Editors Note: Kamau-Aka-Brandon George is one of several power-FUL PNN Plantation prison correspondents. He is a poet writing from behind the razor wires at the Nottoway Correctional Center in Virginia. 

Virtue

If beauty had a first name, it would have to be Nneka for what could be more beautiful than a mother whose love is so supreme it destroys all elements that threaten the growth of her child? If purity had a face, it would be like one of a new born for what could be more pure than new life sent to awaken slumbering dreamsand aspirations while endowing us with the audacity to hope in a despondent world? If power had a pair of feet one would certainly be connected to the ankle of the strong-willed sista who juggles two jobs, school, and motherhood, all while never stopping to complain about having to fill a void that shouldn't be there while the other foot would undoubtedly be caught up in the stride of a determined brother who denying any association with the proverbial "Box" they try to limit him to, cuts through circumstance like the light of a lone star through an impenetrable dark. If patience had limbs they'd be attached to torsos that envelope hearts that reach through hands that heal but will just as soon slap the stupid out of you when need be and if love could be born anywhere at all, the flirtatious grin shared between life - long companions would be its MECCA. Sprouting life nurtured within a pair of new eyes, discovering new hands that grasp not for the wind but for Gods promise open arms that embrace, not hate but the love that molded them and an emboldened tongue that speaks, not to curse, but to impart Gods Blessing.

DEECOLONIZE Academy is one of many POWER-FUL blessings happening on the sacred land launched by self-determined landless peoples at POOR Magazine we call Homefulness- for more information about enrollment in this revolutionary academy go the DEECOLONIZE Academy website

(Photo by SFGATE.com)

Standing in line at an elementary school graduation. I look at the colors surrounding me.  The cars roll by with loud colors. The lyrics of lives lived or once lived blare from car speakers announcing their presence while the sky above whispers in its ever present blue. Trees that have stood for generations show their skin and limbs proudly like the survivors they are.  The people in line are mostly down home folk, Frisco natives or folks that have been in the city for generations--running in all directions, crossing streets, trying to make it before the light turns red, scurrying to get a place in line that is snaking the length of the street.  The parents and relatives arrive with stuffed animals and balloons to show their love for their kids and the achievement of education.  Pictures are taken and folks are excited and proud as the colorful balloons bobbing and hovering above their heads.

Women--mothers and grandmothers and aunties sprout up all over—all proud and full of smiles.  Some look like floats, big boned, big cheeked—outfitted in tight clothing that is like another skin, balancing on heels and shoes that glitter in the early evening.  Those mothers, whose lips are thick with sheen gleaned from the glint of sun that rests on the troubled faces of skillets, pots and pans; whose smear of kisses cover a child’s face and never comes out.  Those women whose bodies are filled with dreams and screams and laughter and tears and stories; those women waiting in line, waiting for their children to walk across that stage; those women whose voices hit the air and sing out, whose laughter cracks through the clouds and make the rain fall in every color.   With women like these, no rainbow is needed because the rainbow is wrapped around them and expands with their breath, laughter, dreams; giving birth to more breath, more laughter, more dreams and, of course, rain.

I can’t help but look at the youngsters ready to graduate from Elementary school and wonder what pictures, poems and stories await them.  I see all the children, all colors and backgrounds and voices.  I think about my own elementary school graduation.  I was a skinny little boy who’d broken his leg in a car accident.  I was hobbling around on crutches.  I remember those days in the city but those days are like broken reflections shed from the skin of a mirror.  I see the generations pass by me, faster and faster, and I look at the trees lining the street in silent celebration.  I see little boys dressed like men, neckties, slacks, hair greased sideways and upward and forward.  The little boys run about and the little girls are dressed like their mothers.  And the kids are on the stage in caps and gowns.  And the kids have names like Tiburcio, Akil, Octavio, Fazon, Valeria, Maifa, Maricruz and other names that are poems waiting to be born and sung into the San Francisco air.

The theater is packed and the kids give speeches that speak of the struggle of their parents to raise them.  Some spoke of their immigrant families and told their stories in English and Spanish, their voices rising like trees into the expanding sky.  And as each child’s name was called to accept their graduation certificates, the mothers, uncles, grandparents, brothers and sisters released their own pent up dreams, rising from seats, not holding back.  In a chorus of affirming claps and declarations of pride and calling out of names that would be the envy of any church or arena, those parents and friends showed who they were—down home folks with booming voices and emotion that pour freely.  Their voices, their presence, their children are the meaning of San Francisco.  Their faces are the color of flowers that need to stay here.  Will these children be here, will they grow up here?  Or will they be evicted from the landscape in which they give color.  Will their faces be part of the mural that tells the story of our city or will there not be a place for murals anymore?

April 14, 2014

In San Francisco and elsewhere, the new mantra being pushed by the Mayor's office and shills for the affordable housing industry is to claim that we need to breakdown the barriers between public housing and affordable housing. This is a sham meant to bamboozle the public out of it's public housing units locally, and elsewhere. This same type of privatization scheme is occurring all across the nation to privatize our public housing, and needs to be countered by any means necessary, whenever possible.

We need to strengthen the walls between public housing and affordable housing before all of our nation's public housing units are privatized and sold off to the so-called affordable housing industry.

What government officials and the shills of the affordable housing industry are not telling you, is that privatizing our nation's public housing units is bad for the tax payers. Privatization places the buildings at risk of foreclosure, displaces the poor from their long-time homes, further enriches the executives of the so-called affordable housing industry, cheats the public out of it's public housing units, and destroys good middle class union jobs in the process.

