by Joe. B.

Yesterday, was surreal horror as video news feeds showed from various angles 3 commercial jets plowing into the Twin World Center Towers [T.W.C.] All day Tuesday there is a sicking pause, intake of breath, and unreality of this deadly action by person or persons unknown.

Wednesday, Sept. 12, 2001 6:59 am. After hearing on radio, seeing on tv, or talking to fellow tenants, and people on the streets are stunned, dazed, comfused, at this murderess mass carage.

Before going out and go about my business I realize I haven't gotten in touch with my relatives in New York.

My mother and brother is in California but he was to take a plane to Chicago but now I'm thinking cruise ship, train, or Gray Hound Bus any thing by flying for now.

I have people in the Bronx, Long Island, and in Manhattan. Blood has to be given, that's one concrete thing I can do besides writing this column.

This strange experience is a numbing, icecold, flaming hot shock, anger, seething anger, and yet I must keep my head and not let imagination run rampant. Whether this was a deep cover mole, brainwashed sleeper triggered to awake, or home grown terrorists [American](s) helping foreign nationals kill their own countrymen/womem out some sick psychotic self hatred, or some other scenario - the truth will out.

I'm drained, slowly hyperventelating it took some effort to slow down my breathing. Looking at people of different nationalities, faiths, all I see is more stunned, numb, walking wounded Americans going through the same "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING, DIDN'T HAPPEN, I DID NOT SEE THAT - WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?" look on blank staring eyes. I still must go to City Hall and get the Section 8 application.

At 7:25am. one of the policemen inside City Hall near the metal detectors told me 8am. for the public. I wait patiently with another person outside like human bookends. Finally we're in go through metal detector then find the place is still closed.

I sit, wait and a man hands me the precious Section 8 document.

The day is gray overcast slight winds, United Nations Plaza is quiet, one patrol car parked in front one of the entrances, vendors are few and customers fewer.

I cannot concentrate on Market St. Mess now or maybe I can as my own way of coping.

Hopefully most of you have ways to cope as well.

For me writing, reading, walking, thinking quietly to myself or some form a meditation works for me.

May all of you out there have an equally multi-ways outlet.

For now, there are relatives to contact and rethinking of many things.

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by Joseph Bolden, staff writer,

I do not like getting out of a warm bed where my pills, cough syrup, hot tea ‘n honey is, because going on an assignment sick is bad form for both the interviewer and interviewee. Mr. Allan Ball is around somewhere on San Francisco’s sunshiny day. I feel miserable today as people all over the city, across the Bay, and across the street from that blinding golden dome atop City Hall.

Many speakers are suffering and continue to suffer from the stigma of mental illness but since the Reagan Administration [1980 -’84-1984 to1988] when most of the hospitals, sanitariums were closed, mentally ill persons are on the streets or hidden away as if they are crimi-nals. I lay on the grass, feeling queasy and feel as if I’m about to throw up my split pea soup on those red christmasy plants. After the rally/protest on the grass all the organizations converged in an orderly if loud march to-ward the Department of Public Health on 101 Grove Street in San Fran-cisco.

Inside the building the physically challenged use the elevator while the able bodied use stairs entering a meeting of commissioners al-ready in progress. Of course it only seems like political theater but many people in the march are really pissed off and angry at how many S.F. Health Department Policies do the exact opposite in stead of help persons with mental illness, physical disabilities, elderly, or people with on-going slow debilitating diseases. Someone called the cops even as voices lessened.

After more chants, speeches, public speaking from real people suffering under these policies, and a protest version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” Everyone stayed longer than the some of the health commis-sioners, cops, or seated citizens in the meeting deemed equitable.
Translation: [Protester left when they deemed their voices were heard and not before.]

The Commission leave before the protesters only then did every-one protesting in The Department of Public Health in San Francisco. My flu broke as my nose bled profusely, and where’s Allan?
He slipped out when the police entered.
It’s satisfying seeing cops try to arrest people doing legitimate civil disobe-dience and a commissioner or two being steadfast stubborn on it not hap-pening. Has it helped, Did other commissioner get the message, will poli-cies change?

I have no answers to these questions but focused heat must re-main on the health system until the very people affected can show how po-lices and be change, improved, and become a more fluid process and not set in stone, unchanging, and blind to answers coming from the very vic-tims of this system. Bye.

by By Isabel Estrada

Chapter 1. The Girl With Long Hair
"Mama, every inch that my hair grows, I come closer to death," said Indravas to her mother. But Kaza only laughed and said; "Don't you ever listen to my words? A woman's spirit never dies, it rises and falls like an abandoned ship, but it never dies. Haven't I told you the story of Grace Vayshnavia?"

Chapter 2. All Spirits Must Rest
Grace Wells' small home was at 908 Page St. in a city that pretends to be big, in a state that pretends to own the sun, in a country that pretends to own the sky. It just so happened that that morning there was a crowd of people outside of her home. They were protesting another phase of the invasion of the Yuppies that would force Grace out of her home and set her right in the middle of the street. However, they hadn’t come to understand the special powers of a woman’s spirit and therefore didn’t know that in a sense, she was gone already. Grace no longer wanted to fight against the invasion of the peculiar species that had taken over her neighborhood years ago and was still taking over the small city. These invaders, called Yuppies, followed, literally followed in straight lines like the seam on Khaki GAP pants, two basic principles: money and trends. And it had happened that the confident, oblivious invaders had chosen her city as their biggest conquest. In the process they would clear the vibrant, tense streets in order to move in their own colorless lives.

