Our country prides itself in providing its citizens with equal
fundamental rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution. History
shows that these fundamental rights have been and continue to be
compromised. In many cases they were compromised under the
assumption that people of color were not equals, and today we see
a distinct fissure between the haves and have-nots -- those that
can afford to have rights, and those that simply can't afford
them. The U.S. Supreme Court's unanimous decision on March 26,
2002, confirming that tenants residing in public housing will be
evicted if anyone in their household, a guest, or other person
under their control engages in any illegal drug-related
activities, is a prime example of this unfair "selectivity of
rights."
The Supreme Court ruling came in response to a combination of
cases in which tenants were evicted because someone else in their
household was involved in drug activities. One of the cases
involves 63-year-old Barbara Hill and 71-year-old Willy Lee, who
have been in public housing for over two decades, and whose
grandsons were caught smoking marijuana in the parking lot of
their apartment. Another involves a 63-year-old woman, Pearle
Rucker, whose mentally disabled daughter was caught with drugs
fairly near the Oakland housing project they resided in. Rucker
argues that she never observed any drug use on behalf of her
daughter. Lastly, the fourth case involves Herman Walker, a
disabled 71-year-old man, whose caretaker and guests were found in
the possession of cocaine in Walker's apartment. Although Walker
fired the caretaker, he was still given an eviction notice.
All of the tenants above were sent to the Oakland streets
regardless of their age, circumstances, or lack of knowledge that
the person who they were responsible for was engaged in drug-
related activities. Many of the tenants had lived in public
housing for years; how could they possibly afford anything else?
Rents aren't getting any lower. The Just Cause Coalition in
Oakland reported that rents in Oakland have increased 25 percent
in 2001 alone. In 1998 there were 84,000 low-income renters, but
only 36,000 low-income rental units. Public housing is therefore
essential for many families that qualify. In order to qualify for
public housing in Oakland, residents cannot make more than 30
percent of the city's family median income. Currently, most people
living in public housing are single mothers with two or more
children, senior citizens, and disabled people.
Hence, we come to an irrefutable contradiction. During President
Roosevelt's era and his analysis of the country's poor, the
"culture of poverty" was deemed to be an individual issue. The
whole philosophy of "blame the individual," began to saturate
American minds. If you were poor, it was because you weren't
working hard enough; you were lazy or perhaps incapable or
unwilling to compete. The assumption was that capitalism provided
everyone with tools for prosperity, and if you were poor it was
simply your choice. And Americans believed it. They still believe
it. And they will continue to believe it, unless we begin to
disclose the truth. The truth is that the number of poor continues
to grow at an exponential rate. We are all human beings that want
to live well, want our children fed, and want to live life to the
fullest. The second reality is that in our country you have to be
able to afford it all. If you can't afford it, then you lack the
basic necessities for survival. First the poor are accountable for
themselves. Now they're not only accountable for themselves, but
they are responsible for others as well. How is that just? So if
the poor are responsible for those that reside in their apartment,
then who's responsible for the poor that reside in the United
States? When is our government going to be held accountable for
our poor, homeless, elderly, and handicapped?
It's not really about ridding our communities of drugs. If that
were really the issue, Congress would be focusing on the
millionaires who can afford to produce the drug, smuggle it into
the U.S., and whose middle men bring it into our poor communities.
They are the true criminals, and who ironically would never find
themselves in the position that public housing tenants are in. Why
not focus on the root of the problem? It's all a scapegoat.
Throwing people out on the street will not solve anything. It will
only increase the number of homeless we have on our streets, the
number of ill and malnourished, and the number of neglected
Americans. The U.S. Supreme Court decision is an attack on the
poor. When can they ever strive for prosperity if they're
constantly bombarded with laws that strip them of their civil
liberties? The new class of poor is growing, and as Congress
attempts to disperse them, they are going nowhere. They will be on
park benches, on street corners, under trees, and if they're lucky
they will be working at fast food joints, serving coffee, cleaning
buildings, bringing your groceries, building, painting, selling
... enough to survive.
The means exist to end poverty. But we are going to have to fight
for a new system -- one that does not blame the poor for their
poverty.