Simply put, the federal government needs to fully fund public housing projects all across the nation, and the government should purge the shills of the affordable housing industry out of the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) that are pushing for the privatization of our nation's public housing units.

Recently, San Francisco has embarked on a scheme to sell and privatize around 3,491 public housing units under the federal Rental Assistance Demonstration (RAD) program. A number of nonprofit developers are involved in the privatization scheme including the Tabernacle Community Development Corporation, Mission Economic Development Agency, Bridge Housing, Mercy Housing California, John Stewart Company, Japanese American Religious Federation, Tenderloin Neighborhood Development Corporation, Community Housing Partnership, Bethel A.M.E., San Francisco Housing Development Corporation, Ridgepoint Non-Profit Corporation, Community Housing Partnership, Glide Community Housing, Bernal Heights Housing Corporation, Bridge Housing Corporation, Chinatown Community Development Center, and the for profit housing developer Related California, owned by out-of-state billionaire's Jorge M. Perez and Stephen M. Ross.

It is still not a done deal, and HUD may not approve all, or part of the scheme to privatize the 3,491 public housing units under RAD. However, unless the public gets involved to protest, and stop the process of privatizing our public housing units, the affordable housing industry is in a position to grab and exploit tens of thousands of public housing units all across the nation. The affordable housing industry schemes to reap billions of dollars in profits for years ahead, once it gets it's hands on our public housing.

The scheme to use for profit developers, so-called nonprofit affordable housing developers, bank loans and tax credits to privatize and rehabilitate our public housing units results in poor people being replaced by higher income tenants, to make the new projects viable. Making matters worse, most so-called nonprofit housing developers use "minimum income requirements" at their projects, that discriminate against the poor.

As an example of how tax credits change the makeup of the low-income tenants at public housing developments that have been privatized, what is happening in Berkeley sheds light on what is really happening to public housing projects when they become privatized.

Profile of Berkeley's Public Housing Tenants In 2009

Berkeley's public housing tenants that resided in 75 town homes received a shocking notice dated October 27, 2009, announcing that the Berkeley Housing Authority (BHA) planned to privatize and dispose of their long-time public housing units.

On February 11, 2014, the public housing tenants in Berkeley were sent a notice telling them that their public housing units have been sold and that transfer of ownership was to occur on February 14, 2014, to the new owners who happen to be some out-of-state billionaires named Jorge M. Perez and Stephen M. Ross, of the Related Companies.

The data available is not complete for all 75 public housing units in Berkeley during 2009, but from what data that is available for 57 units of public housing, the data reveals that 15 out of the 57 public housing units had households earning more than $35,000 annually.

Additionally, according to data about Berkeley's public housing units in 2009, there were 39 persons that received Social Security benefits, 36 persons that received SSI benefits, 23 persons that received TANF benefits, and 22 persons that received General Assistance benefits.

From the data available, it appears that at least two-thirds to three quarters of the public housing households relied on one or multiple forms of public subsidy for daily living expenses, and that almost three-quarters of the households earned less than $30,000 annually. Additionally, 60% of the units had three or four members per household, with 85% of the residents that identified themselves as being "Black/African American." There were 11.2% of the tenants that identified themselves as being "White," and 2.2% identified themselves as "Asian." The 2009 HUD AMI for Oakland-Fremont, CA., was $89,300 for one person.

Presently, the average Social Security monthly benefit in California during 2014 is $1,294 per month. The average SSI (disability) benefit payment is $877.40 per month. The average TANF (CalWorks) family in California is an adult with two children that receives $510 a month in benefits. General Assistance in California during 2014 pays $336 per month to a single person. Food Stamps (CalFresh/SNAP) for one person is $189 per month, and persons receiving SSI/SSP are not allowed in the program.

Profile Of Berkeley's 75 Public Housing Units After Privatization in 2014

In regards to the 75 public housing units that were privatized as of February 14, 2014, the affordability breakdown for the new tenants in the privatized units will appear very different from what the tenant's income was as public housing tenants during 2009, according to the California Tax Credit Allocation Committee (CTCAC).

According to data released on September 25, 2013 from the CTCAC for the newly privatized 75 former public housing units in Berkeley using tax credits to rehabilitate the buildings, Related plans for an affordability breakdown of 8 units at or below 35% of AMI, 49 units at or below 50% of AMI, and 17 units at or below 60% of AMI, and one unit for a manager. Currently the 2014 HUD AMI for Alameda County is $88,500 for one person.

The current information available in regards to the situation at Berkeley's 75 former public housing units, reveals that public housing privatization schemes using tax credits to buy and rehabilitate the public housing units, results in the displacement of poor people from their homes and communities.

Strengthening the walls between public housing and affordable housing would help to stop the displacement of poor people from our nation's public housing projects.

Lynda Carson may be reached at tenantsrule [at] yahoo.com

May 6, 2014

This story is about something that can happen to you. Let’s take the way-back machine to the end of March 2012 in San Francisco. Kathy Galves had just been kicked out of her house in San Francisco that she loved and adored. An evil bank named Wells Fargo and an unfair court system with a judge that violated her civil rights had booted her out.

When this reporter got on the scene at Kathy Galves’ house, all the commotion was over. All I noticed was this poor woman trying to get her dog off the stoop. As a gentleman, I helped her out. I didn’t know her that well but we started talking. After we parted she began her travels through the wonderland of do-nothing social workers. Being a babe in the woods in this weird, weird land of unknown jargon, where this poor woman knew none of the rules and regulations, she could not fight back. Coupled with her health deteriorating, she was feeling every hit of the social worker wonderland blow by blow.