But the spirit named Grace had been inhabiting the body named Wells since Wells was nine years old, when her Mother disappeared and she realized that she was all alone in the world. Grace had helped her get up in the morning and get to work when in reality she was tired and would rather curl up in her bed and dream of other times and other lives. She'd given Wells the necessary portion of optimism to numb the pain of arthritis and a heart condition. In Wells' 84th year, Grace had provided her with the power to continue fighting the landlady who wanted to include Wells’ home in a large mansion for herself. Grace beat at Wells’ heart whenever she started to believe what her landlady said, believe that perhaps she herself didn't exist. Grace helped keep her warm when the landlady turned off her heat in the middle of winter.

Grace had done her duty in the fierce woman's body and now would do it somewhere else. Even while protecting this body Grace had dreamt of music, of dancing, of a life lived on the edge of a dream. So when she lay down that night, sick of the quiet streets, she knew that her time in this body was up.

She waited for the tired limbs to loosen into the bed, she waited for the brown eyes to sink into their sockets, she waited until all the pain had left the feet and the wrinkles over the third eye had relaxed, and she left. Grace rose like steam. Below she saw the people grow small and then they disappeared and all she could see were cars. Then the cars disappeared and there were only buildings. Finally the buildings turned into patterns of color.

Grace wasn't sure where to go next. She didn’t know whether she should take a rest or move onto another body. But as she stopped to think she began to hear all the cries of the bodies down below. One collection of hoarse sobs seemed to stand out among the rest. She looked down and saw a sea of black hair that looked as though it had been taken by a storm god. The sadness in the woman’s breath drew her down, down, down. That's how Vayshnavia became strong. Grace's spirit came down to hold up her sinking body, and the spirit that was in Vayshnavia's body went to the bottom of the sea to rest awhile. All spirits must rest."

Chapter 3. Women
"I don't remember Grace Vayshnavia ever being weak," said Indravas willfully to her mother Kaza. "Vayshnavia is like any woman, when she is weak she looks the strongest and when she is strong she looks like a calm meadow. But do not disturb the meadow for it has roots beneath the soft grass, and snakes are always under foot. You were too little but there was a time when our tribe was under a spell… The story starts long, long, long ago….

Chapter 4. The Little Boy With Claws
He had always been small, which made it hard for him to live on the streets. He had to fight off all the evil spirits with the razors that he glued onto his fingernails. His oversized shirt hung down below his hands. The razor nails only emerged if someone tried to harm him first, or when he tired of being the last one of the crowd of boys to get to the trash can. When he tired of not even being able to get to the leftover food, when he tired of being left only the leftover cardboard, he would sometimes scratch his way to the front of the crowd, where the biggest boys with the most weapons would just step over him, slightly annoyed.

So when a Little Brahmin (1) found him one day and brought him home to food and clear water, he thought that Brahma (2) had finally helped him. He had snuck into a Sudra (3) village the night before. He was surprised to be mistaken for a Sudra; he had always learned that a Brahmin could smell an untouchable for miles. But under this Sudra disguise he could become a Brahmin pet, which was more than he had ever hoped for.

Chapter 5. Life Is Never Easy
At first it was an easy life. The little boy exchanged his claws for clean clothing and was given the name of Pet. All he had to do was play with the Little Brahmins when they wanted and allow himself to be stuffed with good food and sweet fruits.

One day the Little Brahmins decided that they would go to the Sudra compound to watch the women washing themselves in the river. There were only four seats in the moving tent, so Pet cleverly said that he did not want to go. But the oldest Little Brahmin, who enjoyed Pet’s smart humor, made another Little Brahmin –the one who always complained- stay and forced Pet to go in his place.

When a Big Brahmin found that the Little Brahmin had been left out for a Sudra pet, the earth had no rest from his stomping feet. The Big Brahmin waited for the boys to return from the washing river. He let all the Little Brahmins pass and then blocked Pet’s way. He said, "little pet, you are too smart for your own good, from now on you will learn your place, you will be my Little Pet." And thus it was that Pet became like a doormat for the Big Brahmins to walk on. No more good food. No more clear water.

Chapter 6. A Window In The Hall
On his 15th birthday Pet passed by a window. He noticed a boy that looked like a dog. He had a sturdy frame, a fine sharp jaw and beautiful green eyes, but he walked like a cowering dog, kicked too many times in the stomach. When he cringed at the awful boy, he saw the boy cringe back and realized that the boy was he, Pet. The shame enveloped him like the fire that sometimes emerges from a lotus. "Little Pet!" He heard the sickening snarl of the one he had come to call master. But man has his limits and so Pet took out the knife he used to cut his master’s meat and instead cut his master. From then on he called himself Veerappan and vowed never again to be anyone's pet.

Chapter 7.Veerapan and Vayshnavia
Her wide hips swirled like jungle snakes around his thoughts. "We have the most beautiful women in the world," shouted Veerappan as he examined the large flexing thighs of the dancer and slammed his cup of throat-burning Varusha (4) down onto the elephant bone table. He seemed half-animal-half-human with his broad shoulders, hard, mahogany-colored body, stocky fingers and green laughing-wolf eyes. The huge creases on the sides of his mouth are from smiling too much. At his side was Vayshnavia. Her black hair grazed the ground as she sat, with legs open wide and firmly planted to the ground, devouring her meal. She was tall with knife-edge cheekbones, piercing black eyes and a mouth that could put anyone to shame. Her fingers were long, with knots at every joint. Veerappan called them the hands that could hold up the world.

Eyes focused on the dancer, Veerappan grinned and announced, "Yes! I will take her tonight." But Vayshnavia quickly broke into his train of thought with her thundering laughter, picked up her knife and held it over the thick vein pulsating in the center of his hand, her eyes smiling viciously. "No, on second thought, she is not beautiful enough for me," Veerappan announced with a hyena grin. Vayshnavia's smile faded, she set down the knife and continued chewing on her snake meat. Veerappan never had and never would be with a woman other than Vayshnavia, he values his life too much. But looking at the dancer reminded him of the stories his grandmother used to tell him, before she died and left him alone in the world. She said that they were descendents of the original travelers. It was because of his great-great-great grandmother’s sin, being taken by a gadje (5), that his family stayed in the original land and never got to the far off places that are now the lands of his relatives. After killing his shame and his master in one fell swoop, Veerappan became determined to follow the ways of his people. This meant there were only two peoples, the original travelers and the gadje, and the original travelers had the right to live off of (and entertain themselves at the expense of) the gadje’s naivete. That’s how it had been since the beginning of time. He insisted that caste meant nothing to him.

