Sly Mr. Newsome

by Liz Rodda/PoorNewsNetwork media intern

Four men fit into an olive metal box. I joined them with a smile for a new political adventure. Sitting quietly toward the back of Ed’s van, I observed their expertise. Here I was the uneducated: the POOR Magazine interns and staff whom I sat amongst understood social inequity in a way which I would never fully understand, each having dealt with poverty first hand. Nevertheless, they did not filter me from their bated breath, but immediately welcomed me into their endless madcap songs. We were high on life and ready to enlighten Gavin Newsome that his plan to cut General Assistance to fifty-nine dollars a month was absolutely unacceptable. Succeeding a chain of seven police on motorbikes, we spun up to our destination of 2311 Taraval Street, the Cal Insurance and Associates Building where we would meet Mr. Gavin Newsom for a bit of "conversation". Ed Willard, from PNN and POWER dropped us off along side the action, demanding us out of the van and into the heart of the protest.

"Newsom babozo! Tu eres un mentiroso!" I stepped into the street amongst these words: "Newsom baboza!" with fellow strangers throwing fists high, demanding, "Tu eres un mentiroso!" A red banner dangled from apartment windows opposite us reading, "Don’t Buy the Lies!" A picket march was already in full motion amongst hoarse voices screaming cantos just as a tremendous upheaval blew us away. Voices ran wild with the appearance of Gavin Newsom on the scene. "Mr. Newsom! Speak with us! We want to talk!" He quickly disappeared into the crowd with his team of guards and into the safety of the building. Mr. Newsom’s choice to ignore us only made our chants grow intensively louder, "Shame! Shame! Shame!" We continued to shout until it became apparent Mr. Newsom would not be making an appearance anytime soon. With a slowing shift in energy, several selected speakers began to tell their stories of how Mr. Newsom’s cut in GA would affect them individually.

"Without the money I have received from GA, I would be homeless". Thomas spoke with an appealing sweetness that only enhanced a powerful intensity he emitted. "It has allowed me to both find an apartment and hold onto it. If the money is cut, I will become homeless." His dark eyes looked up to thirty stoic police who were being paid incredible capital to stand in a straight line. Thomas took a deep breath and continued into the microphone, "I challenge you Mr. Newsom to come out here and speak with us, your voters. You will be surprised how willing we are to tell you what we need." He concluded his short speech with how GA has the ability to directly benefit families and children through increasing self-esteem, hope, and the possibility of permanent change. The crowd commended him for his words as retired to the sidewalk and Lucky Jones picked up the mike. Young and animated, Lucky immediately threw us into a terrific rhythm of "Gavin Newsom you think you’re sly. All you do is lie, lie, lie!" He entranced us with his extraordinary sense of verbal communication and I immediately knew he was the man for an interview.

When he finished his raucous chants and a new speaker commenced, I asked him for a few words. He nodded, having me follow him to a quieter area of the street where we could speak. He needed little prompting before laying the situation in full detail before me. "You see these streets?" His face was inches from mine, demanding every breath of my attention. His dark eyes and powerful presence immediately devoured me. I swallowed, trying to appear at ease "yeah". "How do they look?" "Clean", I retorted, glad I had paid attention to his earlier speech. "That’s right", he bellowed, "That is because people on GA keep it clean, working every day for less than minimum wage. And what happens when they get too old to clean the street? You have a grandma?" I nodded. "How would you like to see her working on the street to make less than minimum?" I closed my eyes, feeling overwhelmed by his presence and all that I didn’t know. He continued, "I need to be able to save 1/3 of my income to even think about coming out of my current situation. 1/3 of 59 dollars is 12 dollars. 12 dollars isn’t going to get me anywhere." His eyes remained fixated on mine becoming dry from ceasing to blink. "The money cut from GA will supposedly go to shelters which only means we will be paying high rent for a place to stay." He sighed, finally looking away from me to the dimming sky.

Gavin Newsom spends over seven hundred and fifty dollars for each advertisement he puts up, more than what several GA recipients receive in a month. He pays ten thousand dollars for every television advertisement he puts on air and recently received a three hundred thousand dollar wedding reception. The statistics are appalling. I remembered the words of Lucky, "Can I sleep on your door step tonight Mr. Gavin Newsom? No, I don’t think so." The evening air was growing cool as I bent down to pick up a lost photocopy of Gavin Newsom’s face floating down the street. Bold black letters were scratched across his smooth features, reading "SO HOT: And YOU can party with ME. Come and tell me how much you care about me. How much you love that I’m cashing in on making more people homeless. Call anytime. I need you NOW." Clever, I smiled. My head began to ache from a day of chanting and all of us looked ready for home. Unfortunately not all of us would have the luxury of returning to a warm apartment like I could. Ed, Charles, Richard and I ambled back to the van discussing the rally and Newsom’s super sly disappearing act. Ed shut the metal doors behind us and we returned to familiar territory. I revisited my corner of the van, quietly pondering the impact of an incredible experience.