She was introduced to this world when the woman she had been staying with post-displacement was harassing her. Kathy had hurt her ankle on MUNI and felt like she needed help in this situation. She went into a social worker’s office lost and confused to ask for help. The social worker said that she would help. But she did absolutely nothing. She did not call her for a month. By the time she called, the problems had already settled in and she was deeper into the woods.

The second time I met Kathy she didn’t recognize me. I called her aside and told her I could get her back into her house. She looked at me confused. She thought I was blowing smoke. I do not blow smoke. My word is my bond. I had access to people that are not from the mainstream, who know how to get stuff done and work inside or around the system. (Also, I was looking for another story. As in a 1930 writer, I look for opportunity...)

Kathy went through one agency and another looking for help. This city is like a maze. She did not know her way through through this land and got lost many times. Social workers would tell her lies and send her to wrong locations. At the Mayor’s Office on Housing (MOH), a social worker said to Kathy, “We do not have housing, we work with contractors to build new housing.” Kathy asked some questions and the cryptic social worker replied, “We do nothing with existing housing. We just build new housing.” Kathy kept getting led deeper and deeper into the woods. But one friendlier agency helped her at this time. This was the Mayor’s Department of Disability. They decided to dub Kathy’s companion, the lovely dog Betty, a proper Service Animal. And she went on her way.

The next time I met Kathy, It was October 12, 2012. I had been arrested the night before, for reporting a story for POOR Magazine on an Occupy action to take back housing. It took the police 24 hours to process me, and by the time I got on the bunk they kicked my ass out of jail. When I got out I reported to the Travelodge on Valencia Street, where Kathy was getting evicted yet again and people were protesting. Patel Management was going to evict her because she stayed over the 30-day limit. She had residency qualifications so they could not instantly evict this woman, and yet there they were doing it anyway. Kathy would have to go through the court system for the second time. But she does not meet the criteria because she paid her rent on time. She did not break any known procedure for a lawful eviction.

She was then shuttled from one motel to another, and starred in a spoof performance on bedbugs. She also learned about other agencies in the City that could have helped her at the time. One of them was the Housing Rights Committee and the other was Independent Resource Center. They give classes to the newly homeless. She also played the wonderful lottery game for housing. If you don’t know it, you don’t want to try it. She moved from Bayview to Chinatown and back.

The good news is,POOR Magazine, which is a poor people-led movement i am a proud member of became a part of Kathy's impossible situation, helping her with poor people-led solutions to impossible poltrickster and bankster created problems, and fast foreward many months, Kathy and I got married and are now living together. In retrospect, Kathy’s story is only the tip of the iceberg. There are thousands more. It could happen to you!

The rest of this will be boring to people that are not into figures. This comes out of your taxpayers’ costs that banks will never have to pay…. at the cost of courts, sheriff’s deputies and other budget-related activities.

Using Google Scholar and along with SFGov (The City’s website) and then also simple mathematics, I found these numbers. Court costs in the year 2012, just counting Wells Fargo’s evictions, in the City and County of San Francisco, amounted to $2,000,000.00. These are not my figures. These are the figures of the Controller of San Francisco. Plus the costs paid by the 216 people Wells Fargo evicted and the services they received from nonprofits. My lovely wife Kathy is one of them.

Thank you very much for reading this article. And think of the $2,000,000.00 in eviction court costs that could be used for the poor, in addition to the millions more eviction-related dollars spent in mental health facilities, relocation costs, and homeless shelters.

June 10, 2014

“What he made a reality through that bookstore, was a forum where people could come together and be challenged to raise the right questions about political, religious and social
issues,” said San Francisco Supervisor Amos Brown, of Marcus Bookstore co-owner Raye Richardson. Brown added that Mr. Richardson “made a sterling contribution of great substance in that he developed many young scholars.”

Marcus Bookstore has been the best bookstore ever and it has a lot of history with the Ethnic Studies Department at SFSU. In the sixties there was a big protest to form a department to teach Black Studies the way African Americans on campus felt like they were supposed to teach. They had a list of demands and many things came out of the protest: the Black Student Union, the Cesar Chavez Student Center, the La Raza major, and the Asian History major. I think the strike at SFSU was connected with the Black Panthers and the fraternities and sororities. Most of my teachers sprouted from this revolution to make the first Ethnic Studies program in the United States. I sincerely believe the struggle for justice in academia is still going on, especially after the closing of Marcus Bookstore.

Every teacher in the Ethnic Studies program makes the students buy their books from Marcus Bookstore. We kept their bookstore running because it is one of the first black bookstores in the nation. While the bookstore is being threatened with closure, I am hurting because I am an Africana Studies major, and I feel I got robbed!

Dr. Ramona Pascoe’s September letter of protest to the Governor's office, who had called upon State Troopers to squash the protesters in 1968, says it best: “Today, all around our nation, the compelling argument for cultural sensitivity and cultural competence has been recognized as critical to our diplomatic success in meeting our neighbors in the global community with whom we share a global economy. Today, we are united. Not unlike the American Revolution, the Battle at Gettysburg, or the historic Civil Rights Movement, change comes through challenge. Will you or Maria please join us? Will you send us a letter of commendation for our achievement? Can we bury the proverbial ax?"

There will be a news conference to support Marcus Bookstore. It is an opportunity to note the courageous actions of student strikers and their supporters; heal breaches that remain; highlight the victories achieved by the strike; make sure that the strike is more than just a footnote in history books; and to call the United States and the world to be vigilant of civil rights and social justice.

