandemic of psychological impairment. The result went into a reclaim. Re-formed and re-introduced as “Nigg-a.”

    It became a self-proclamation, of self-expressiveness among many young black men and women, actors in certain films; such as 1970s “Blax-ploitation Era” rap artists in music, comedians in their standup performances, etc, etc. Nearly everywhere, it hits my ears fluently, in friendly or furious fashion.

    A cultural collective attempt to empowerment: “Yo my nigga! How you doing?” “Hey, you punkass nigga!” “We should no longer accept this negative, anti-BLACK image of ourselves that was forced on us by the former slavemaster!” Sister Yeye Akilimali Funua Olade, April, 2007 My lifelong best friend from Cleveland, Ohio, Ryan Jones said to me, in a brief recent interview regarding his feelings and experience with it.

    Jones briefly explained its purpose to me. “That word has been misused for the past 100 years. It was used to invoke racial hatred towards an ethnic group of people to intimidate, and make them feel inferior. Personally, I do not like the word, for I was called that word numerous times growing up, and it holds a personal disgust within me.” Growing up with Ryan Jones and his brother, Bryan Jones (both identical twins) I can not only concur his feelings of the word and experience, but from my own.

    The three of us were subjected to it, and attacked because of it. As a child born and raised in Cleveland, myself and my family were often savagely subjected to “Nigger” many times. Our white neighbors were quite friendly towards us for awhile, until slight disagreements led to cursing and hissing. The cursing became a chorus of inner terror and fear for me.

    Like a bomb detonation, it damaged my dignity. (repeatedly and daily even) “Nigger!” “Nigger!” “Nigger!” The Use of “Nigger” spans much deeper. Verbally, every single African Descent person here in United States of AmeriKKKa, (and abroad) can see and hear all categories of one ugly word within a sentence from a set of lips. The awful energy, hatred, anger, fury, and the deepest downcast. Like a barrage of bullets and/or daggers striking into one’s mind, heart, and soul.

    Physical, like a po-lice officer’s “Use of Force.” Southern trees bear strange fruit Blood on the leaves and blood at the root Black body swinging in the Southern breeze Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees Pastoral scene of the gallant South, The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh, Then the sudden smell of burning flesh! Here is fruit for the crows to pluck, For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop, Here is a strange and bitter crop. Poem by Abel Meeropol, performed by Billie Holiday.

    A pregnant woman is hung upside down by her ankles. Her unborn baby slashed from her belly by a white hate-filled mob. They set her on fire. As her life is taken before her eyes, she lives long enough to see them crush the life she produced. Burning upside down, she cries out for her child as a hail of bullets tear through her burning body. Mary Turner, May of 1918 in Valdosta, Georgia.

    A fourteen years old boy’s eyes are gouged out, shot in his head, his body weighed down with a 70 lb cotton gin fan, then barb wire tied is around his neck. Emmet Till, August 28th, 1955. Abducted at night, taken to an undisclosed location, castrated, then dumped on a roadside left to bleed to death. Edward Aaron, September 2nd, 1957.

    Chained to a pickup truck in the darkest of night, then dragged along the road until his body was severed apart as he begged for his life. James Byrd Jr, June 7th, 1998.

    Shot in the back, spread eagled on the ground, even in compliance to a po-lice officer’s orders. His dying words of shock as he looks up at his killer: “You shot me?!! Oscar Grant, January 1st, 2009. Spread eagled, imprisoned on my bed, looking at the barrel of a gun, and a dozen other guns from po-lice officers. Innocence and detailed description of their “suspect” irrelevant to a crime I did not commit.

    Skin was all they saw.

    October 7th, 2005, a day that my life saw death through their eyes. Being a “Nigger” in their eyes, ready to open fire with it on their mind. “Who’s skin care you? Who’s voice care you?” (In reference to my poem) http://www.poormagazine.org/node/2728 I feel that for every reclaim of “Nigg-a” is a reminder of pain behind “Nigg-er.” Tran substantive error in terms of “Black on Black” violence in poor communities perpetrated by corporate mainstream media, and its proponents. Blind consciousness of capitalism in journalism, “If it bleeds it leads.” “

    They (young men of color) are murdered twice, by the cops and……....... by the media!” Explosive words from D’andre, who was lead speaker to everyone in attendance and support (including POOR) of October 22nd National Day of Protest to Stop Police Brutality, Repression, and Criminalization of a Generation. Another tran substantive error is a very sensitive subject and heated debate.

    The false empowerment and notion of “skin privilege” imposed upon the minds of African Descendants (and other non-white ethnicities) that the lighter their skin, the better their chances to survival and success. “Passing for White” was the term used in the old days.

    My mentor, POOR co-founder “Tiny” Lisa Gray-Garcia soundly resents, and resists this psychological pandemic of Eurocentric form of “self.” “Additionally, I as a mixed race daughter of a "half-breed" mixed race, unwanted orphan of color, my mama. My phrase is I'm Black, I’m just melanin challenged.” I am the success story of the pure race scientists, and the tears of my KKKolinized ancestors.”

    Tiny poetically-presents, in detailed description of the horrors that her mom, “Mama” Dee Gray faced in foster homes as a little girl: “Welfare Queens.” A revolutionary play produced and co-directed by the “Super Baby Mamas” of POOR Magazine/PNN Hey little girl, are you the new orphan? Are you the new orphan?! Hey little girl?! Cat’s got your tongue?! Can’t you talk?! I think she’s deaf ! She sure is funny lookin like a little nigger! Nigger lips! Nigger lips! Can’t you talk? Can you fight?! Cmon, stand up! Poor little deaf and dumb orphan girl! Can’t talk, can’t move! “

    Mama”Dee-Gray would later be tossed in a trash can by her tormenters. Trapped in darkness, paralyzed with too much fear to move a muscle, else someone might hear her.