Chapter 8. The Boy With Almond Eyes
Vayshnavia had prayed endlessly to the earth and the forest to give her a son. When finally her belly had begun to swell she became unbearable. She demanded to be carried everywhere. She brought out her knife at the slightest provocation. She would only eat freshly picked fruit and freshly butchered meat. The baby Neera came out with Veerappan’s grin and Vayshnavia’s black almond eyes. Vayshnavia carried him everywhere, making Veerappan red with jealousy. Finally they had an argument, the only one in which Veerappan ended triumphant, and she agreed that if she didn’t let the boy run around with the other children, his skin would never grow tough like his father’s. So Neera was allowed to play and Vayshnavia had more time to slap Veerappan when he got out of hand.

Chapter 9. The Sky Is Black
It was five years after Neera’s birth. Veerappan was sharpening his police knives when he saw a group of the tribe’s children come to an abrupt halt in front of him. They laid the boy Padavanis in front of him. Veerappan waited but when none of them spoke he lunged at them with one of the knives. A little girl spoke up, "They have taken Neera, and Padavanis has died defending him." She cringed and looked at the ground as she continued. "They say that if you do what the Big Brahmin says, they will give him back. The Big Brahmin said to tell you that he is the son of your… your… master." This last word cut short the storm of energy inside of Veerappan. It gave him a pain deep in his stomach. It put drops of salt-water in his eyes. It took away his smile.
* * *

Veerappan and Vayshnavia stayed in their hut for weeks. Nobody knew what was going to happen. The children left food and herbs outside of their closed door, but it only helped the village animals grow fatter. Every few hours a horrible cry would escape the elephant bone house, making the whole tribe shutter. No one knew which of the two belonged to that cry.

Finally after three weeks Vayshnavia emerged like a shadow from the white bone house. She said, "The sky has turned black, we will do as the Brahmin has asked."

Chapter 10. Knots
The Big Brahmin had been trying to hire Veerappan for a long time. They had offered money and fame. At times Veerappan had thought of capitulating but Vayshnavia was always quick to remind him how the Brahmins had not hesitated to wipe their behinds with his over-worked hands. They wanted Veerappan to kidnap the famous actor Rajkamur, who had been a sudra. Vayshnavia knew that it would be just another way for the Brahmins to hold razors to the eyes of the lower castes, thus preventing them from seeing their own pride. It would remove Rajkamur from the public eye so that he could be forgotten and at the same time Veerappan, who had been an untouchable, would be hated. But what really knotted Vayshnavia’s insides was the possibility that if Veerappan began to work for the Big Brahmin he would fall back into the spell of Shame he had broken when he had killed his master. Vayshnavia knew how weak her Veerappan could be, but she could not risk the life of her son.

Chapter 11. The Spell
And thus Rajkamur was kidnapped, Neera was returned and Vayshnavia’s gut was beyond knotting. The Brahmins enticed Veerappan with their suits made of pure gold and their ruby studded canes. So after he had kidnapped Rajkamur, he continued to work for the Brahmins and stopped taking care of his tribe. No more beautiful weddings, no more singing, and no more laughing. This was the Spell of shame.

Chapter 12. The Answer
The tribe reminded Rajkamur of his family. He had forgotten how having nothing could intensify the feeling of love and camaraderie in a family. How they had lacked for bread but never for a warm embrace and a sharing of Varusha. It pained him to see how things were changing for the tribe. Now that Veerappan was under the Spell, people were getting greedier, the children were getting skinnier and Varusha was in shorter supply. So, in an attempt to call the gods, Rajkamur decided to deny himself of all earthly delights until an answer came to him.

However, with the heart condition he had had since he was a child because of malnutrition, he was not strong enough for such a feat and died in meditation.

Chapter 13. Shiny Stones
The sky only blackened and blackened. The children were starving and the men were looking for happiness in the arms of other women, a practice that Vayshnavia had never approved of. The houses fell in disrepair and the whole time Veerappan was busy pleasing the Brahmins in order to get his hands on some shiny stones that did nothing to feed babies or satisfy women. The few times that he did return home, he would stay inside, counting all his treasure. All this was what had made Vayshnavia cry so hoarsely when Grace was looking down on the earth.

In Veerappan’s eyes Grace saw the same blank greediness as she had seen in her landlady’s eyes. She saw in the tribe the same fear she had felt at the thought of being thrust into the streets, at an age where she could no longer afford to be taken advantage of. And so, understanding the tribe’s fear, Grace had given up the idea of rest and decided to return to earth.

Chapter 14. Grace Vayshnavia
Armed with a new spirit and calling herself Grace Vayshnavia, she went to Veerappan as he was counting his jewels. She kicked him back, gathered he cold stones and threw them out the door where all the children went to collect them. When Veerappan tried to run out to retrieve them she stood at the entrance. Her feet were like roots planted into the ground. Veerappan knew that he would never get around her. Vayshnavia directed her piercing gaze toward Veerappan, as she had not been able to do in a long time. Veerappan tried to avert his eyes but Vayshnavia took out her knife, held it to his throat and spit her words into his face, "You have brought our tribe the worst illness. You have brought us shame. You lap up the Brahmin jewels like the lowliest dog, while your family is starving. If you truly believe that you are a dog with no name and no home then I will treat you like one. I will cut you into little pieces and I will feed you to my starving son!"