How can we keep social justice if they denigrate everything people of color have fought for at SFSU? Evidently the cycle of violence has not stopped, as can be witnessed in the writings of a lot of the Black Studies teachers, who have fought for their classes, and written a tremendous amount of books about their experience at SFSU when they were students or young teachers. I do not know what is going to happen, but now I don’t think it is a white or black problem, it’s the poor against the rich. I think Marcus Bookstore is a closed statement, because of its history.

The generations after us will not understand the struggle of the striking students involved in the Civil Rights Movement and the Black Panther party. Every elder at SFSU in the Black Studies Department consistently reiterates that we must keep the movement alive and follow those before them, to turn to greater accomplishments. After finding out how many teachers have left SFSU and the Black Studies department, other younger generations will not get the opportunity I had to spend time with our elders, who’ve made it happen for all the students at SFSU, especially students of color.

I think it is absurd to close the bookstore. It’s like closing down one of the only things Black people owned.

No Justicia en las cortes para los inmigrantes (scroll down for english)

No Justice in the kkkourts for Immigrants

The year started off and everything was going well with our family. However, on October 30, 2012 a tragedy occurred. Jose Antonio Matias Aguilion my nephew was murdered. He died from a gunshot wound that perforated his heart. It was horrible but what kept us going was our faith that justice would be served and that the criminals were jailed. Jose’s body was not returned to us, but we were given some peace of mind knowing that “justice would be served”. We believed that they would be on trail and serve time in prison for homicide. It was also very frustrating having to attend court and have to see the killer knowing that his hands had taken Jose’s life. I had so much anger in me. I wanted to tell him how wrong he was andthat god would punish him. He just sat there with an evil look on his face. On many occasions, my family and I would leave crying. I would cry out to God and pray.

I said to myself, if Jose had to die so that there would no longer be any more victims of homicide the sacrifice was worth it for the cause. We assumed our community would be safe without those killers running around in the streets. We really believed that they would spend there whole life in jail.

Unfortunately, Jose’s killer only spent one year in jail and was released. That is why his whole family today is devastated and angry. We believe the verdict was unfair. We are from Guatemala. We experienced a lot of corruption there, starting with the government and also with law enforcement. I never imagined that in America this would happen. I am so disappointed in this country, its judicial system and of course the racism that exists toward immigrants, people of color and other oppressed people! I thought our family would be safer in the US. Today, I am not sure what to believe. I am speechless! It angers me to know that Jose’s killer was set free because the jury declared him free! I’m heartbroken to know that the man confessed to the crime. Innocent? For taking a life? So Jose’s life is worthless? Hewas a human not an animal. He did no harm. Was it because he was undocumented that his life was not taken serious? I believe it was pure racism. The 12 people on the jury let the killer go free! Jose is gone and cannot defend himself. To them, killing a Latino young man illegal immigrants like killing an animal. was not a member of their family they did not care for his life. They had no facts.

I tell the citizens of this country because I know that the people in the government of those who have studied assist them like the jury. I don’t understand why this happened. The judicial system must change. They need more professional people. What happened then with the police’s work and the investigative work??? I am trying to figure out why it’s that we have police or detective systems in this country? In the end of the day normal common people have the last word in the case and discards the work and laws and later complain that the city and the country has so much violence if they are the ones setting the killers free and innocent folks are in prison. I ask for people especially those who are citizens that support crime because there is violence and that is the way they like to live. They judge the undocumented and they judge us and torment us to the point that we are deported and the killers, they are set free and inclusively give them an applause; I became very sad because of these unfair actions. I am heartbroken because of this news and that there is no justice because humanity has decided but I do know one thing-that the man is going to continue killing more people and I hope that its not one of their family members of those who decided to let him free that were on the jury. If it were the case, they would then cry and ask that there would be justice of which they will not find any.

Sadly, it’s the law of life and they get judged by the same system and at the time the system will not fail anyone. I do not know who were the 12 people on the jury and I would have loved to have looked them in the eyes and told them that there are no words that can console a heart who has lost a loved one in the up most violent way. But I will tell them that I forgive them for what they have done; give the killer the liberty even if he deserved to have paid with jail time for killing someone so violently. But I will say I forgive them for what they have done by giving them the liberty that man deserved to pay in jail for killing Jose. You were all not just by being racist and its fine. Remember that one pays for everything they do in life. You reap what you sow.

One thing I will say that man will pay! In my belief, God is a just God therefore he takes justice in his divine hand. He judges everyone for their deeds right or wrong. He also knows that there’s no justice in this country or in the world! I am in solidarity with the activists and organizers that work against police brutality and injustice!! We do not believe in the system that this country promotes and that is why we do not believe that we are being protected by their policies and corrupt system! I do believe in god and in this case that he his divine judge and he will judge according to his divine judgments!

Dear San Francisco,

I have walked the length of your streets, have felt your fog breath in my face, have stood shoulder to shoulder on your buses with the generation that came before and the one before that.  I have seen the poetry written in the walls and on the floors of those who gave the city life and nourishment.  I have seen you dance and I have seen your streets swallow whole the dreams born on the tongues of poets.  I have sat in your churches with one eye open to see if it was true that ghosts float between the pews.  I have sat in your schoolrooms where my real teachers were the faces and bodies and voices and landscape in murals that attached to my skin and moved my blood, taking me deeper into myself.  I have washed the dishes in the backroom while artists and businessmen and daughters and sons and visitors and transplants contemplated their plates, washing down fear and insecurity with the veneer of wine.  I have seen the empty lots and empty houses come alive in the poetry of my uncles.  I have heard the voices echo from the past, from the heart of the city in an empty can of beer.  In the blink of a heart I have seen the murals of our faces and bodies and minds—the landscape of our spirit—painted over in florescent hues.  I have seen our buildings and bodies and dreams knocked down, crushed by the wrecking ball mind. I have seen your children and elders vanish silently. I have seen the story in our skin fade, and I have seen the names of those children, who are now grown, names carved into their necks in cursive loops and circles and lines that travel to the pit of the heart. And I have seen the trees bear silent witness, recording everything in their leaves and in their skin. 