This article originated in the PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE/TRIBUNO DEL PUEBLO
(Online Edition), Vol. 29 No. 5/ May, 2002; P.O. Box 3524,
Chicago, IL 60654; Email: pt@lrna.org; http://www.lrna.org
Feel free to reproduce and use unless marked as copyrighted. The
PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE/TRIBUNO DEL PUEBLO depends on donations from its
readers. To subscribe, send email to majordomo@gocatgo.com with a
message of "subscribe pt-dist". To unsubscribe, send email to majordomo@gocatgo.com with a message of "unsubscribe pt-dist"
******************************************************************
Another mother struggles with the slippery slopes of Child Protective Services
by Dee Gray/Courtwatch
"They took all of my babies of away from me – and then they only gave two of them back even though I did everything they asked" the voice on the other end of the phone was breathless. The voice on the other end of the phone was a mother trying to care for her children. The voice on the other end of the phone was fighting Child Protective Services system to get justice.
"My name is Latrice Persons, I have five children that were taken away by CPS and I’d like you to publish my story." POOR Magazine’s COURTWATCH project received an urgent phone call from Latrice several weeks ago. Sadly hers is only one of many cases that we have been contacted about since Dee Gray launched COURTWATCH,an advocacy project aimed at providing media access for scores of parents across the country who struggle with the often unjust System that is CPS and its’ embedded partners the Juvenile Dependency Court
After a series of phone calls to POOR and the Bayview Dee met with Latrice for an interview. Latrice explained to Dee that after the birth of one of her kids Latrice tested positive for cocaine.After being honest with her counselor at the time about her drug use she was placed into an inpatient drug trwatment program. The first program was very lax with no structure but eventually she was placed in the highly structured and very supportive program at Walden House
" I liked the structure, how strict they was on parents not wanting to stop using drugs who are not ready…One day I just sat in front of a group of people and just cried out my heart. I wasn’t looking for anyone to pat me on my back or feel sorry for me, I was crying out for help. It was there. You can always open up to them. They got a women’s group, relapse prevention, anger management"
After Latrices’ successful completion at Walden House Latrice went to court and the judge directed her to attain housing large enough for her and her children which she did; a four bedroom house in the Bayview district. When she returned to court with proof of her new housing, the judge decided that was still not enough, she needed to get in a program which she did as well as therapy and started a new job. Meanwhile she continued to get tested for drugs, testing "clean" every time for what was now over two years and once again that was still not enough in the eyes of the system.
"I think that they wanted me to just to fail. Because once I completed it ( the program) they were telling me I still wasn’t going to get my kids back and from what I have heard from other mothers in my situation, they’re not going to give your children back whether you complete the program or not"
PNN/Bayview readers who have followed some of our other COURTWATCH reports will recognize Latrices’ assertions as frightfully true. The process to get your children back once they have been referred is not based on a clear path of justice but rather on an arbitrary decision of the judge (commissioner), social worker and City Attorney, not to mention the fact that the original referral of the children has a monetary incentive for the Department (CPS) as the referral triggers up to $12, 500 going to the county, which in POOR’s mind is another example of a capitalist based system that supports the separation, not restoration of families
Latrice went on to explain that in February the court finally granted her custody of her two older children who are 16 and 14 but the three younger children 3, 7 and 12 are still in the system because the court claimed she didn’t comply with therapy and wouldn’t take medication from a psychiatrist,
" I feel I don’t need medication, it doesn’t make sense to get off one drug and go on another as far as the therapy, I went to therapy inside Walden house but and I didn’t really think they would make therapy a big issue now, I thought they was more focused on my drug abuse, you know, my clean testing"
Latrice explained that she has a strong support system in her community from her mom, her neighbors and her older daughter and that separating her family has caused more trauma for her younger children who cry all the time and now wonder if they did something bad and why they can’t come home.
For a year and a half POOR Magazine conducted free bi-lingual, multi-generational, art and writing workshops in shelters, schools and community centers with migrant poverty scholars from across the globe to be included in the audio and print anthology called Los Viajes..Los Viajes introduces a new lens on migration of peoples across Pacha Mama informed by the UN Declaration on Indigenous Peoples
Por un ano y medio Prensa POBRE ha conducido talleres de arte y escritura, bilingues y multi-generacional gratis en refugios, escuelas, y centros comunitarios con sabios de la pobreza y emigracion de todo el mundo, para ser incluidos en esta antologia imprimada y grabada, llamada Los Viajes. Los Viajes introduce un lente nuevo sobre la emigracion y la inmigracion de la gente a traves la Pacha Mama informado por la Declaracion de las Naciones Unidas sobre la Gente Indigena.
Please click here to go to the POOR Press Order Form to purchase Los Viajes. Thank you for your support.