Veerappan remembered the animal he had seen in the window many years ago and again felt a rage so powerful that it made his heart shudder. He took the knife from Vayshnavia and killed his second shame by killing his second master.
* * *

Chapter 15. Healthy Cheeks
It was when Grace’s spirit entered Vayshnavia that she gained the strength to take away the Spell of shame. Only then could Veerappan go back to caring for his tribe. And that’s why you, my little one, are so healthy, why your cheeks are plump and your hair grows quickly. Now hurry and get dressed for we must go pay homage to Grace’s spirit for she will be moving on to another body. Never forget what I have told you, a woman’s spirit never dies.

Footnotes
1. Little Brahmin: A young boy of the Brahmin (i.e. priest) caste
2. Brahma: God in Hinduism
3. Sudra: Lowest Caste, above Untouchable
4. Varusha: Strong alcoholic beverage
5. Gadje: Outsider

by Staff Writer

I once heard of someone writing about a blank piece of paper, now that I look at my blank piece I could start to imagine what that person probably thought, no better yet what I think , I look at this paper sort of as my people unappreciated and taken for granted, unnoticed or rather yet ignored, when I say my people I don�t just mean BLACK but as a wise teacher once said the �P.W.C� do they view us as sand paper , that we will just lay there unused and get sick and die HELL NO we stand as construction paper hard and hard to break no matter how much weight but you ask what happens when you get to the point when there is not much more you can take�. Recycle and come back stronger next time�� no let me stop feeding you that bullshit line don�t go no where stand , stand stronger then those �fixed levi�s� and taller than the eiffel tower then well see in the end who really has the fuckin POWER�

DeVaughn Glaze

by Teresa Molina/PNN Voces de Inmigrante en Resistencia

Scroll Down for English

La mañana estaba fría y afilada, mientras yo, una inmigrante trabajadora, madre y reportera de Voces de Inmigrantes en Resistencia en Prensa POBRE estaba parada entre cientos de trabajadores emigrantes en San Francisco City Hall mas temprano en este mes en solidaridad con todos los trabajadores de la nación luchando por justicia--luchando para ser pagados por nuestro trabajo--peleando la epidemia del robo de sueldos. Todos est·bamos emocionados que nuestra voz sea escuchada, hacen acto de presencia y que miles y miles de empleadores que no han pagado sus trabajadores, algunos desde el 2006 seran puestos a la luz. Estos empleadores han motivado la epidemia del robo de sueldo.

Hilary Ronen de La Raza Centro Legal dice que esta acción y protesta fue dada porque, "ay una epidemia del robo de sueldo!". En esta manifestación, estuvieron presente como ochenta personas, y varias organizaciones, como La Colectiva de Mujeres, La Raza Centro Legal, POWER, MUA, Filipinos por Acción Afirmativa, La Asociación Progresiva de Chinos, Filipinos Community Center, Young Workers United, y Prensa POBRE.

Muchos de los empleados injustos no les pagan a sus empleados, o les pagan lo que les da la gana. No es justo porque estos empleados criminales, ponen a trabajar a las personas horas extras y no lo reconocen, y no les dan descansos; y los abusos siguen sin parar. Los patrones abusivos siguen explotando al trabajador, y este problema no solo se enfocan en la industria de trabajadoras domesticas o jornaleros, también se han visto afectadas las personas que trabajan en hoteles, cuidadoras de niños, y trabajadores de restaurante. Por eso estamos aquí, reclamando al gobierno para que se haga justicia. Que ajusten a los empleadores que no pagan y que los arresten. Ya basta! Que cumplan con las leyes porque no estamos haciendo respetados. Somos los que hacemos los trabajos mas peores y mas pesados.

Todos aqui presentes, de cualquier modo expresamos los abusos que pasamos con nuestros patrones. Uno de ellos es Julio Loyola, un jornalero del Day Laborer Program, quien expreso sus sentimientos hacia los abusos de los jornaleros, "que nos han puesto a trabajar y los exponen a quÌmicos peligrosos y los ponen a trabajar sin equipo de protección, y aparte le roban su sueldo."

Al preguntarle a Hilary Ronen, una abogada de La Raza Centro Legal, ìcuales son sus esperanzas al tener esta manifestación?" ella respondió, "espero que la cuidad se envolviera mas en recursos y hacer cumplir a los patrones de San Francisco sobre las leyes laborarles. Es ley que todo trabajador debe recibir su sueldo independientemente de su estatus migratorio."

Aqui en prensa POBRE estamos cansados de la injusticia y es la razon que salimos a luchar. Porque si no luchamos no seremos escuchados, porque nadie va luchar por nosotros. Con la unidad siempre ganaremos! Solos no podemos.

Unete Pueblo a la Lucha!

Ingles sigue

The morning was cool and sharp, as I, a migrant worker, mother and reportera for Voces de Inmigrantes en Resistencia at POOR Magazine stood with hundreds of migrant workers at San Francisco City Hall earlier this month in solidarity with workers all across the nation struggling for justice – struggling to be paid for our work- fighting the epidemic of “wage theft. We were all excited that our voices would be heard, and that thousands of employers who have not paid their poor workers, some since as far back as 2006, would be brought forth today. These employers have fueled the epidemic of wage theft.

Hilary Ronen, from La Raza Centro Legal, said that this action and protest took place because, “wage theft has become an epidemic!” There were many powerful community organizations present such as, La Colectiva de Mujeres, La Raza Centro Legal, POWER, MUA, Filipinos for Affirmative Action, Chinese Progressive Movement, Filipinos Community Center, Young Workers United, and POOR Magazine.