I have seen the city’s heart in spring, in summer, fall and winter.  I have felt every tongue lap into my ear the sweet and bitter curled notes of struggle and love and tragedy.  San Francisco, I have known your two-face, three-face, four-face—your many shades that blended into a gumbo stew of fire and tears that settle in the belly that doesn’t rest.  I have heard your silence, loud silence that fills the ears and mind like the resting silence of a pawn shop asleep, encased in a glass tomb.  I have seen the trees pulled up by the roots and discarded like a Christmas tree on New Years.  I have seen buildings stab the sky, stab into our eyes and blind us.  I have heard the raven’s cry in the morning as the metal rails whip around our minds, grinding into the ground, disturbing the resting bones of abuelitas, abuelitos, grandmothers and fathers and the sacred indigenous dream paved over by a sunless sun.

San Francisco, your eyes are empty, your houses are empty, your canvas is bare of poems.  Your mirrors and windows are missing reflection.  Your flowers are drained of color.  Your eyes hold no murals, your skin is scrubbed raw.  Your canvas contains no art.  Your poems are eviction notices.  Your skin is a thin postcard that reads non-deliverable.  Your tongue is a torn bus transfer out of town. 

I don’t know you anymore

© 2014 Tony Robles

Uncle Anthony still walks the streets of the San Francisco.  The landlords and real estate folks can’t get rid of him.  He walks with his leather baseball cap cocked to the side.  His movement is the vibration of blood and bone that makes the sky quiver.  The story of his life is burned and carved into his cane that rests at his side; like an old friend, supporting him, offering a bit of rest as he holds his own upon the rooted foundation of the city that gave birth to him.  Uncle Anthony with the dark shades framing Fillmore Street eyes and Fillmore Street visions.  Fillmore Street is written in his skin and in his walk and in his talk.  Uncle Anthony, in his mid-60’s, still looking young, still looking good.

Uncle Anthony, San Francisco born and raised.  The real estate speculators can’t get rid of him.  They see him walking down the street and watch out of the corners of their eyes.  What is he doing here? They ask.  While the speculators can only speculate, Uncle Anthony can only remember.  He can’t forget the faces of the people of his life, the faces of the city; the faces of the mothers and fathers who have passed on, the faces of the children and the children of children that are pressed into the mural of his mind. 

He talks to people that have touched the landscape of his life, remembering their words, their voices, the way their faces expressed what was in their minds.  He remembers the silence, the simmering spaces between dates and places that go unspoken.  He remembers the loss of skin, bone, voice—he sees in the shadows what remains.

The roots pulled from the ground whip across his mind and body like the wind as cranes go up into the sky, claiming the air we breathe, with no memory, no mind, no music—only the drone of sameness, of decay whose veneer is blinding. 

Uncle Anthony says he “don’t like San Francisco no more”.  But still, he can’t get away from it.  Fillmore Street still lives in his skin; the Mission and Chinatown and Bayview and Lakeview—all those places—still alive in his mind.  All the faces and names of  his life in the city are carved into his cane, the only thing offering him comfort as he goes from place to place in a city that no longer wants him.

© 2014 Tony Robles

Pena de Muerte Tejana Injusta

[Scroll below for English version]

En Texas, fue ejecutado el ciudadano Mexicano Edgar Tamayo por asesinar a un agente del orden publico.  Le dieron sentencia de muerte porque en Texas, el homicidio de un policía es considerado igual de grave que el homicidio de unniño menor de seis años.

Edgar fue arrestado por robar un reloj. El policía Gaddis, lo reviso y no se diocuenta que Edgar estaba armado y lo llevo en patrulla y dentro de la patrullaTamayo mato al  policía con varios balazos. Quedo inconciente el oficial, seestrello contra una casa. Lamentablemente el policía murió cuando eratrasladado a un hospital en helicóptero.

Zarco Mendoza, amigo de Tamayo, declaró a la policía como habían ocurridolos hechos y sirvió de testigo de la fiscalía en el juicio contra del ciudadanoMexicano. Luego fue sentenciado a un año de cárcel por su participación en elrobo.

Tamayo no habla Ingles y nunca supo que podría y tenia el derecho de recibir laasistencia legal de las autoridades del consulado de su País.Pues no pudo tenerun juicio justo. Se que para la familia del policía se hizo justicia pero para lafamilia de

Tamayo todo esto fue injusto. Yo no entiendo como en los Estados Unidostrabaja el sistema porque yo se que Edgar actúo mal al quitarle la vida al policíaque no pudo conocer a su primer hijo pues su esposa estaba embarazada peroel proceso legal le debía haber dado un juicio justo.

Yo entiendo esto pero lo que no comprendo es que si un Latino mata a alguiencomo fue el caso de Tamayo, hay justicia pero si un policía mata a un Latino no hay justicia. Dejan libre al asesino como si se tratara de un  animal o una cosa, solo se lavan las manos diciendo que fue un accidente y tranquilos siguenviviendo.  