For a year and a half POOR Magazine conducted free bi-lingual, multi-generational, art and writing workshops in shelters, schools and community centers with migrant poverty scholars from across the globe to be included in the audio and print anthology called Los Viajes..Los Viajes introduces a new lens on migration of peoples across Pacha Mama informed by the UN Declaration on Indigenous Peoples
Por un ano y medio Prensa POBRE ha conducido talleres de arte y escritura, bilingues y multi-generacional gratis en refugios, escuelas, y centros comunitarios con sabios de la pobreza y emigracion de todo el mundo, para ser incluidos en esta antologia imprimada y grabada, llamada Los Viajes. Los Viajes introduce un lente nuevo sobre la emigracion y la inmigracion de la gente a traves la Pacha Mama informado por la Declaracion de las Naciones Unidas sobre la Gente Indigena.
Please click here to go to the POOR Press Order Form to purchase Los Viajes. Thank you for your support.
by Staff Writer
La siguiente historia de "Chispita" es un extracto de las muchas historias de viaje de gran alcance incluido en Los Viajes - una antologia literaria de la resistencia
The following story of "Chispita" is an excerpt from the many powerful journey stories included in Los Viajes - a literary anthology of resistance
For English Scroll Down
De Oaxaca, Mexico....
por Chispita
Aqui estoy. Sentada en todo lo que tengo, una banca publica, viendo a mi nino Jesus con lagrimas en sus ojos. Le duele mucho, se puede ver. Sus ojitos me miran pidiendo ayuda, trato con todo mi ser no mostrar en la cara desesperacion, y me es imposible evitar que las lagrimas rueden por mis mejillas tan abundantes como cascadas. Yo volteo hacia arriba por ayuda, y veo que los pasillos se hacen interminables, las bancas crecen al tamano de paredes, y las luces fluorescentes casi me ciegan. Oigo los pasos de miles de gente, siento el temblor de las turbinas, y miro las caras de todas estas personas. Todos contentos, se van de vacaciones, o quizas visitar a su familia. Todos arrastran equipaje y saben para donde van. Todos menos yo.
"Ma, Ma"
"No llores Chui, ya casi vienen por nosotros."
�Donde estaran? Ya son cuatro horas y todavia no llegan. Chui esta muy grave y necesitamos ayuda. Veo sus ojos y hay tanto dolor. Que hago? Han pasado horas desde que comimos algo pero ya se me acabo la lana. �Que hago? Duermete Chui, duermete.
Nunca habia pensado que un aeropuerto en Tijuana me pudiera dar tanta angustia. Mi nieto y yo estamos a miles de millas de casa y ya solo queda continuar con nuestro viaje, pero mi cuerpo se estremece al momento de pensar que no vamos a sobrevivir. Mi Chui ya estaba enfermo cuando nos subieron al avion para aca, y su condicion solo empeora. Ya le llame a mi contacto que nos dijo que pronto nos iban a recoger, pero eso hace cinco horas. Quizas aqui nos vamos a quedar toda la noche, en el aeropuerto de Tijuana
"Senora.Senora. Despierte Senora."
"�Si?"
"�Eres, Chispita?"
"Si"
"Finalmente llegaron! Chui despiertate. Subimos a un van y nos llevaron a una casa cerca de la frontera. En pocas horas se llevarian a Chui que estaba aun mas palido para cruzar en coche. Ha llegado la hora de despedirnos. Me duele muchisimo que se lleven a mi nieto, pero si se queda aqui, en esta casa conmigo de seguro se morira. Chui no queria irse, y mucho menos despedirse de mi. Sus ojitos nublados me miraban y lloraban. Nos abrasamos fuerte y yo le prometi que pronto nos volveriamos a ver, y tambien veria a su mama. El abrio sus brazos y me abrazo una ultima vez. Lo metieron a un coche y se fueron. Su manita y su rostro no dejo de voltear hasta que desaparecio en la carreteara.
En ese momento, parada alli en esa calle, todas mis preocupaciones y miedos se manifestaron en mi cuerpo en un rio de lagrimas. Llore y llore hasta que la duena de la casa salio y me abrazo. Me dijo que Chui estaria bien. Su nombre era Amalia, y estaba enferma. Me dijo que para ella que estaba enferma y mayor, ya no habia esperanza, pero en el caso de Chui, me dijo que el esta enfermo y es un nino, por lo menos tiene la esperanza de sobrevivir por estar joven y su cuerpo resistira mas. Amalia tenia un tumor en su estomago y sufria de depresion.