    “Tiny” Lisa Gray-Garcia’s consciousness of her own culture, and deterrent from another. “I live within this white skin as a Mestizo person in conflict, and therefore I don’t believe it is respectful to appropriate a word (Nigger) used to harm so many of my ancestors……….anymore than I would use the word Spic, or Mojado (two slurs) used for my raze gente.” Tiny’s meaning of reclaim: “

    What I do claim is my indigenity, my blood line to colonized peoples across Pacha Mama - Boricua, Taino, Roma, African, and Irish; as a way to re-claim the stolen and destroyed cultures that live within my heart.” Behind every sound of “Nigger” into Nigg-a (or vice versa) is the sound of slavery, torture, rape, oppression, displacement incarceration, and death.

    Past, Present, and God forbid, the Future. In another reality realm, every single race has a slur placed upon them, literally from A-Z. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ethnic_slurs For me as a young African Descent man with multiple ethnicities in my bloodline; my own skin should be irrelevant to society once and for all!

    My family of POOR's ultimate goal for all of us poor communities, locally and globally: Moving off these grids of separations and control of our land from “The Man” and his linguistic domination. “Nigger” being one of them. Taking back our land, with our own lens, our own lives, with every single story of struggle at a time.

    In the end, the real reclaim is ourselves starting with the “I” voice ending with “we” as a community. Not a displacement from our communities, and ourselves from "Nigg-er" or "Nigg-a." "

    The black man is a kind of man that never holds his fists down so that is why I like the Black Man kind." Poem by 7 year old Tiburcio Garcia, son of tiny and Revolutionary Youth Scholar titled "Black Man Knows True."

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  • I am NOT a modern day slave!

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Lola Bean
    Original Body

     

    As I write this story I can now begin to sit back and recall the days when I drifted in and out of homelessness.  I found it to be very strange that one can become homeless, and even though I had been able to find gainful employment, I still found myself living in shelters. 

    I had some difficulty finding employment, I was thinking why was it so hard for me to get a job?  I am a Veteran of the U.S Armed Services, so what is the problem? The crazy thing about it all was that people of color seemed to be the poorest of all. I would often wonder, Why?

    I remember reading a report by the U.S Census they had stated the African Americans are the poorest in America.  I had to dig deeper and do research to find out why African Americans are poorer than most other groups of people.  The oppression of slavery had the deepest impact on the African American community.  Even today in 2010 many African Americans still live on or below the poverty line.

    Growing up I lived in communities that had two parent households, but during the 1970s there was an attack on African American families.  The men in our community were forced out of work and school and into prisons. African American men suffer one of the highest school dropout rates in the country.  According to the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, 16% percent of African American men are unemployed.  And according to the US Census Bureau, 47% percent of African American men are incarcerated or on parole or probation.  Ebony Magazine, an African American national magazine, suggests this number is much higher.  African American women were forced into the welfare system, often having to play the roles of both mother and father.

    I remember when I was a child people on the streets,  in shelters, standing in bread lines, sleeping in cars, in vans, in abandoned houses, as I got older, graduating from high school, then enlisting in the Navy and afterward.   I went through several months of hard luck, I was amongst America's down and out.
     

    As I go through many African American neighborhoods today, not very much has changed.   I sit back and ponder on this a lot, and I keep asking myself, are we as African American men living in a new more modern day of slavery?

    As I look at myself, now formerly homeless, I can recall the days when I was on the streets, having to been harassed by police, telling me to move on here and there.  I am now an advocate for homeless people. I fight for the civil rights of people in poverty.

    I have been where the homeless have been. I am now with a street newspaper called Real Change, an advocacy Newspaper that educates the general public on homeless issues.  I also work with the National Coalition for the Homeless based in Washington DC, where I am connected with a street newspaper called Street Sense.  Now I am also a journalist for POOR Magazine and the International Network of Street Newspapers. 

    But homelessness is an ongoing problem in America.  No matter who you are, you can become a victim of poverty.  Job losses, health problems, home foreclosures, abusive households, floods, earthquakes, and many other problems can create homelessness.  I focus on these issues and many, and I ask myself will this happen to me again?

    Check out these articles and more on our sister sites at Real Change and the International Network of Street Newspapers: INSP Vendor Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/ INSP Main Website: http://www.street-papers.org/ Real Change Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/realchange/ Real Change Main Website: http://www.realchangenews.org/

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  • spiritual reflection in a poem

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Lola Bean
    Original Body

    A Tesseract's Wings
    Seeing built out of long river bends
    A hypercube bursting out of being
    Embracing charred reflections
    Burned from red and blue impressions
    A child accidentally realizing a butterflies' mortality
    Adult's hands of stretched and torn repeated mirroring
    ...an assembly of mysterious yellow rejections
    Built from faulty traditions...beheading rotten
    statues of times without honor

    Canceling credit for seven generations
    Smashing crystal balls into feathered headbands
    Rowing a rocket into a random and senseless universe,
    God doesn't make the world this way--
    We do. Can we all have spent time as whores
    in weird and golden lives?
    Did we look into microscopes of our old photographs
    of stardust after their anticlimactic reports?
    Finding a muse with prism x-ray visions
    Perceiving time's loving abstractions;
    Don't let her slip away,
    My sweet I promise you emeralds in May,
    Keep the love seat a warming testimonial,
    a caress of your neck in honest prayer--
    I'll be there in 5...