Pero me da pesar por las familias de ambos como el que muere y el que mataporque las dos familias pierden y sufren por eso. Yo les pido, a las personas queleen esto, que piensen bien en sus actos. Piensen en sus familiares y enustedes mismos no le roben a nadie. No maten a nadie. También no hagansufrir a nadie pues por una tontería de material porque pueden perder suslibertad. Esta historia que sea un ejemplo para nosotros. Bendiciones a las dosfamilias.

Death Penalty in Texas Unfair

In Texas, the Mexican citizen, Edgar Tamayo was given a death sentence for killing a police officer. According to Texas law, anyone who commits homicide against a police officer is considered in the same category as someone who murders a 6-year-old child.

Tamayo was arrested for stealing a watch. Officer Gaddis stopped him and didn’t realize Edgar was armed when he arrested him. When he was in the cop car, Edgar shot Gaddis in the head, left him unconscious and the cop car crashed into a house. The officer died in a helicopter on his way to the hospital.

Meanwhile, Zarco Mendoza a friend of Tamayo declared as a witness on what happened. He was given a one-year sentence for the crime. Tamayo, who does not speak Spanish and didn’t know he, had the right to legal advice from the Mexican consulate. He did not have a fair hearing. The officers’ family thinks the trial was just. Tamayo’s family also thinks his sentence was unjust. I cannot believe this happened in the United States. I know what Edgar did was wrong, but he deserved fair trial. It is also sad that Gaddis’ wife was pregnant so he did not know his son at all.

I understand the fact that he committed murder but I don’t know why when a Latino commits a crime he is prosecuted to the full extent, and when a white person or a Latino they can go free! It’s like we are animals with no value or human rights! They wash their hands, say they are innocent that it was an accident and walk free. The truth is that they deserve to be prosecuted equally.

This is why I ask everyone who read this to please think before they act. Think about themselves and their family. Please don’t steal from anyone! Don’t take anything that’s not yours. Please don’t kill! Please do not make others suffer because no priced object is worth a crime. You can lose your freedom and your very life this way. I hope this story can be an example for all. Blessings to all families who have lost a loved one. 

(image of an eviction notice posted on now houseless single mama Sabrina Carter's door, evicted from privatized public housing in San Francisco)

“We are calling on San Francisco to take swift action to both prevent further displacement of San Franciscans by investing ineviction prevention, while reapidly re-husing up to 700 househilds through fixing up vacant public housing units and subsdizing households in private and non-profit housing.  These intitiaves are exactly what SF needs right now.”  According to Julia D’Antonio of the SRO Families United Collaborative. 

The Coalition on Homelessness, along with the Emergency Services Providers Association is putting forward four proposals, one to fund homeless prevention  which would stave off displacement for 2,700 households.  The other three are to fix up vacant public housing units and move homeless families into them, expand current private market housing subsidy and lastly, subsidize households in turn-over non-profit affordable housing units so that homeless households can afford to move in.

April 14, 2014

At POOR Magazine's indigenous news-making circle we call Community Newsroom this April there was a storming result of women and organizations coming together with holiness to lead the circle. We got visitors from other parts of the country, and what they said confirmed that for some reason, gentrification and mistreatment is going on all over the United States. Our visitors came from Detroit to screen their film, “We Are Not Ghosts.”

I went to their movie screening at the First Congregational Church of Oakland. “We Are Not Ghosts” is about the problems in Detroit and the wonderful outcomes there, which grew from people’s work regardless of class, creed, color, or religion. A lot of people think gentrification is because of race and class privilege but I sincerely believe gentrification and mistreatment work against both the poor and the rich. No class, less class: it doesn’t matter, private corporations tear down family stores and indigenous-led gardens.Evidently Detroit was known to be the worst place in the United States and there are miles and miles of nothing, like the desert. The screening showed live footage of grassroots solutions like what they call the D-town Farm, a literacy school, and even a biking system. I wonder if the Detroit which they refer to as “ghost town” will spread amongst all the people and then everyone will collaborate against displacement and gentrification like Detroit has been doing.

The garden in the movie is led by all races, and it is unique, because white people are always criticized for building nonprofits in the low-income communities, and do not teach people how to establish their own nonprofits. But here white people’s role is different and they collaborate with people of color leadership. They grow beans, rice, wheat, vegetables, and they raise their own animals that are not pumped with hormones but cared for with love. The gardeners have another project that bakes fresh pies and a whole line of fresh desserts. They interviewed the youth at the end of the screening and they said they like the green life and not the deserted place they were. They are not owned by corporate entities, because it is people-led, and I was amazed how they turned this deserted place into a living joy with peaceful practices and healthy environment.

The thing that most stuck out to me was the literacy program that was led by mothers and volunteers who teach the kids leadership skills as well as regular reading curriculum. One of the teachers stated, “We have to love these children like they came from our own womb, and connect them with elders.”

Lastly they made transportation by riding bikes and traveling from neighborhood to neighborhood. Less pollution is a great idea as is teaching exercise as a meaningful thing to practice in life.

At the end of the screening we had group discussions on how the Bay Area is being targeted the same way Detroit was. I just recall this one lady saying white people need to teach other white people how to treat blacks. I brought up a suggestion stating all people have to learn from each other and respect each other because of the differences of culture. There does not have to be an isolated training on how to work with low-income based communities, because black people are human, white people are human, Chicanos are human, and the list goes on. We need to hear from everybody. The group I was in had concerns about how corporate government might destroy what they built, but hopefully that doesn’t happen. Another statement was that the people in the movie are not just making a garden, they are creating a green community that doesn’t have to rely fully on the government.