Many of the unjust employers have not paid wages, or they pay them whatever they want. It is not fair, because these criminal employers make the workers work overtime, then do not recognize the hours or they do not give the workers any days off; and the abuses continue without a stop. The abuse employers continue to exploit the worker, and this is not a problem that only focuses on domestic workers or day laborers, but it also extends to hotel workers, nannies and restaurant workers. This is why we are here, to demand the government in order to seek justice. Arrest the employers who do not pay their workers. Ya Basta! Enough! We are not being respected and these employers are not abiding with the law. We are the ones that do the heaviest and dirtiest jobs.

All of us present, in one way or another expressed the abuse we have endured with our employers. One of these people is Julio Loyola, a day laborer from the Day Laborer Program, who expressed his feelings about the abuse that many day laborers face, “that they put them to work exposing them to dangerous chemicals and they make them work without any protective equipment, and they still steal their salary.”

After asking Hilary Ronen, a lawyer from La Raza Centro Legal, “What are your hopes in having this protest?” she responded, “I hope that The City gets involved with more resources and make the employers abide by the labor laws of San Francisco. It is law that all worker gets paid for their work independent of their immigration status.”

Here at POOR Magazine we are tired of such injustice and it is the reason we are out here resisting. If we do not resist we will not be heard, because no one else is going to fight our struggles. With unity we will always win! Alone we cannot win.

Community Unite and Join the Struggle!

by Tiny/PNN

Houzless chyle….

sky iz r roof

keepin us lookin up.

windowz r tha eye’z of r people

showin us socitiez

justice iz just.ice.

capitalizm has no human worth

Excerpt from the poem :Houzless Chyle by Jewnbug, Po’ Poetz ProjecK of, POOR Magazine

"We are here today to hear the truth of homelessness and to remind people that there are homeless people who have died on our streets….we have to find a more compassionate way to solve homelessness and to be compassionate really means to suffer with people and through the identification with people, to relieve their suffering," I watched the warm brown eyes of Reverend Dorsey Blake from the Church of the Fellowship of all
Peoples as he prepared to participate in the multi-denominational, and truly inspiring Covenant of Compassion ceremony held last Sunday in San Francisco’s City Hall plaza. As he spoke, I clutched a handmade wooden cross, one of 100 crosses created by the ceremonies organizers; Religious Witness with Homeless People covered with the name of a houseless San Franciscan who had passed, unnoticed, uncounted, unnamed and unremembered, until now, on the ice-like streets of San Francisco in 2004.

As a formerly houseless, member of POOR Magazine’s Po Poets Project, I, too was preparing to participate by spitting spoken Wordz and poverty scholarship with my fellow po’ poets Jewnbug and, A. Faye Hicks, in a day focused not only on honoring the houseless who have passed but also to hear, recognize and act compassionately on the real story behind the racist, classist, anti-homeless people legislation known as Care Not Cash(CNC) launched as the mayoral platform for Gavin Newsom

"We live in very violent times when the current (presidential) administration is more outraged at a breast shown at a football game than the systematic abuse and torture of people in Iraq, Afghanistan and Guantanamo Bay" The day began by hearing from

Assemblyman Mark Leno who along with SF supervisors Chris Daly and Bevan Dufty sponsored a legislation that would force the City to start counting and naming the City’s homeless who died on the streets, a process which used to happen every year but was ended in 2001, Mark continued, "when violence is so glorified, humanity and the value of humans is debased –we need to put a name and a face on the people that have died on the streets"

SF Supervisor Chris Daly followed him,"Its not just about the fact that people who have died on our streets should not go unmarked and un-mourned but its also about analyzing how we’re doing as a city and a society on one of our most difficult and confusing issues, homelessness"., With his support of this and other issues Chris continues to be one of the few consistently progressive voices on the board for economic justice in San Francisco

"Allaaaaaaah Aloo Akebah" After the triumphant news that we had won back the right to recognize the passing of San Francisco's’ homeless, the diminutive and powerful Sister Bernie, Executive Director of Religious Witness with Homeless People launched the days cross denominational "Solemn Opening of Service" which included a Buddhist bell sounding, a Jewish horn, a song about homelessness and a haunting Muslim chant by Souleiman Ghali. As he sung/chant I was transported to the multiple targets of Bush/Cheny Inc.'s Krusades/kolinazation efforts in Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran and mused at the similar ways in which the corporate media promoted international abuses and local abuses of marginalized and unheard peoples.

"We come here today because our sisters and brothers with no homes have asked us to listen to them in their time of suffering despite the rosy picture created by the media" After the Solemn service Reverend Jana Drakka described the focus of the covenant of compassion, "Throughout the past eight months that the legislation Care not Cash has been in effect the media has repeatedly reported on its wonderful results and indeed over 628 homeless adults have been placed in rooms. And we rejoice as members of religious witness in that fact as we have been advocating for housing with supportive services for the last eleven years. Sadly, however, the way Care Not Cash has been implemented has resulted in the suffering of many other homeless people- by both the 1000 people targeted by Care Not Cash as well as the over 13,000 San Franciscans not targeted by Care Not Cash - a study released in November conducted by homeless people confirmed what we have been told.

She concluded with a grace that only a religious leader could muster, "Let us be clear we are not here to question the commitment of Mayor Newsom and his administration to, and I quote, 'end homelessness as we know it' but we Leaders, friends and members of religious witness are committed to listening to the voices of our poor and homeless brothers and sisters to stand compassionately with them in their suffering and to join them in their struggle for justice."