    ...trodden and bleeding blindness
    stigmata to stamp a dreamer to death
    unless he becomes a butterfly fast
    without rest.
    There is only a danger in false reflections,
    Pools governed by Pilate's secret police~
    Pretending without listening, their cruelest punchline...
    Does it feel lonely?
    We can only defy lethargic laws of entropy,
    Jumping off a cliff to save our lives;
    Society's velvet fool with a most benevolent smile
    Garnering hopeful release
    ...dancing to "Indian Summer Sky"

    Check out these articles and more on our sister sites at Real Change and the International Network of Street Newspapers: INSP Vendor Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/ INSP Main Website: http://www.street-papers.org/ Real Change Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/realchange/ Real Change Main Website: http://www.realchangenews.org/ 

    Tags
  • Ronnie Ronnie of Uganda, Africa This is For U

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Leroy
    Original Body

    Krip-Hop Nation, DADA Festival and The British Council in Uganda have really pulled out everything to get Ronnie Ronnie of Uganda here at DADA Fest  but time was not on our side.  Ronnie Ronnie was faced with bureaucracy in the beginning but DADA Festival and The Director at the British Council in Uganda tried to cut through this red tape but time was not on our side.    Ronnie Ronnie is a key member of Krip-Hop Nation and MWD and wrote/sang the theme song for DADA Fest this year.  We will miss him so I wrote this song that MWD will perform here at DADA Festival plus we will play Ronnie Ronnie’s songs and speeches.  I wrote the song below not only for Ronnie Ronnie but also for all people who are poor and disabled who face institutional roadblocks when it comes to travel.  We, Krip-Hop Nation recognized individuals in institutions who are trying to cut down these roadblocks…

     

    Krip-Hop Passport    

     

    Chorus

    Hey embassy in Uganda

    Who need ya?

    Trying to take down our brotha

     

    Wait its not all Black & White

    People stepped up and fight

    DADA & British Council Director in Uganda

    Stripped off the red tap wrapped so tight

     

    Krip-Hop Passport

    Welcome to our world

    No more asking for stamp of approval

    Now we rule

     

    Verse 1

    Freeing our people

    Its simple

    We will travel with Krip-Hop passport

     

    Accessible airports

    Roomy airplanes

    No pat downs

     

    Chorus

    Hey embassy in Uganda

    Who need ya?

    Trying to take down our brotha

     

    Wait its not all Black & White

    People stepped up and fight

    DADA & British Council Director in Uganda

    Stripped off the red tap wrapped so tight

     

    Krip-Hop Passport

    Welcome to our world

    No more asking for stamp of approval

    Now we rule

     

    Verse 2

    We will travel

    In packs going here and there

    On water & in the air

     

    Krip-Hop music you will hear

    On airwaves & in accessible concert halls

    Calling one calling all

     

    Bridge

    Ronnie Ronnie

    Will be free to spread his wings

    From Africa to America

     

    Sing his songs

    All daylong

    Come one come all

     

    Big time musicians

    Keep your charity

    Can’t u see clearly?

     

    Don’t need your pity

    Share your power & money

    Free our people from red tape bureaucracy

     

    Chorus  

     

    Hey embassy in Uganda

    Who need ya?

    Trying to take down our brotha

    Wait its not all Black & White

    People stepped up and fight

    DADA & British Council Director in Uganda

    Stripped off the red tap wrapped so tight

     

    Welcome to Krip-Hop world

    No more asking for stamp of approval

    Now we rule

     

    Verse 3

    Krip-Hop passport

    Delivering justice

    Not only for us

     

    Thank you British Council & DADA

    For trying to get

    Mcees With Disabilities togetha

     

    Cause Nothing About Us Without Us

    How funny

    Travel is no problem in wealthy countries

     

    Not funny

    African disabled man

    Was denied has things changed in our time

     

    Chorus

    Hey embassy in Uganda

    Who need ya?

    Trying to take down our brotha

     

    Wait its not all Black & White

    People stepped up and fight

    DADA & British Council Director in Uganda

    Stripped off the red tap wrapped so tight

     

     

    Krip-Hop Passport

    Welcome to our world

    No more asking for stamp of approval

    Now we rule

     

    Outro

    Krip-Hop music

    Dancing through boarders

    To unite our disabled brothers & sisters

     

    Ronnie Ronnie we will defend

    This will never happen again

    Thank you to all who stood up

    Krip-Hop Nation will unite and fight to the end

     

    Written By Leroy Moore

    Sung & Spoken by Lady MJ, Binki Woi & Leroy Moore

    For Ronnie Ronnie in Uganda, Africa

    Tags
  • A place built on autonomy, where privileged people and colonized people dis- program ourselves to built a better society and a sustanible community.

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    cayley
    Original Body

     

    English follows...

    Yo, Muteado Silencio, me considero un indigena de lo que es ahora Michoacan
    Mexico, pero en un momento la tribu purepecha rondaba esas tierras. En estos momentos soy un inmigrante que fue desplazado con su familia del estado de Michoacan por el capitalismo, como NAFTA, CAFTA, por la falta de trabajo en Michoacan y porque mi madre sufria de violencia domestica.

    Mi espiritu revolucionario no se lo debo a un libro o una institucion que me
    enseño a pensar, si no al coyote que conocien el monte y a la gente que carga con su
    propio morral, y a la hora de la hora soy conciente que la gente que va a luchar es la gente que no tiene nada que perder y no le teme a la muerte...

    Por estas razones tuvimos que cruzar la frontera a Los Estados Unidos para huir de nuestras opresiones.

    Cuando llegamos era muy dificil para mi en la escuela donde iba en mi clase casinadien hablaba en ingles y los que hablaban español no me querian hablar por verguenza que los otros niños tambien les hicieran burla. Al final de poco a poquito aprendi.