La Noche De Fiesta
Despues de una semana de que se llevaron a Chui, Amalia me dio un regalo de sorpresa, un vestido de fiesta. Primero, no supe porque me habia regalado un vestido de fiesta y casi me olvido dar gracias, casi.
"Muchas Gracias por el vestido Amalia, pero, �cuando me voy a vestir tan bonita? �A caso vamos a ir a una fiesta?"
"Es tu vestido de despedida... y de entrada."
"Despedida y entrada? como?"
"Bueno, te despides de mi, y entras a los Estados Unidos para reunirte con Chui."
"No entiendo. Quiero ver a mi Chui y me encanta el vestido, pero no veo como este vestido me va llevar cerca a mi Chui."
"Manana, te van a venir a recoger unos compas mios. Todos van a estar vestidos para una fiesta. Van a llegar a la frontera, y van a caminar sobre el puente hacia una fiesta en los Estados Unos. Asi de facil."
Se oia tan facil. Simplemente voy a ir a la frontera, caminar sobre el puente, sonreir al agente de migracion, y cruzar como que si fuera ciudadana. Se oia tan facil, pero esta nueva situacion me provocaba movimientos en el estomago y un virtigo en la cabeza. Llego la noche y el coche de fiesta me esperaba.
"No te preocupes nina, vas a cruzar, y vas a estar cerca de Chui otra vez."
"Gracias Amalia, por todo. Que Dios te lo page, y nunca te voy a olvidar."
Amalia me acompano al coche, nos despedimos, y nunca la volvi a ver. En el coche habia un silencio incomodo flotando entre los dos hombres, la mujer que estaba a la par mia. Yo se que sabian que yo era la mas nerviosa del grupo. Se acerco la mujer. "No se preocupe senora, nosotros estamos en mas peligro que usted. Jure no hacer esto nunca pero su nino me conmovio y deseo que pronto este con el. Esa enfermedad si es curable. Dios le va ayudar."
Llegamos a la frontera en lo que se sintio un viaje de dos minutos. No se si la casa de Amalia estaba tan cerca o mi sentido del tiempo se habia ido con mi mente, pero llegamos a la frontera y todas las luces, los coches, los retenes, y el puente me recordio en mi estomago que yo no estaba lista. Corri al bano para vomitar pero no salia nada. Esperaba que si me salia el vomito, me iba a sentir mejor, pero no paso asi. Intente e intente a vomitar, y no salia nada mas saliva y cada vez que intentaba me senti aun mas mareada. La ultima vez que trate de vomitar, ya ni sentia que estaba parada en piso fijo, sentia como que estaba flotando sin control en un mar tormentoso de todas mis preocupaciones y temor. En medio de esta tormenta oi que entro alguien al bano. Era la mujer.
"�Que pasa Gloria? Todos te estamos esperando. Mira, no te preocupes, hay tanta gente pasando ahorita y a ninguno de ellos los pararon. No mas tienes que pensar y creer que vas a una fiesta. Ponte en ambiente de fiesta y no te van a parar. Encomiendate a Dios... Pero si te detienen, no nos conocemos, solo regrasate y lo volvemos a intentar."
Sali del bano con la mujer, era tanto mi panico, que no recuerdo su nombre. Pero sus palabras me ayudaron bastante. Me concentre en lo que tendria que hacer para estar junto a Chui. Tendria que actuar como una dama de fiesta que la unica preocupacion en su mente es verse bella, y divertirse. Tendria que actuar como que las ultimas semanas de mi vida incluyendo esta noche, casi no me matan. Tendria que actuar como si no tuviera un nieto enfermo que dependia de mi al otro lado de esta frontera. Tendria que actuar como si no fuera yo.
No se cuanto tiempo me tarde en ese bano porque mi realidad en esos momentos fue como que si estuviera mirando una pelicula de suspenso, en la cual yo era la artista. Antes de salir del bano, si recuerdo pidiendole a Dios que me ayudara en ese momento.
Sali del bano con una sonrisa y con un paso que casi bailaba. Yo iba a una fiesta y estaba muy emocionada. Pase cerca del grupo y casi no me reconocian hasta que logre ver la mujer y en sus ojos esos destellos de bondad que siempre nos damos las mujeres, "gracias," le dije y continue actuando. Caminamos en el puente hacia las oficinas de inmigracion riendonos y gozandonos. Llegamos hasta adonde paran a las personas, y les piden sus identificaciones. Recuerdo que cinco pasos antes de llegar a ese poste adonde estaba el agente de inmigracion, mi risa se paro.