"We think its wrong for a shelter to be considered "housing" which is how it is worded in the CNC legislation," Shelly Roder from St Boniface Shelter was one of the first advocates to address the gathering, "to consider a mat or cot cramped in with a lot of other people which often ends up being a mat on the floor, housing, is not right- and then making a shelter mat part of a (welfare) benefit package displaces many of the homeless who don't receive city funds (i.e., Welfare/ General Assistance/GA ) cause the beds are reserved for people on GA"

"I just wanted to start by thanking Mark Leno cause Food stamps were restored to felons who were convicted for drug offenses thanks to his tireless efforts" Next we heard from Bill Hart, the formerly houseless, executive director of General Assistance Advocacy Project /GAAP

He continued,"Before Care Not Cash there were 2,497 homeless people receiving welfare benefits-its now down to 852 - but where did the 1090 people go?- most of them dropped off the program cause its too hard to do all the hoops just to get $29.00 every two weeks, including a new rigorous form of job search and they don't even give you a bus pass, so people just said forget it I can’t to do all that"

"We are starting this new year tragically for poor and homeless people. One of the saddest examples of this is when I meet previously homeless people who are now incarcerated telling me that they are better off in prison (where they are now) in San Quentin- they only thing they lost was their freedom but that was better than how they felt on the streets of San Francisco under care not cash living on $59 a month." With tears of horror in my eyes at Bill’s last comment, I wondered if the "paupers prisons" my poor Irish Grandmother used to tell me about could be far behind. But of course who needs them, they are already here…

"Hi, I am Ken Sanders, I am 55 years old and I am a diabetic residing at Hospitality House - I have lived in SF all of my life- only homeless for the last four years - homelessness is a hard job-and cause of Care Not Cash, its even harder" The most important part of the day, the testimonies of folk struggling with this CNC mess, was launched with the tragic voices of African Descendent, Latino and White folks like long-term SF resident, Mr. Sanders and the next speaker, the eloquent David Hawkins-Bey

"I am from Detroit Michigan, I came to the Bay Area in July of 2004 I came here to work in the hotels and come to find out they were on strike. I eventually started to receive the $29.00 CNC benefit but my whole purpose of being here was to work and it seemed like I was being penalized for working part-time and receiving $200-300 a month which I was going to use to move in to an apartment. Instead my food stamps were cut and I still haven't found any housing, I thought if I proved myself to be a productive citizen that the GA program would work for me. In Michigan there is no general Assistance program, no welfare, no nothing- I came here in the hopes of providing a better life for myself and in the end I know that the only savior is love and to believe in love and the love of God - it is all you can take with you"

We then heard a bi-lingual plea for economic justice from the Lorenzo Cruz, a homeless, immigrant day laborer, "The life for day laborers is very hard- in the past, day laborers like me could stay in shelters for a place to sleep but now because of Care not Cash the shelters are no longer a place to sleep for us- and with little work immigrant workers have no money to rent a room- why is this city making the lives of poor people so difficult?"

The day was filled with the poverty scholarship of many more homeless folks trying to express the unbelievably difficult position of poor people living under this corporate poverty pimpin program called Care not Cash sponsored by the city government including one man who spoke of spending all night just to get one bed only to be told at 11:00pm, that his struggle was futile as there was in fact, no room at the Inn.

The powerful and tragic day closed with a Dance of compassion, response "to the testimonies" by Reverend Jane Schlager and Reverend Nobu Hanaoka and closing hymn called The Lord hears the Cry of the Poor……

by Tony Robles/PNN

My Uncle Anthony has this expression that goes, “You might be my color but you ain’t my kind”. He is a street minister who says he’s workin’ for the lord. “The pay might be low but the benefits are out of this world” he says.

You might be my color but…

Working as a security guard, I’ve worked with many people of color. Each has their own personality, their own story, their own trip. I’ve met folks who act like cops and others who have dreamed, or have let their dream slip away. I have met people who have shared their last bit of food with me and those who have shared nothing.

I work at an apartment complex with several other guards. We handle noise complaints; make sure no one’s drinking alcohol in the pool etc.

Surrounding the apartment complex are clusters of trees. Some trees stand straight while others stand at an angle, having withstood the wind and time. At night the moon can be seen peeking through the trees. I look up as the moon announces itself as it did to my elders and ancestors an ocean away in a place whose songs and poetry travel though my veins, nourishing my spirit. In that moment my uniform disappears, I am brown, a man whose bloodline knows only resistance and love and poetry.

Then, a fellow guard approaches me, shows me a slingshot he bought. He is brown like me. He hands me the slingshot and I ask him what he uses it for. “I use it to shoot those birds” he says, “Those black ones”. I ask him if he’s referring to ravens and he answers in the affirmative.

I hand the slingshot back. I look at the moon and the trees that bend. Who would shoot such beautiful birds, those carriers of messages of the ancestors, I ask myself. I hear my uncle’s voice:

You might be my color but…

by Ken Moshesh

ODE TO LANGSTON

UNSEEN

ARE THE DIVERSE FACES

OF MY HOMELESS AND AT-RISK

PEOPLE

STILL CLOAKED IN INVISIBILITIES

OF

SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGICAL, COLD

WAR

DENIALS AND FEARS

PASSED DOWN THROUGH

PAEENTINGS AND NIGHTMARES

OF PAST AND POSSIBLE

DEPRESSIONS

VEILED IN PRESENT

INSECURITIES AND OBLIGATIONS

DEEMED NECESSARY TO PREVENT

THE NON-BEHOLDER FROM

BECOMING THE BEHELD.

STEEPED IN SELF-SERVING

NEGATIVE STEREOTYPES

DEMOCRATIC PROCLAMATIONS

RATIONALIZING

LOFTY, POSITIVE,CONCEPTS

FOR WHICH WE HAVE KILLED.

AND NOW, FAR TOO MANY

WHO RISKED ALL TO KILL

FOR THE CAUSE

ARE ALSO RENDERED

HOMELESSSLY MISSING IN

ACTION
B
Y THE UNNECESSARY

UNREGULATED GREED

OF A FEW.