    Cuando entre a la middle school fue dificil por que yo vivia en un barrio donde habia muchas pandillas, siempre estaba pasando algo. Una vez en esa escuela hubo una pelea entre Latinos y Afroamericanos yo no participe, porque tenia amigos en las dos pandillas. En otra occasion veniamos de salir de la escuela un grupo de amigos y en enfrente venia otro grupo de gente que sabiamos que heran padilleros, en eso dos carros separon cerca del grupo que ba enfrente y los empiezan a golpear yo alcanze aver como una de las personas le quebra una botella en la cabeza a unos de los del grupo de enfrente. La cosas se estaban poniendo peligrosas.

    En otra occasion veniamos de una conferecia de diferentes escuelas publicas
    sobre no ser parte de pandillas, cuando veniamos de regreso a nuestra casa yo
    mi hermana y mi sobrino veniamos platicando, cuando de repente ami me dieron
    un golpe la cara y me tunbaron, mi sobrino empezo a peliar con ellos, pero los
    padilleros corrieron al otro lado de la carretera, donde habia otro grupo de cholos en una van Dodge cuando veimos esto empezamos a corer pidiendo ayuda. Corrimos por la calle y nos metimos a casa que estaban vacias, el miedo de saber que no venian persiguiendo un grupo de cholos, en eso en una esquina como un angel de la guardia una señora se paro para ofrecernos ayuda, nos subimos al carro de la señora venia con sus hijos y nos dio un ride ala casa.

    Asi llegue a Skyline una escuela en las montañas de Oakland, la escuela estaba
    bonita, de vez en cuando habia peleas, y ami sorpresa tambien habia pandillas,
    aunque eso fue lo de menos.

    “Los Indigenas heran unos salvajes y los Europeos les trajimos Civilizacion”

    Mi maestra de Historia decia, de su boca salia, me acuerdo las descusiones, cuando
    levantaba mi mano para dar una opinion sobre como los Indigenas de las Americas
    tenian civilizaciones antes que los colonizadores llegaran, y miraba su cara de odio
    contra mi, muchas veces me saco de la clase por opinar estas cosas o me mandaba
    ala oficina.

    Esto paso mas de una vez, en la clase de historia nunca agarre mas arriba que
    una D-, y celebraba porque no hera una F, esto queria decir que podria jugar en
    el equipo de futbol, que hera lo unico que me importaba de la escuela oh y las
    muchachas.

    As me sacaron de la escuela, y porque cumpli 18 años en grado 12th y me dijieron
    que tenia que terminar mis creditos en una escuela de adultos. Estaba cansado de
    las escuelas y de que todo el mundo me dijiera que hacer asi que no regrese ala
    escuela por el truma durante mis años escolares.

    Vengo de una familia, una comunidad, pueblo y identidad todos quebradas.  Cuando pienso en Homefulness pienso en familia, comunidad, un pueblo fuerte.  Un lugar en donde sabemos quienes somos y adonde vamos, una cosa que yo tambien me pregunto.

    Comparo Homefulness a Chiapas, Bolivia, Poor Magazine, Gente Indigena,
    gente de color, multi-generacion, multi- origen etnico, autonomia, sin jerarquia accountable rendicion de cuentas uno mismo, horizontales, un lugar en donde puedes ser tu mismo, un lugar comunal en donde todos trabajen y comparten con igualidad dependiendo en la
    capacidad.

    Ingles sigue...

    I Muteado Silencio consider myself and indigenous person to what is now Michoacan, Mexico.  At one point the Michoacan peoples haunted these lands.  In these moments I am an immigrant that was displaced with his family from Michoacan because of Capitalism, like NAFTA and CAFTA, and because of lack of jobs in Michoacan and lastly because my mother was suffering due to domestic violence.

    My revolutionary spirit I do not owe to a book or an institution that taught me to think, rather a coyote that I met on the mountain and the people that walked carrying their own bags, and in the hour of the hour I and concious that the people that are going to fight are the ones that don't have anything to lose and that don't fear death.

    For these reasons we had to cross the border to the United States, to run from our oppressions.

    When we arrive I had a very difficult time in school because english was mainly spoken in class and the kids that spoke spanish didn't want to talk to me because they were embarrassed that other kids would make fun of them too.  In the end little by little I learned.

    When I entered middle school it was also difficult for me because I lived in a neighborhood where there were a lot of gangs, I was always passing something.  One time in that school there was fight between the Latinos and the African Americans, I didn't participate because I had friends in both of the gangs.
    Another time a group of us friends were getting out of school and right in front came walking another groups of kids that we knew to be gangsters.  Two cars pulled up in front of the group of kids and they started to beat them up.  I watched as a bottle was broken over someone's head.  Things were getting worse.

    On an another occasion, we went to a conference with other public schools as a group that were not in gangs.  When we got home I was talking with my sister and cousin when some gangsters came up and hit me in the face and they knocked me down. My cousin started fighting back but they ran across the street where another group of cholos where waiting in a van. When we saw this we ran to call for help.  We ran through the streets and into a home that was vacant.  Once we were sure that they weren't following us we crept out and on the corner we were met with an guardian angel, a woman that stopped to offer us help. We got in her car with her kids and she gave us a ride home.

    I then went to Skyline, a school in the Oakland hills.  The school was beautiful, and once in a while there were fights and to my surprise there were gangs but these were very minimal.

    "The Indigenous were savages and the Europeans brought them civilization"

    My history teacher said this, these words came out of her mouth. I remember the conversations when I raised my hand to give my opinion about the Indigenous peoples of the Americas.  I talked about how they had civilizations before the colonizers came.  I looked at my teacher face and the hate that she had for me, a lot of times I was sent to the office for voice my opinion about these topics.

    This happened more than once and in History class I never got more than a D- and I celebrated because it wasn't an F, this meant that I could still be on the soccer team, the only thing that was important to me at school, oh and the girls.