Empece a pensar en Chui, y sabia que si yo no tenia exito al cruzar esta noche, estaria solo con esos tremendos dolores. Senti que me desmayaba al pensar que me detendrian. Uno de los hombres del grupo me vio que caminaba mas lenta y con la cabeza abajo. Estaba a dos pasos del poste. El tiempo se congelo, y voltio a ver el hombre. Su sonrisa me recordo que ibamos a una fiesta. Vi que ya habian pasado la mujer y el otro hombre ahorra solo faltabamos nosotros. Un paso del poste. El hombre a la par mia, dijo algo para llamar a sus compas, pero solo se rieron y continuaron caminando. El se rio, y finalmente estabamos en frente del poste. El tiempo se congelo otra vez. El agente nos dio una mirada de pies a cabeza. Yo trate de sonreir... y no desmayarme. Muchos sentimientos se revolvian en mi cerebro y la tierra de oportunidad para todos, para mi era la oportunidad de apoyar a Chui, y proveerle la atencion medica que el necesitaba.
Volvi al poste. Mire hacia el agente, y no sabia si todavia me estaba sonriendo. Los ojos del agente miraban hacia atras de nosotros. Voltee a ver. Era un grupo grande, y se miraban borrachos. Los ojos helados de ese agente me miraban una vez mas. Sin quitar la mirada nos dio una sena con su mano, una sena que nos comunico que continuemos. El tiempo se congelo una vez mas. Este momento de mi vida nunca lo voy a olvidar. Lo hice. Si que continue a caminar, pero no sentia mis pies. No sentia mi cuerpo. Solo sentia mi alma saltando en mi corazon, y sali en mi cuerpo en forma de lagrimas.
No me recuerdo mucho mas de esa noche. Pero ahora que me recuerdo, si era una noche de fiesta, para mi. Mi alma gozaba que pronto estaria apoyando a Chui. Mi alma gozaba ya en este pais, tendria la oportunidad de seguir luchando para mantener a Chui sano. Mi alma gozaba porque esa noche en la frontera de Tijuana, tuve la fuerza de sobrevivir, y es con esa misma fuerza que hasta hoy he sobrevivido en este pais.
Ingles Sigue
Here I am. Sitting on all I have, a public bench, watching my child Jesus with tears in his eyes. It hurts him a lot, it shows. His little eyes stare at me asking for help. I try with all my being to not show desperation on my face, and it is impossible for me to avoid the tears that roll down my cheeks as abundantly as cascades. I turn my head upwards seeking help, and I notice how the hallways become indeterminable, the benches grow the size of walls, and the florescent lights almost blind me, I hear the footsteps of thousands of people, I feel the tremor of the turbines, and I stare at faces of all of those people. All of them happy, they are going on vacations, or maybe to visit their family. They all drag their luggage and they know where they are going. Everyone except for me.
"Ma, Ma"
"Don not cry Chui, they are almost here for us."
Where can they be? It has been almost four hours and they still do not arrive. Chui is in very critical condition and we need help. I see his eyes and there is so much pain. What can I do? Hours have passed since we last had something to eat but I have run out of cash. What can I do? "Sleep Chui, sleep." Never did I think that an airport in Tijuana could ever give me such anguish. My grandson and I are thousands of miles from home and continuing our journey is the only thing that is left, but my body shakes at the moment when I consider that we might not make it. My Chui was already very ill when they put us on the plane headed here, and his condition only worsens. I already called my contact that told me that they would soon be here to pick us up, but that was five hours ago. Perhaps we will stay here the whole night, in the airport of Tijuana.
"Senora. Senora. Wake up Senora."
"Yes"
Are you Chispita?
"Yes"
Finally! They arrived! "Wake up Chui." We get in a van and they took us to a house near the border. In a few hours they would take Chui, who looked even paler, so that he can cross by car. The time had come for us to say goodbye. It hurts me so much when they take my grandson, but I know that if he stayed with me in this house he will surely die.
Chui did not want to go, and much less say goodbye to me. His blurry eyes stared at me and cried. We hugged tightly and I promised him that we would see each other again, and that he would also see his mom. He opened his arms and gave me one last hug.