The problems facing Detroit and the Bay Area are deeper because a lot of people with no education mostly tend to be poor people, and they have no jobs. No jobs means more crimes, and that is what the main leader of the “We Are Not Ghosts” group brought up after they announced, “The people in Detroit are not Ghosts and they are showing how to make the planet.” They are flipping around the way things usually go, turning away from violence.

The reason I wrote Homefulness in the title is because all of us poor and indigenous, multi-generational, multi-racial, multi-lingual folks at POOR Magazine launched  a similar almost exact project in East Oakland on sacred Ohlone land we call Homefulness in Deep East Oakland. This is a neighborhood that is intentionally blighted and destroyed by what Tiny at POOR calls poltricksters and real estate snakkkes, causing folks who dont know to be is terrified to enter because of the violence, but  we are humbly building this landless peoples movement with love and our own values as fellow poor people who have been racialized and hated. We create jobs when we have the money to that get distributed to the community already there and actively work to lift up the neighborhood through jobs and prayer and spirit, which then works to keep the violence down. We see this as an example of a poor people-led autonomy and self-determination. We collaborate humbly with other poor people-led groups and learn from the examples of the Zapatistas in Chiapas, the Landless peoples movement in Brazil, the Shackdwellers Union in South Africa and now, hopefully our beautiful comrades from Detroit.
 

April 15, 2014

The bedroom is a refuge, its walls boasting photographs of a young life as it unfolded. Little league, first communion, high school prom. A SWAT team had violated its sanctuary immediately after the shooting, looking for something to validate the police officer’s version of events. Sage and prayer restored purity to the room.

Her mood melancholy, she sinks wearily into the rocking chair. Melancholy is the best she can hope for, its implicit gloom and sadness preferable to the clutches of infinite emptiness which overwhelm one’s defenses and tear at the soul.

Abruptly a desperate emptiness floods her being. Time has not eased the mother’s loss, nor has it softened the weight upon her heart. She whispers his name, sliding off the chair onto her knees as if to pray, arms supporting her weight as she sinks to all fours.

“No no no, oh God noooo, sweet Jesus no, oh God no”.
The mothers arms weaken and she pitches forward, shrieking her son’s name, clawing at the rug as nails break off at the quick. A final scream then dissolution into weeping and moaning.

Becoming aware that minutes or possibly hours have passed, she swipes at the tears and snot and spittle streaking her face and rises to her feet. Leaning against a doorjamb, she crosses herself and asks Him for the strength to get thru another day.

Face washed, makeup lightly applied, hair tied back, the mother gazes at her reflection and is struck by deja vu. Something about her eyes. She rarely looks at herself, idly wondering if her eyes always have that look now.

The sun was alone in a cloudless sky, it’s rays warming a mother who sat in a park, also alone. Near her feet a ladybug with missing legs slowly and painfully dragged itself in a circle. Regarding the creature with both pity and empathy, she speaks down to it softly. “just like me, poor baby. Just like me“. A thin finger rests upon its wing cover, lingers, absorbs its pain, ends its suffering. Squatting, the mother scoops dirt over the tiny creature then with a fingernail scratches a cross alongside.

That night she dreams of a sun alone in a cloudless sky, it’s rays warming her back. In the dream is a damaged ladybug, dragging itself in a circle. She picks it up, crying as she speaks to it of her son. Her tears wash over it’s broken wing covering, cascading slowly off to become new legs. The mother watches it take flight.

The bedroom is a refuge, its closets filled with his clothing and memorabilia, a nightstand contains keepsakes and writings and pictures too sensitive or precious to hang on the walls. Sage and prayer maintain its pristine spirituality.

Her mood desolate, she sinks wearily into the rocking chair. Desolation is preferable to the clutches of infinite emptiness which overwhelm one’s defenses and tear at the soul.

Recalling the previous morning’s encounter with deja vu, she reaches inside the nightstand drawer for an envelope and extracts a photograph – their last picture together. His cheek had been so cold against hers. The look in her eyes was haunted, ghastly. She recalls looking up at the camera, instinctively starting to smile then grasping that she would never have reason to smile again. She had become like he was, she had become what she had clung to in the photograph, she too was an empty vessel.

(The exquisite painting ‘A Response to a Distant Echo of Pain‘ is by Rowan Newton, his website is here: http://rowannewton.co.uk/artworks/ )

April 15, 2014

Three figures repose in the fallow soil, holding hands, gazing skyward, two small figures flanking a larger one. The mother’s arm raises to point at a cloud above, the twins heads moving to follow.

The cloud is majestic as it slowly passes across the horizon. Ubadah tells her children the greatness of Omnipotent Sky God, of His wisdom and infinite mercy. Another cloud’s wispy tendrils brings to mind Spider, the mother sharing tales of the trickster her own mother had told her as a child. The twins giggling devolves into a contest to laugh the loudest, and the mother knows it is time to bring her tired daughters back to the village. Ubadah arranges the slings of the small harvest bags over the twins foreheads, shrugs her own bag full of cassava over her shoulders and follows the girls as they set forth onto the trail.

Sniffing at the breeze, the mother’s senses come alive. She hears a dry branch snap behind her, turns to behold a group of men in the distance who begin to run towards her. Shrieking “Panin! Kumaa! Gwan! GWAN!” she throws off her burden and runs to protect her children.