    That is how I was taken out of school and that I was 18 and in the 12th grade and they told me that I had to finish my credits at a adult school.  I was tired of school where the whole world was telling me what to do. One reason I never went back was because of all the trauma that I experienced.

    I come from a broken family, community, village, and identity.  When I think about
    homefullness I think about Family, Community, a strong Village, and knowing who
    we are and where we going, which I ask my self sometimes.

    Homefullness I compare to Chiapas, Bolivia, Poor Magazine, Gente Indigena,
    people of color, Multi-generational, Multi- ethnicity, Autonomy, Non- hierarchy,
    self accountablility, Horizontal, a place where you can be yourself without fronting,
    a communal place where we all work and share equally, depending on your
    ability...fairness.

    A place built on autonomy, where privileged people and colonized people dis-
    program ourselves to built a better society and a sustanible community.

    Tags
  • Living Up To Promises (Poem)

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Leroy
    Original Body

    Living Up To Promises

    I am Blind Willie Johnson
    Standing outside City Hall singing
    "If I had my way
    If I had-a, a wicked world
    If I had-a, ah Lord, tear this building down..."

    I am Varetta Dillard, Water Jackson & Robert Winters
    Leaning on crutches on stage singing
    “Take me as I am….”

    I am Peg Lag Howell
    Creating dances for the Black community
    Doing Georgia Crawl, Peg Leg Stomp, Beaver Slide Rag

    I am Brigardo Groves
    Striking the keys
    Grooving the youth while teaching

    I am Malcolm Samuel
    Sticking up a middle finger to the po po
    And delivering Paper Bullets through poetry

    I am Blind Mamie Forehand
    Bringing the holy ghost in a man’s world
    Opening eyes to "Honey In The Rock..."

    I am Chick Webb
    "Spinnin'" The Web with two sticks
    Boom boom pop pop bang bang killing that drum

    I am Al Hibbler mix with Curtis Mayfield
    Writing messages for the community in lyrical form
    "Night And Day" in "New World Order"

    I am history
    Coming back to carry out what should have been taught
    Once upon a time there was a story

    Listen to the invisible
    Who was visible before pen & paper
    I am the page you’re turning

    Finally learning
    What has been erase
    Pace yourself

    I am Ray Charles
    Moaning "Hey Mister you better listen..."
    None of us are free. None of us are free. None of us are free,
    one of us are chained. None of us are free.

    I am America
    Bleeding and healing
    Land of promises need to live up to them

    By Leroy Moore
    12/4/10

    Tags
  • The Wall Heater

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    PNNscholar1
    Original Body

    The Wall Heater

    (For my father on Thanksgiving)

    By Revolutionary Worker Scholar

     

    i was in my bed

    which was basically

    a mattress that sat flat

    on a hardwood floor

     

     

    it was near a heater

    that was mounted in

    the wall covered in a layer

    of dust

     

    on the other side

    of it was my father's

    bed where he slept with

    his wife

     

    sometimes i could hear

    them through the heater

    in the middle of the night

     

    one night as i was

    dozing in the space between

    sleep and the other part of

    who i was i heard my

    father cry out

     

    I'm nothing!

     

    then there was

    mumbling followed

    by silence

     

    i fell asleep with

    my belly empty yet filled

    with my father's words

     

    I'm nothing

     

    I awoke and looked at

    my 15 year old face in the

    mirror and left for school

     

    and i looked again

    and i was 20, 25, 30,

    35, 40...

     

    and some nights

    i woke in the middle

    of the night and

    cried

     

    ...

     

    Dad, i never

    forgot you or that

    wall heater

     

    you both kept

    me warm

     

     

    (C) 2010 Revolutionary Worker Scholar

    Tags
  • You Need To Move

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    cayley
    Original Body

    “I really can’t have you guys sitting here, you need to move,” said the
    security guard with tired eyes. My son and I, after ordering a slice of pizza from a
    window, walked along the front to the pizza shop and sat under the front windows
    with our backs on the wall. Three bites into our slice, myself sitting and by this
    time my son running circles on the sidewalk in front of me, we were approached
    by the security guard …“ Wait what?” I thought, “ Where are we supposed to
    eat?” This was in Santa Cruz, CA April 2010. Santa Cruz’s sit-lie ordinance was
    enacted in 1994.
           San Francisco has followed the trend set by cities like Santa Cruz and
    Seattle in proposing a specific sit-lie ordinance making it illegal to sit or lay on
    public sidewalk or on anything put on the sidewalk between the hours of 7am and
    11pm. But this sit-lie ordinance is not the first of it’s kind in the city of San
    Francisco, it is only the most recent attack on the city’s poor, homeless, youth,
    day laborers, black and brown peoples, and people participating in underground
    economic strategies. If passed in November the law would give police another
    tool to criminalize these already highly criminalized people if caught sitting or
    lying on public sidewalks.
           While sitting at a friends dinner table I told him about who I had seen
    that day while biking around the city, “ There were elderly men resting, children
    playing, people eating, mothers chatting, and groups of men talking, all while
    sitting on the sidewalk,” and his response was “ They aren’t going to be
    affected by this law, it is the people that businesses think are bad for business
    that are going to be targeted.” In other words this is an attempt at a law that
    would act as a sweeping law that would work to criminalize many of capitalism's “undesirables”.
           In a thriving western capitalist city, such as San Francisco, we are led to
    believe that only certain people should be seen in public. In this city it is not okay
    for people to be houseless, poverty is something to be hidden away out of the
    public view because its threatens the image of a “clean “ city.
    I don’t think that it was an accident that it took four years of living near the
    city of Santa Cruz for me to be told to “ move along” while sitting on the sidewalk.
    My white skin, clean clothes, and my association as a college student in a college
    town has allowed me to mask my herstory of poverty and houselessness and, in
    many authorities eyes, allowed me to be privileged enough to sit on the sidewalk
    when I pleased. This is one of the layers that lies within the proposed law, in most
    cases there are only some who will be harassed in the name of the sit lie
    ordinance. Perceived race and economic status will determine to what extent
    authorities will punish you for sitting or lying in public space.
           Many have already pointed out the law will most likely have to be used
    selectively with people who are either homeless, youth, day laborers, poor, a
    person of color and or those surviving on the underground economy being the
    most hard hit. We are continuing in a pattern to criminalize public space and
    sending a clear message that these people are not welcome or wanted in public
    space.
           After this ordinance was voted down by the board of supervisors, Mayor
    Gavin Newsom used his executive privileges to put it on this November's ballot
    and I can’t help but wonder were is it that Gavin Newsom wants us to be? Where
    is it okay to be?