They put him in a car and they left. His little hand and face did not stop turning towards me until they disappeared on the highway. In that moment, standing there on that road, all of my worries and fears manifested themselves in my body as a river of tears. I cried and I cried until the owner of the house came out and gave me a hug. She told me that Chui would be ok. Her name was Amalia, and she was ill. She told me that since she was an elder and ill, there was no hope for her, but in Chui's case, well he is sick, but he is a child, at least he has the hope of surviving because he is young and his body will resist more. Amalia had a tumor is her stomach and suffered from depression.
The Night of the Party
After the week that Chui was taken, Amalia gave me a surprise gift, a party dress. At first I did not know why she had given me a surprise gift, and I almost forgot to give her thanks, almost.
"Thank you very much for the dress Amalia, but when am I going to get dressed up so pretty? Or are we actually going to a party?"
"It is your dress of farewell, and of entry."
"Farewell and entry? How?"
"Well, you will say farewell to me and enter the United States to reunite with Chui."
"I do not understand, I want to see my Chui and I love the dress, but I do not see how this dress can help me get close to my Chui."
"Tomorrow several friends of mine will come to pick you up. All of them will be dressed for a party. They will arrive to the border, and they will walk along the bridge to a party in the U.S... It is as easy as that."
It sounded so easy. I will simply cross the border, walk along the bridge, smile to the immigration agent, and cross as if I was a citizen. It sounded so easy, but this new situation provoked movement in my stomach and a vertigo in my head. The following day, night time came and the party car was waiting for me.
"Do not worry girl, you will cross and you will be close to Chui once again."
"Thank you again for everything Amelia. May God repay you, I will never forget you."
In the car there was an uncomfortable silence floating amongst the two men, the woman was on my side. I knew that they knew that I was the most nervous one of the group. The woman came close.
"Do not worry senora, we are even in more danger tan you are. I swore to never do this, but the situation your child has moved me and I wish that you will soon be with him. That sickness is curable. God will help you."
We reached the border in what seemed a two minute trip. I do not know if Amalia's home is really that close or if my sense of time has left along with my mind, but we arrived to at the border and all of the lights, the cars, the check points, and the bridge reminded me in my stomach that I was not ready. I ran to the bathroom to throw up but nothing came out. I was waiting for the vomit to come out, I would feel better then, but it did not turn out that way. I tried and tried to throw up and nothing but saliva would come out and I felt even dizzier. The last time I tried to vomit, I did not even feel that I was stepping on the firm ground, I felt as if I was floating without control, in a tumultuous ocean of all my worries and fears. In between all this torment I heard that someone came into the bathroom. It was the woman.
"What is going on Gloria? Everyone is waiting for you. Look, do not worry, there are so many people passing right now and none of them were stopped. You only have to think and believe that you are going to a party. Get in a party going mood and they will not stop you. Entrust yourself to God, but if they stop you, we do not know each other, just return and we will try again."
The woman left the bathroom. My panic was so much that I forgot her name. But her words helped me so much. I concentrated on what I had to do to be with Chui. I had to act as if I was a lady going to a party, who's only concern was to look beautiful and have fun. I would have to act as if the last few weeks of my life including this night did not almost kill me. I would have to act as if I did not have an ill grandson that depended on me on the other side of that border. I would have to act as if I was not myself.
I am not sure how long I took in that bathroom because my reality in those moments was as if I was looking at a movie in suspense, it which I was the actress. Before leaving the bathroom, I do remember asking God to help me in that moment. I came out of that bathroom with a smile and with a step that almost danced. I was going to a dance and I was very excited. I walked close to the group and they almost did not recognize me until I was able to see the woman, and her eyes sparkled with the type of kindness that woman always give each other-- "thank you," I told her, and I continued acting. We walked on the bridge towards the immigration offices, laughing and having a good time. We came all the way up to where they stop people and ask for their identification. I remember that within five steps of reaching that post where the immigration agent was, and my smile stopped.
I began to think of Chui, and I knew that if I did not succeed in crossing that night, I would only be left with those horrible pains. I thought I would pass out at the idea of being detained. One of the men in group noticed that I walked more slowly and with my head down. I was at two steps of the post. Time froze and I turned towards that man. His smile reminded me that we were going to a party. I saw how the other woman and man had already passed and now we were the only ones left. One step to the post. The man on my side told something to stop his friends, but they only laughed and continued walking. He laughed and finally we were in front of the post. Time froze once again. The agent gave us a look from our feet to our heads. I tried to smile, and I did not faint. Many feelings were mixing in my brain. The land of opportunity for all of us, for me it was the land of opportunity to help Chui and to help give him the medical attention that he would need.