BLIND ARE THE TUNNEL

EYES

OF THE ABUNDANT SOLUTIONS

TO THE BEAUTIFUL HUMAN FACES OF

MY HOMELESS AND AT-RISK PEOPLE

WHO ALSO

BARELY SEE EACH OTHER

AS THE NATION STRUGGLES

TOWARD HOMELESSNESS

RECOVERY

K MOSHESH 3/00

THE WARM MORNING OF MARCH 21ST FINDS ME LEAVING MY USUALLY- ONCE- PER WEEK INSIDE SPOT EARLIER THAN USUAL. SINCE THIS IS ALSO THE DAY I WASH MY CLOTHES, SOILED FROM THE PREVIOUS NIGHTS’
OUTDOOR ABODES, MY STEPS PASS THE ADJACENT, NOW DORMANT, MOTELS AND TAKE ME TOWARDS THE AREA LAUNDROMAT.

THE PROPRIETOR GREETS ME ON THE WAY OUT AND DISAPPEARS INTO HIS ACTIVITIES AS MY DOLLAR BILL VANISHES INTO A HANDFUL OF COINS. I CAREFULLY DROP THE CORRECT AMOUNT INTO THE RIGHT SLOTS TO BEGIN THE WASH... SOAP IN THE BOTTOM, CLOTHES ON TOP, SELECTION DIAL TO NORMAL INSTEAD OF PERMANENT PRESS... “AT LEAST THE CLOTHES WILL BE CLEAN FOR MY DAY IN COURT,” GIVES WAY TO THE SOUND OF THE INCOMING WATER FILLING THE VACUUMS.

I HOPE SOME OF THE PEOPLE WHO SAID THEY MIGHT COME SHOW UP, JUST IN CASE SOMETHING GOES WRONG LIKE LAST TIME AND I END UP IN JAIL. THAT WAY I COULD LEAVE MY STUFF WITH FRIENDS INSTEAD OF HAVING SELECTED ITEMS CONFISCATED (LIKE MY BOOK ON HOMELESSNESS, COBBLESTONING QUICKSAND MAZES, WAS DURING MY LAST ARREST). I OPEN THE TOP LOADER. THE MACHINERY STOPS ALONG WITH MY THOUGHTS AS MY FINGERS CHRONICLE THE COLDNESS OF THE WATER. ANOTHER PATRON COMES IN, ALSO LOOKING FOR THE MANAGER, AS THE IMPENDING 9:30 COURT TIME SLAMS THE LID SHUT.

WEARING MY SEMI-CLEAN APPAREL, I AM GREETED IN FRONT OF THE BERKELEY SUPERIOR COURT, RIGHT NEXT TO THE BRAND NEW BERKELEY POLICE DEPARTMENT, BY A CHARACTER DRESSED IN MANY THINGS. THE MOST NOTABLE OF THESE ARE AN OLD TRENCH COAT AND A COLORFUL BANDANA AROUND HIS FOREHEAD. “THEY CALL ME THE ACE OF SHADES,” GESTICULATES MY HOST AS HE ATTEMPTS TO OCCUPY AS MUCH OF THE WALKWAY LEADING TO THE COURTHOUSE AS HE CAN. MEANWHILE, POLICE OFFICERS ENTER IN AND OUT OF THE POLICE STATION AND COURT PERSONNEL IN AND OUT OF THE COURTHOUSE NONCHALANTLY.

NOTICING THE DAMPNESS INSIDE MY COLDLY WASHED JACKET POCKETS, I WALK OVER TO THE GRASS IN FRONT OF THE COURT BUILDING TO A STRUCTURE THERE, AND PLACE MY TWO HOUSE PACKS ON IT.
THE ACE OF SHADES THEN WALKS BY, KICKS OVER A CONTAINER OF LIQUID ON THE GROUND NEAR ME, AND BACKS UP QUICKLY, APPARENTLY THINKING THIS SPLASH WOULD RESULT IN THE TYPE OF ATTENTION HE DESIRES. EVEN THOUGH THE MARTIAL ARTIST IN ME OBJECTS, THE PART OF ME SEEKING TO CHALLENGE THE CONSTITUTIONALITY OF THE LODGING LAWS THAT OCCASIONED MY RENDEZVOUS WITH THE ACE OF SHADES BEFORE MY UPCOMING APPEARANCE IN COURT TODAY (TO KEEP FROM GOING BACK TO JAIL FOR SLEEPING OUTSIDE) IS VICTORIOUS.

ONE BY ONE, FIVE WELCOMED ASSOCIATES ASSEMBLE ON THE COURT HOUSE LAWN, WITH ANOTHER TWO ,OSHA NEUMANN (ATTORNEY AT LAW), AND JULIE CHI, UC STUDENT YET TO COME. LISA GRAY-GARCIA (AKA TINY), PROJECT DIRECTOR/ CO-EDITOR POOR MAGAZINE; DARREN NOY LEAD,COMMUNITY ORGANIZER BOSS; MICHAEL DIEHL, BERKELEY FREE CLINIC ETC.; CHARLES AIKENS, POST NEWSPAPER GROUP; AND VIDEOGRAPHER ALDO ARTURO DELLA MAGGIORA CONVENE, MAP
STRATEGY, CONDUCT INTERVIEWS, AND VIDEOTAPE FOR BOTH THE COURT CASE AND OUR OWN MEDIA COVERAGE.THE ACE RUNS AHEAD AND OPENS THE COURTHOUSE DOORS ATTEMPTING TO ANTICIPATE AND BE INCLUDED IN OUR CAMERA SHOTS.

INSIDE THE COURTHOUSE, DISCUSSIONS AND INTERVIEWS CONTINUE. WE ARE GRANTED PERMISSION TO VIDEO TAPE IN COURT. THE PUBLIC DEFENDER, GREG SYREN, AND OUR LEGAL ASSOCIATE, OSHA NEUMANN, JOIN IN OUR CONTINUING COMMUNICATION CIRCLE.