As her daughters sleep alongside her, each one chained to an ankle, Ubadah quietly endures the thrusts of a Foreigner. What had once been a loving gift to her husband was now something foul. Eyes closed, her lips move silently in prayer, devotion and dreams their only respite from the fear and misery of the slave ship. Eventually she joins her daughters in blessed sleep.

Elder Twin stands alone on a flat white mound, surrounded by Foreigners wearing crowns. People of all ages sit upon the ground nearby, chained ankle to ankle. One Foreigner emerges from the crowd to approach Elder Twin, pulling her mouth open to peer inside then squeezing her arms and legs.
Now it is night, and Elder Twin is in a large hut, candlelight flickering to alternately hide then reveal her face. A Foreigner enters, roughly pulling off her garment. Eyes closed, lips moving silently in prayer, the child endures.
The child’s eyes snap open, staring directly into hers.

The mother awakens, tears fresh upon her cheeks. Looking to one side, she hears Younger Twin’s soft breathing. Moonlight illuminates the sleeping girl. Turning to the other side, she gasps. Elder Twin’s eyes still stare directly into hers. Her daughter whispers urgently, asking where Younger Twin was, asking where Ubadah was, begging not to be left by herself again.

There are names for the Foreigners. Red Face Foreigner, Angry Foreigner, Wood Leg Foreigner. One exhibits a bit of kindness, unchaining the women so they might more easily relieve themselves and bringing extra water to sick children. He was called Young Foreigner. Along with a weapon that would soon be hers, he represented a path to freedom.

Ubadah has begun to smile at Young Foreigner, her smiles rewarded with extra yams at mealtimes for herself and the twins. Once she allows her legs to part slightly, her reward an obvious stiffening of his root. It will be time soon.

She smiles widely at Young Foreigner now, allowing her legs to part again. Drawing near, he sinks to his knees and crawls the last few feet to kneel in front of her. Ubadah holds both hands in front of her eyes briefly, then glances at each daughter. She makes the gesture once more, again glancing at each daughter, then brings her hands together in a supplicating gesture. Young Foreigner nods and unchains the three of them. The mother drops a hand to her side, throbbing shredded fingers closing upon the iron nail she has painfully extricated from the wooden planks.

Thrusting the nail into his scrotum, she rips upward, cleaving his root in two. Scooping up her screaming daughters, she races onto the deck and leaps onto the edge of the ship.

Her eyes deep pools of pain and adoration, Ubadah presses her lips to each terrified child’s forehead and then bends her head back to regard the sky. Whispering “Onyame fofora biara nni ha ka Wo ho“, she hugs the twins tightly and steps forward.

Three figures repose on the ocean floor, holding hands, gazing towards the surface, two small figures flanking a larger one. Undersea currents buffet the larger figure, lifting a skeletal arm to point upward. Two small skulls move to follow.

April 15, 2014

“Toto I’m beginning to get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore”- Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz

While strolling through Pacific Heights one afternoon I began to wonder if the manuscript for the “Wizard of Oz” was conceived during a ride through this the wealthiest neighborhood in America. I found out differently but then realized that the quickly changing pace of the city especially during the new technology boom has transformed the city into a bizzaro Wizard of Oz, a Wizard of Oz in the Twilight Zone if you will.

What makes it bizzaro is we are the ones who are lost like a slew of Dorothies while the political leadership takes on the roles of the other characters.

Let us begin by matching names to characters and the reasoning behind it, though some things aren't exact or even consistent.

We’ll start with the Scarecrow. That distinction would of course go to the mayor of our city, Ed Lee. It’s not that Mr. Lee is a complete moron but rather because, although he tries to be secretive with many of his schemes, it's not long before light is shed on them and the brains of them are figuratively knocked out.

Next in the role of the Tin Woodsman would be none other than Police Chief Greg Suhr. His cold piercing stare and desire to give his troops whatever they ask for or overlook any of their liabilities would suggest he doesn’t have a heart.

The Cowardly Lion would have to be Sheriff Ross Mirkarimi. Reason being his claiming to be down with the people but afraid to speak up for them, even requesting a new jail to lock even more black and brown people in.

The Wicked Witch of the West is most definitely Kamala Harris who as local DA built her career on locking up 35 black people to every 1 white person and used her blackness as a reason to be elected State Attorney General!

Former SF Mayor and current Lt. Governor Gavin Newsom of course would be the Wizard! Why? you might ask? He is the “wizard” behind the scenes who put on the big production by placing Lee in his former spot, George Gascon in as police chief, and sitting while watching and waiting hoping to be ignored but all the while trying to get everyone to pay attention to the illusion.

But of course the lines aren’t always clearly defined and the roles and characters are often interchanged with State and Federal leaders.

In fact the original story “the Wonderful Wizard of Oz" written by L. Frank Baum and published in 1900 had its own political implications, some direct and some implied.

Baum apparently was a political activist in the 1890s .
There were in fact 3 different versions of the story: a novel in 1900, a Broadway play in 1901, and the famous Hollywood film in 1939.

Much of the political implications regarding the 3 versions of the story connect to visual images in the story line. Much of Baum's activism was in regard to silver and gold, and in the Broadway production he actually made reference to figures like then-President Theodore Roosevelt ( and yes at times Obama is the wiard!). The yellow brick road is a direct reference to the gold standard and the silver slippers (later became ruby slippers) reference the silvirite sixteen-to-one silver ratio.The cyclone that got Dorothy in Oz in the first place would suggest political upheaval much the same as the current tech boom that is causing a diaspora of sorts.

There's no place like home.... when are the ruby slippers gonna kick in?