I returned to the post. I looked towards the agent, and I did not know if I was still smiling. The eyes of the agent looked past us. I turned to look. It was a large group, and they looked drunk. The cold eyes of the agent stared at me once again. Without removing his stare he gave us a sign with his hand, a sign that communicated that we continue. Time froze once again. I will never forget this moment in my life. I made it. I know that I continued walking, but I could not feel my feet. I did not feel my body. I only felt my spirit jumping in my heart, and came out of my body in the form of tears.
I do not remember much more about that night. But now that I remember, it was a party night for me. My spirit rejoiced that I would soon be there to support Chui. My spirit rejoiced that I was already in this country, I would have the opportunity to continue fighting to keep Chui healthy. My spirit rejoiced because on that night on the border of Tijuana, I had the strength to survive, and with that same strength, I have survived in this country till this day.
Hi, guess who? Its1s Tuesday, Oct. 10. 2000. Are you folks sick
and tired of seeing my columns about voting? Too bad. Any of you
voting for ŒPrez or Vice, Senator1s Judges, Right to Life/Choice,
and Racism or Tolerance, Space, Cryonics, Life Extension, and/ or
Immortality am I right?
I did go to City Hall to find out if I1m registered to vote in
the upcoming elections. I1m registered so I1m voting... for whom?
That1s my choice as is yours not to be revealed until I1m in the
voting booth. I will give folks a hint I1d like to continue beyond
the 20th century moving ahead towards habitats in space, reproductive
rights for women, social security protections, and universal health
care, not only that but also openning the flood gates to life extension
because we1ll all need it as we get older . Is that enough of a
hint folks?
Every generation has had a crisis to face from the founding fathers,
to World Wars 1 and 2, to a socalled Police Action named ŒThe Korean
Conflict - A police action? I still think when you place boys and
men in uniform, train, em, to kill, have Œem sent to fight on foreign
soil against other young boys and men with dying on both sides I1d
tend to call it a war, undeclared or not soldiers on both sides
died in that midcentury conflict. Viet Nam, the first war ever lost
by the then undefeated United States, Then a short glorius war in
1991 called Desert Storm.
If we don1t watch out we may end up a Viet Nam like scenario again
in Korea. You know our government, when we the people are silent
that tells them to have a ball, spend money, Have A War. Uhh, I
think economically speaking making weapons to kill each other is
no longer the economic stimulus it used to be. Peacetime is a better
way less dead citizens lying around, less money to be made on dead
consummers unless you1ve read The Body Broker1s in the Orange County
Register in April off 2000. Vote Vote Vote, Stand up, learn facts,
figures, his/herstories of candidates, then chose and Vote. Is it
November yet? Oh, crap-I Œgotta write this for another month. Well,
here1s the message; whom ever you choose its up to all of us around
this great fertile land to futurize not fossilize America. Do it
early, do it late, but do it; VOTE Bye.
For all the lost lives
of all the highjacked flights and
World Trade Tower murders, their
lives will not be in vain.
PAYBACK'S A MOTHER FUCKER.
by Joe. B.
Who are these Assholes?
Do They realize, be they made of grass, glass, steel, or diamond-they're melted cheese in our Global Oven.
Ours Nation and all Freedom Loving Nations all over the world grieves for families of lives lost in the four high-jacked jet planes and in New York’s World Trade Centers.
Our National hurt and healing will take some time as generations young and old have simultaneously are in mental, physical turmoil.
This will take time but we as American’s and as Global Community will
get through this horrendous catastrophe made by human beings to hurt, maim, and kill other human beings–to dehumanize makes them victors.
THEY ARE MORTAL AS WE, BLEED AND DIE AS WE.
Either by Tribunal or death on the run, they will be judged.
21st CENTURY WAR! Is a hard concept to handle but I guess we’ll have to fight this one so the centuries to come will be truly a peaceful world.
May this not be World War 3.
The terrorist‘s have wounded us attacking our shores, may Allah forgive them because their collective asses belongs to America.
As much as I rail against our countries rights and wrongs I will not forsake Her/Him, Uncle Sam – to many boatloads of African ancestors died in slavery, in every war of American independence – this will be no different except maybe this time all rainbow american’s will finally be seen as plain, ordinary, extraordinary, American’s. That’s a legacy worth giving to our descendents whatever, race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, class, or national origin.
If any readers would like to add to this or be my quest.
Sorry, if this seems like a meaningless column I may not have expressed my views strongly enough but I got to get a flag to place at my window in my humble SRO. [Single Occupancy Hotel or Sleeping Room Only] Got to go, stay strong, live long.