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  • Me, Too?

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Lola Bean
    Original Body

     

     

     

     

    I found an earring on the dashboard of the cab.  It inclined my ears toward listening for metaphysical ghosts, chanting dirges from a past fraught with failure.  Whoever abandoned this truck was probably a big burly guy who paid no nevermind to tell tale aromas, but whose heart was broken somehow by a woman who should've been wearing the earring that I found.
    It was resting innocently enough on the turn signal switch, seemingly never to be worn by this illustrious woman of mystery.  It broke apart in my hand when I fiddled with it. Whoops. Ow.

    Echoes of the remnants off this man's misplaced or displaced love reverberated with a melancholy melody that was as palpable as the mustiness in the air. Rolling the windows down partways helped some, but endangered my personal safety at the same time. No rotting food, no far gone amount of trash but the lingering, somewhat haunting aura that encompassed the cab was
    tactile to me.  

    But what could I do?

    Just feel bad, and try to make myself as comfortable and safe as remotely possible.  Try to sleep until it was light out again.  At which time it was a "good morning world," a wave to all my friends in heaven and a quick prayer to ask God to bless another day and my being in it.  Thanks.   Then, you can probably guess what comes next.  That's right.  Potty time.  Ease out of  the truck and squat where (hopefully) no one can see me.  Grab some paper on the way out. Couldn't lock myself  out--the locks are all old school, nothing but manual. I must say, that after drinking whatever it was that I drank the night before, getting to this point quickly and with finesse, was essential to getting the day off to a good start.    

    Then, to face the world I just prayed for..  Amen.  Count my money, here we go.
    So, into a rather nondescript  morning, I counted my moolah and it came to 12 bucks.  Pretty good, for a daily average for me at that time.  February, 2006 I think. The good people at Real Change will remember...the incident I am about to convey to you, dear reader, ended up being the cover story for one of the issues.  

    Anyway, I climbed out of the cab, did my daily business wearing a fair dose of
    chagrin on my face (!) and then, trotted down to the nearby bus stop to head into lower Queen Anne...where I would proceed to make my first beer run of the day.  I purchased two 211's, the cheapo classic from the Mercer Mini-Mart. and went back to the bus stop I had just disembarked from.  Everything was fine at that point.  It was about 7:15 in the morning.  I remember looking at my watch in the daylight and was surprised at being up so early.  But that was okay.

    Wait until I tell you what happened next. I figured that I would be okay drinking
    my "wake-up" at the stop, as long as I was discreet about it.  So, I went ahead and took out my sony walkman and my headphones and began listening to a Jackson Browne tape--the one with the song--"Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate" on it. It's the last song on one side. I was jammin' along, but not being a nuisance to anybody.  I remember talking to a few people headed off to the university or off to work.  All was cool, or so I thought.    

    There was only one other person off to the side...a woman a little older than myself, and looking rather
    bored with the world--like she watched a little too much television--and, as far as I could tell, she could care less about me. I went ahead and sang my heart out on that last song. It's such a powerful song--there's really no other way to sing it.  I can still recall the lingering silence that followed in the aftermath...it was as if the trees, the birds-- even the lawns and shrubs seemed to be applauding....You either know what I mean or you don't!  Well, it was after that sweet moment, I turned and faced the bench to put my equipment away.  Show's over, folks. 

    My beer was about empty, so my plan was to throw the can away in the nearby garbage can, and saunter on down to Larry's for coffee and a little tidying up.  It was then that I learned that Officer Choi had other plans for me.  I noticed the cop car pull up out of the corner of my eye I didn't really give it much thought.  AT FIRST. I remember thinking it might be some DV ruckus or rigamarole--nothing to do with me.  WRONG! Officer Choi attacked me from behind with no warning,no "Stop! Police!"  Nothing like that. He threw his hands on my back, and grabbed ahold of my jacket. Then, he cast me to the ground, held me down with my face over the curb, into the ditch.  And all he said, over and over again was "Where's your I.D.?"   And I'm thinkin' "What the ----?" He was holding my arms in back of me--how was I to get to my I.D.?  Then, he pulled me up and threw me over the hood ofhis car. At one point, the officer actually had me by the hair, face down in the gutter.

     It was at least dry.

    I'm sure I was screaming by then, if I could, but no one driving by stopped. One man took a cell phone video, but what, if anything, did he do with it?  I put flyers out in the area about two weeks later, but no one came forward.  Not even Corona Jim.        

    Well, there's more to this story, but my eyes are too tired to continue.  With this
    food for thought...John T. had headphones on.  He was shot in the side. The officer in both incidents was working alone.  

    There was really no reason for provocation, no need for vicious violence...I lived and still do, and am able to tell you this story.  And know this, dear reader, that every word written here is entirely true, to the best of my recollection.  The paramedics rescued me out of booking.  I came away with a bruised and fractured hip.  And to reflect on my fortune--both bad and good, it makes me wonder if I was profiled and how fortunate I was to get away with my life.  Ciao for now.

