2002 HOMELESS SUMMIT

by Joe B.

I’m in Sudafed-non-aspirin haze as a gray, light to heavy drizzle began falling.

How would I know in a drug induced haze? I’m just getting over the flu.

I took those medicines at 6am with water while washing down said legally bought drugs.

Its Thursday, March, 7, 2002 my brain has gone blank... Oh yeah, The “2002 San Francisco Homeless Summit will begin at 8:15 a.m. in the Herbst Theater

Veterans Building 401 Van Ness Avenue.

Mrs. A. Fay, Lisa, and I meet up at POOR’s 2nd. Floor.

While waiting falling in and out of sleep the drizzle became louder and the sky from POOR’s squared-off picture window are grayer, darker, nearly night.

Unfortunately We, that is Fay, Junebug, Lisa and I arrived in this pandemonium in the Herbst Theater ruining my I-can-go-home ‘n’ sleep, visit girlfriend in Berkeley-staying undercover all-day because-of-rain daydream; it tingles and stimulates and is the only reason I like heavy rain or thunder showers.

Tiny’s gray car is hard to see in this monochrome gray environment.

At 8:27 I’m ‘thinkin we’re late so “The ‘PO Poets may not have time to do their stuff which means no Joe “Slam Bio” wrong.

Everyone’s slightly late it this important event Supervisor Chris Daly gently rushed us into “The Green Room” [The faded green carpet seems to be why its named though green isn’t the exclusive color] for our on stage presentation.

Leroy Moore, of (DAMO) [Disability Advocates Of Minority Organization].
With A. Fay, myself, Junebug, Poet/Low Income Housing Advocate, Tiny, half of the Co-Editor’s of POOR Magazine, Mari, on Youth Commissioner beginning around 1996 or 7 by Mayor Willie Brown as a way of having young people’s ideas and coordinate problems and solutions that young people face in society today.

I dislike being on stage, in public but once out there you don’t want to let others down and you do your best while being absolutely terrified.

I spotted Mr. James Tracy of “Right To A Roof” Its everyone is confused as their rushed this way or that, but confusion as my normal condition is like a drunk walking straight during an earthquake.

A woman with a stroller and child is having trouble entering the building because of the security guard which is a bad sign for a summit for poor folks and they are supposedly invited.

It might be a minor mishap or an indication that maybe poor folks are not gonna be help and this is another political publicity stunt.

Now safely seated at a POOR table to smooze, inform, and sell our wares we’ve created see George Smith, Amos Brown, Tom Ammiano, and Gavin Newsom some other familiar faces flitted by but their names escape me.

At 10:46 am. The drugs are beginning to ware off as the stuffy, congested throat fogged head and lowered reaction time turns crowds and individuals into movie-like slow mo freeze framed images and my bladder began asking why I drank some tea and water earlier in the morning.

Later Isabel arrived her face clouded and fuzzed at the edges her navel's what I my eyes see telescoped there “An outtie” nice navel I thought absently before looking at her face or may have said it aloud still in a half sleep/awake stupor.

Answering questions, collecting moneys, looking for change, explaining POOR’s mission, nodding off slightly missing time doesn’t feel good plus the one person-table works for short periods but not when.

Lunch is on the second floor in yet another green room. Time expands so does my bladder.

I had to go bad yet stay to watch over money jar and salable items.

Luckily a flu slows everything down, after placing most magazines, handbooks, flyers, and taking money jar with me I go the restroom, empty sun yellow liquid which means I need I’m dehydrated and must drink more water.

I impulsively decide to grab a lunch of my own on the second floor.

Supervisor, Chris Daly is outside and a suited man tells me where the room is.

Inside lots or camera’s, reporters, and people sitting chairs or pews and next to me a table full of white plastic bags.

“Is that a donation for us?” a photographer jokes.
“Just our own”

I say grabbing a white bag, exiting quickly to the elevator.

Walking back to the table slowly until I’m once again sitting still feeling the slow motion effects the flu.

Waiting for my nosebleed to signal an end to my illness.

I continue selling what items I can as the Homeless Summit continues.

While eating lunch I legally re-drugged myself with Sudafed and non aspirin; I’ve forgotten if you take those medications separate or together - thinking “oh-well I take them together as I eat a tuna fish sandwich and wash it down with a strawberry-kiwi soda.

It’s only then I thought “You’re not suppose to mix medcations together oh-well.

I began nodding off, missing gaps in time, going the bathroom, and suddenly talking to Lisa, Mari, Junebug, and Isabell unless the latter is a waking dream.

Time slowed, quickened, there is a heated discussion of John John Whane Bobbit, Lorraina Bobbit, partial castration, and a porn career, also Vagina Monologues, and being hit a lot for saying the wrong things at the wrong time to the wrong person.

Soon it was nearly time and I gathered what it needed before leaving the building.

The whole day seemed like a floating gossamer wing with nothing attached.

I hope poor folks, their advocates, reporters and politico’s get the message that improved, better, higher 'tech skills, education, and alternative work situations are possible and feasible.

Low-income housing, is not Affordable Housing and the Minimum Wage should always be continually Cost-Of-Living Adjusted so alternative ways of work is no longer locked into one mindset.

As soon as I get this stuff safely at POOR’s office I’m going home that is if I don’t end up sleeping in Local 6’s Union Hall tonight which is looking better and better to me.

Joseph Bolden/Poor Magazine
Staff Writer