FINALLY THE PUBLIC DEFENDER IS CONVINCED TO ASK THE JUDGE FOR A LEGAL HEARING TO CHALLENGE THE LODGING LAW, AND THE HEARING ON THE ORIGINAL PETITION TO REVOKE PROBATION (FOR LODGING). THE JUDGE GRANTS THE REQUEST AND SETS THE 12TH OF APRIL AS THE NEW COURT DATE FOR BOTH MOTIONS.

by Tanya Brannan/Purple Berets

A hush fell over the courtroom as Sara Hernandez began her second day of testimony in the María Teresa Macias federal civil rights trial in San Francisco. All eyes were on Sara as she told the story of her daughter‚s valiant but ill-fated attempts to escape her husband‚s violence. 

But that escape was not to be.  On April 15, 1996, Avelino Macias brutally murdered Teresa, shot Sara, and then lay across Teresa‚s dying body and blew his brains out.

Before that awful day, Teresa Macias had contacted the Sonoma County Sheriff‚s Department more than twenty times to report Avelino‚s obsessive stalking; threats to kill Teresa, her children, her mother and other family members in Mexico; and a number of other felony crimes. She‚d had friends, family and employers report incidents they themselves had witnessed, got multiple restraining orders, and reported every violation of those orders to the sheriff.  In short, Teresa Macias did everything right. 

But the Sheriff‚s Department did everything wrong.  They never cited or arrested Avelino, despite their own policy and California law requiring that they do so.  They called Teresa crazy, told her to quit coming in and to just write down her complaints instead, and then never bothered to translate the diary pages she brought them detailing more than 30 separate crimes.  They took her children into Child Protective Services custody because Teresa could not protect them >from Avelino‚s violence and sexual abuse.  And through it all, they only even bothered to write two police reports.

On the witness stand, Sara Hernandez described Teresa‚s constant fear of >Avelino, a man who had beaten her, raped her repeatedly, and shot a man in the head in their home in front of Teresa and her three young children.  He had molested and beaten with broomsticks those same children, and put cigarettes out on Teresa‚s arms.  And then Sara described the day he murdered her.

As Sara and Teresa arrived for their housecleaning job on that drizzly April morning, Avelino lay in wait.  After he forced his way into the car; Teresa escaped and ran into the house.  When he forced his way into the house, Teresa fled to the sidewalk.  As Sara picked up the phone to dial 911 she heard Teresa plead, "For God's sake, for God's sake, don't do it, don't do it." And then she heard the shot.

Sara went to the front door and saw Avelino running up the sidewalk shooting wildly.  I slammed the door closed and leaned against it because ... I was afraid, Sara testified.  Then Avelino shot me [in both legs].  I fell to my knees.  As he turned to leave, Avelino said, laughing,  "My stupid mother-in law, I have killed your daughter."

Moments after this chilling testimony, the courtroom sat in stunned silence as attorneys for the Sonoma County Sheriff announced they had reached a settlement agreement with the Macias family.  And with that historic $1 million settlement ˆ the first-ever paid by a law enforcement agency for their failure to protect a domestic violence victim leading to her homicide ˆ one of the most important women's rights cases in U.S. history came to a dramatic end.
María Teresa Macias v. Sonoma Co. Sheriff Mark Ihde had already made history in July 2000, when a unanimous decision by the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals held that the constitutional violation in the Macias case was the Sheriff‚s Department's failure to provide her non-discriminatory law enforcement.  That precedent-setting decision, the first and clearest ever to state that women victims of domestic violence have a right to Equal Protection under the U.S. constitution, kicked open the doors to justice for the millions of women victimized by their violent partners every year.

But the Macias case is not only a legal victory, it is a victory for grassroots activism.  Myself (Purple Berets) and Marie De Santis of Women‚s Justice Center investigated and exposed the sheriff‚s misconduct, organized six years of demonstrations, events and media revelations, found the attorneys and formulated the legal strategy, and helped the family deal with a host of other needs in the wake of Teresa's murder. 

And in the end, we all fulfilled Teresa Macias' last wish.  In the days before her murder, Teresa told her mother Sara, „If I die, I want you to tell the world what happened to me.  I don't want other women to suffer as I have suffered; I want them to be listened to.

For more on the María Teresa Macias case go to www.purpleberets.org or www.justicewomen.com, or read Tanya Brannan‚s two-part story in the Albion Monitor at www.albionmonitor.net. ///>///>

PURPLE BERETS

Women Defending Women

PO Box 3064

Santa Rosa, CA 95402

707.887.0262; fax 707.887.0865
http://www.purpleberets.org
///>

by Staff Writer

Our nightmares starts
Out of “there is no cholera in Zimbabwe”
Out of the dead men from cholera
Out of the dead women from HIV Aids
Out of the dead children from hunger
Out of the dead young adults from political killings
Out of little children become war soldiers
Out of the vengeance of Mugabe’s CIO
Out of the beast ZANUPF, police and army
Out of a country now locked in political gridlocks

Out of the lunatic moans of Mugabe against Britain
Out of the lunatic bile of Mugabe against the west
Out of the forthcoming breakdown due to this defiance
Out of cry songs that now stains the whole region
Out of the stench of South Africa’s silent diplomacy
Out of the stench of SADC and Africa’s denial
Out of a conspiring humanity
Out of this chaos is a journey that leads across Limpopo River.

We are footfalls walking through the dense forest
So many frontiers that we have crossed
So many shadows of so many at one side
And our silenced dreams on the other side.

The raven’s voice falls silent in the darkened leaves
The trees are the only ones who pray for themselves
For the moon always passes on top of them
And in the dark nights we wait for the moon
To tell us to venture into the hungry crocodiles in Limpopo
And I can see their red tongues stretching out
To lick the slime of our yoke and blood.

We are another one among these marauding herds
Limpopo River is now a mixture of silt, blood, bones and scars
Where other traumatised adults giggle chorus of grief
And every anguished cry feed these fat crocodiles
We are now bones within this river’s churn
Soon fish will have to negotiate us.