    Check out these articles and more on our sister sites at Real Change and the International Network of Street Newspapers: INSP Vendor Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/ INSP Main Website: http://www.street-papers.org/ Real Change Blog: http://www.insp-blog.org/realchange/ Real Change Main Website: http://www.realchangenews.org/ 

     

     

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  • NO PO-LICE CALLS.........EVER!

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Mad Man Marlon
    Original Body

    Picture featured online at FederalJack.com Conspiracy is No Longer Theory.

    “They (young men of color) are murdered twice, by the cops and……....... by the media!” Riveting words from D’andre, lead speaker following the march on October 22nd National Day of Protest to Stop Police Brutality, Repression, and Criminalization of a Generation.

    There is only one big difference between a holiday and a day of resistance. Holidays, families in all cultures are expected to rejoice themselves through celebration and festivities. On a day of resistance, however, people are not expected to rejoice themselves, whatsoever. The reason for no rejoice for many communities of color, poverty, indigenous, and in some cases, people of privilege is injustice.

    A wide spreading injustice incurable from its own diseased divide and conquering system. A structure, with a certain culture as its iron fist, deeply spirited like wicked wolves, and pit bulls. (Though they’re often slurred and referred to as “pig.”) A culture programmed by a political machine that generates repression, and oppression to the duress of the above said communities. Institutionalized in a robotic fascist form, we all become its victim, its casualty, or both:

    (Resisting Linguistic Domination) LA POLICIA (Spanish) UN OFFICIER DE POLICE (French) CONSTABLE (Commonwealth of Nations, other European countries) POLICE! October 22nd National Day of Protest to Stop Police Brutality, Repression, and Criminalization of a Generation.

    Or rather, "the po-lice" as we at POOR have slightly re-named it, because they crawl all over our lives everyday. "No More Stolen Lives!" People in response rally and support each other, each single year on this very day. Locally and globally, POOR Magazine/PNN re-ports on what this day means for the affected communities of this trendy terrorism through media, and sup-ports them with our presence.

    Most of my family of POOR, who've had experiences of po-lice terror trade war stories often, with one another. It feel at times as if we're gathered around a campfire telling horror stories. Except our "horror" stories are not fiction, and they each target a culture that targets us 24/7. “If you don’t like Stop and Frisk!” “Let me see you raise your fist!”

    Chants from the October 22nd March.

    A light rainfall began to descend upon me and my comrades after we arrived from San Francisco to Oakland. It would not prevent us from solidarity. We marched from 71st /International Blvd and doubled back after an approx. eight block walk. On this very corner was the tragic death of Brownie Polk by members of the Oakland Police Department.

    Hasting back and forth in carrying the POOR Magazine banner, while taking notes despite the raindrops; everyone chanted a particular question that makes one wonder if they (the Oakland Police Department) even knew the answer: “O.P.D, what do you say?” “How many kids have you killed today?”

    “Can you imagine people having your back, and not SHOOTING you in the back?” D’andre yelled out to the crowd following the march. This statement from D’andre hit my mind like a blunt force. When lives are stolen (killed) by po-lice officers, the media immediately demonizes the victims by broadcasting sins from their past. This goes without saying of Oscar Grant, killed in cold blood on January 1st, 2009, (barely two hours into the new year) by BART Police Officer Johannes Mehserle.

    Over a year later, communities still defy an injustice of an alleged “justice” following an “involuntary manslaughter” conviction on July 8th, 2010. Though this is the first time a po-lice officer has ever been convicted in the State of California; the greatest dread by many communities is will Mehserle even serve time at all? The nature of the beast never cease to prowl within the legal system.

    The next day, a rainfall increased even more into near showers as a huge turnout of communities rallied, outside Oakland City Hall at the Frank Ogawa Plaza. Community leaders, grassroots organizations, labor unions that organized this event, music artists, the family of Oscar Grant, their attorney John Burris, a live voice broadcast of political prisoner, Mumia Abu Jamal, Black Panther Party Chairman Bobby Seale, myself and POOR, among many others were here to overwhelm this entire unjust judicial system, once and for all.

    The sight of a human being (Grant) shot once in the back as he lay spread eagle on the ground, even as he was in compliance with the orders of a remorseless po-lice officer (Mehserle) had driven us to withstand any weather condition, at this point. Po-lice exemption from accountability has gotten us beyond the point of no return.

    “Unfortunately, I’m not surprised that he was murdered in cold blood.” Amy Dorris-Peter, a member of the International Socialist Organization (ISO) said to me. She further explained stating, “I think its an inherent part of capitalism to have a brutally oppressive police force.” When everyone repeated the chant “I am Oscar Grant” I hoped that no one took this lightly. Whether people were po-lice victims or not, this IS the reality.

    Believe it or not, Jesus Christ himself was a true testament to this for just speaking the truth. The sight of twelve officers of the San Francisco Police Department storming into my Single Occupancy Hotel Room, at twelve midnight forcing me to lay spread eagle on my bed at gun point for a crime I didn’t commit is a testament to that reality.

    “All were armed with a lie, ready to gun down the truth.” I recently said during a presentation regarding my po-lice brutality experience. When certain people are exempt from accountability and justice (in an unjust system) atmospheres of anger asserts an opposition. This particular act of injustice motivated by racist intent, has extended opposition even on a global level.

    “We’ve even gotten letters of support from France, Japan, and the British Parliament.” Stated Cephus Johnson, the uncle of Oscar Grant. When crimes occur, and people are in crisis, po-lice quickly comes to their mind. Where does the officer's obligation really lie?

    Is it when they are salaried from every cent spent by tax payers to “to serve and protect” while they spill the blood of the innocent, and tax the back of the working poor? Or is it while ensuring that “quality of life” doesn’t interfere with wealthy class? Everyone is entitled to safety, security, and sanctuary from harm. Its what our indigenous ancestors and elders have worked, shedded blood, and died for. Unfortunately, and as many people have even experienced, safety is too often selective. Politicians, celebrities, and authority figures are prioritized more than others.

    “Can we envision ourselves collectively, interdependently, dreaming and holding our ancestors teachings?” is the question and challenge my mentor and POOR co-founder, “Tiny” Lisa Gray Garcia presents to the world in her article, “No Police Terror.” She offers an explanation to the answer to this solution, and the only one at best. “How does this happen. It begins with us breaking through the hypocrisy of our own lives on the daily. Recognizing our own impulse to resort to po’lice calls in situations of struggle cause it’s easier and faster to solve a “difficult problem” But of course it’s much deeper than that.” http://poormagazine.org/node/3165

    Thus, POOR Magazine/PNN practices absolutely NO PO-LICE CALLS EVER!! Instead, we collectively address accountability in a community circle, called “Family Council” oversighted by our indigenous ancestors. During the Slave Era, when a black slave escaped, white slave catchers carried their lanterns, and sicced their hounds on them.

    Once caught, they were either lynched or severely beaten beyond humanity, as a punishment for their defiance to enslavement. In eras of unforgettable uprisings, such as the 1960s Civil Rights Movement, dogs, water hoses, and batons were (and still are) used as tools to torment marchers. Old World Order.

    Present day, po-lice culture and its proponents have immobilized communities, backlogged oversight agencies, purposely prolonged court processes, implemented po-lice protect laws, routine-d rallies, and discouraged many from the will to fight back. Its trademark symbolism, globally and locally is not just unjustified "Use of Force" by an officer, but its visible detail of intimidation as well. Its members are men and women of color. New World Order. An old saying goes, "To strike terror into the hearts of evil doers."

    Consequently, this can apply to anyone that’s viewed as weak and vulnerable.

    The image of individuals in a well-tailored uniform, bearing shiny stars (badge) broad shoulders, a militant masculine mentality, and armed with a gun. A hierarchical attitude soon follows, with a voice sounding robotic-ally rehearsed, in fascist formulation. Like corporate mainstream media, just a few choice of words can dehumanize one’s spirit, especially when society perpetuates this culture as “role models.”

    How can they possibly give lectures at schools knowing they’ve run houseless/landless people off of sidewalks, fined them for pushing shopping carts, sitting on sidewalks, harassing them for holding a newspaper (Street Sheet) for donations, evicting families from vehicles, (parking violations) racial profiling, and murdering the youth?

    In cases involving women and children beaten, raped, tasered, and ultimately killed by po-lice officers, where can “justice” lie when the judicial system not only fail to convict, but refuse to do so even when these crimes are proven “beyond a shadow of a doubt.” Instead, they’ve choose to recycle them through re-evaluation, re-training, and alleged admonishments. Crimes cannot arrest crimes anymore than the blind can lead the blind.

    The state of their mind in light of these instances is quite frightening, as well as their “mental health crisis intervention” towards a citizen. “Asking the police to do mental health intervention is like asking a mortician to deliver babies.” Explains my comrade, director of Idriss Stelley Action Resource Center, mesha Monge-Irizarry. The death of her son Idriss who was felled 48 shots by S.F.P.D. Officers as he suffered a psychological breakdown prompted her activism against po-lice terror. mesha even took a 15 week Citizen’s Training at the S.F.P.D. Academy where she was told “Remember, we are not psychiatrists, or social workers. We always shoot at center mass.”

    I personally feel that just like the military, they are hired for a terrifying purpose………...regardless if (and I do mean if) they truly want to “make a difference” and being a “good cop.”

    At the Oscar Grant Rally, Chairman Bobby Seale of the Black Panther Party recalled a past event in which a white po-lice officer actually did the right thing. In breaking down the “Blue Wall of Silence” the cop turned over secret files to the Black Panther Party, in exposing the F.B.I’s secret covert organization “Cointelpro” and their illegal activities. Talk about revolutionary consciousness!

    I offer a series of questions and even challenge them once they read (po-lice) my article.

    “Would this difference include telling the truth if your comrade brethren committed a crime? Would you be remorseful, do the right thing even if it meant your job and your life? Will you po-lice, on global levels do the same and disengage from oppression? Would you plea guilty and not “feel guilty” for your crime, unlike the pathetic claims of Johannes Mehserle following his verdict? Who’s life more sacred, yours…….……....or mine?” So very few seldom do.

    Excerpt from a Proclamation by the People: The days when this system can just keep on doing what it does to people, here and all over the world, when people are not inspired and organized to stand up against outrages, and to build up the strength to put an end to this madness. Those days must be GONE…..…..and they can be.

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  • Leroy's New Track, Hip-Hop Hear This with Samples of FESU, Blackalious, Hyphy & George Tragic Doman

    09/24/2021 - 09:21 by Anonymous (not verified)
    Original Author
    Leroy
    Original Body

    After so many Krip-Hop workshops, playing songs from non-disabled Hip-Hop artists ripping people with disabilities down, making up disabled dances, using outdated terms, getting rich by playing disabled characters on the big screen all of this without even asking us and not having at least one well known disabled Hip-Hop artist to speak, sing anything politically correct talking about this pimping, I had to remix my track, Hip-Hop Hear This with some samples that dis us with Krip-Hop political lyrics. Stay tune to hear this track. I'll play the song in the UK when Krip-Hop/MWD attend DADA Festival Nov 21-28th in Liverpool, UK. I did this song at home on my laptop but would love to get in the studio to do it right! Might play it on a local radio show you never know.

    Krip-Hop Speaking Back!

    Leroy Moore

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