Who’s Really Brainfried?
Dept of Public Health or The Protesters
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.
How one man, unable to get his mental illness acknowledged, has been cast as a pariah within the shelter system.
by Gordon Hilgers/PNN Texas Correspondent (Endless Choices)
It wasn't all that difficult to see that sooner or later Santana from Havana, as he called himself, was going to get into trouble with the people who ran the homeless shelter where he lived. It couldn't have been more than a week from the time that I met this wide-smiled, homeless man that I first noticed the problems he was causing. I really hadn't noticed that there was all that much wrong with the guy.
Of course, I treasure my eccentric acquaintances. It doesn't bother me if one of my friends seems a little off the rim, or seems to be operating a couple of French fries short of a Happy Meal; mainly because some of the most accomplished people I know—artists and poets in Dallas' burgeoning creative community—could, with a push and a shove, look quite a bit like Santana from Havana at his very best. Or worst. Judgments like these depend upon how you look at these human aspects of God's own best judgment.
Like many who suffer from depression, I have trouble sleeping soundly. Sometimes I'll wake up in darkness, fully awake. But if I'm patient with my own behavior, I know I can relax and let the once-disorderly aberration of the norm slip by as I slide back into oblivion. This particular night, however, the night Santana's disease revealed itself to me, I rose up off my cot, wended my way through a literal sea of sleeping men and pulled up a chair in the shelter's smoking area. It was there that I found Santana from Havana, holding court, if you will.
Since it was late, and dark, most others at the huge round table sat quietly, half-asleep, the majority sucking on roll-up cigarettes, each one alone with his own aching thoughts. But Santana was neither smoking nor keeping to himself. Instead, as he fractiously sorted through hundreds of wrinkled and dog-eared papers, he seemed to be acting. Indeed, Santana was conducting a private theatre of the absurd and talking louder than necessary, doing his stand-up routine from a sitting position. If he caught you listening, he'd start gesticulating more eloquently than the conductor of the New York Philharmonic would.
"What's up, Santana? Besides you?" I asked.
"Man! I was thinking of that monster movie on TV tonight. I used to just love them monster movies. I used to watch monster movies all the time when I was a kid in Los Angeles. I'd get so scared I left the room. But I always came back," he answered.
"Me, too," I replied. "I used to sit in the front row at the Casa Linda Theater, and when the monsters came on the screen, I'd get so scared I'd scrunch way down in the seat. Sometimes I was so scrunched up I could barely see the movie. But at least those monsters couldn't get me."
All of this seemed pretty normal as far as conversations go. Aside from Santana's loud voice, I neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary about it. At least until Santana got up out of his seat and began acting out Frankenstein. Not just one movie scene. The entire movie.
But out of his seat Santana was, walking stiff-legged across the floor, his sticklike arms flailing left and right, his face contorted, and his mouth yammering a mile a minute, a sort of play-by-play summary of the film's classic climactic scenes. As something like 250 men slept like corpses around us—tired men, frustrated men, simple men who rarely seem to understand episodes of stark individuality or abnormal behavior other than as an affront—Santana began bellowing as if he'd been set on fire. It was an apt scene. Some of the men at the table seemed to me to be just the kind of man eager to persecute those different from themselves. In fact, I had almost no problem at all imagining these men marching up a mountain to torch an outcast's home. And Santana was the outcast du jour. A pariah. An idiot.
If it wasn't the monster noises that were grabbing the attention and ire of the others at the table, it was Santana's exaggerated and abnormal movements and expressions that, for whatever reason, seemed to be literally rocking the worlds of men who seem to like to cultivate reputations of callousness, hardness, imperviousness to the circumstances they don't like. Several at the table, however, were amused. They rolled their eyes. Others laughed silently to themselves. The unspoken verdict at the table that night was that Santana was crazy as a loon. There were no accusations of narrow-mindedness or intolerance among the members of this self-appointed judge and jury, either. But what's important were the reactions among the ignorant and uneducated to aberrant behavior. Everyone knew Santana was due any day to be accused of being disorderly. Everyone knew what happens in emergency shelters when people are so branded.
One of the shelter's longtime characters—a really together guy who'd been living on the shelter's dole for three years going on four—spoke up, "Why don't you shut up, you—." And, no, the man's language was not nice. But it didn't deter Santana at all. For the next several evenings, or so it seemed to me, Santana went out of his way to annoy and undermine the man who'd collared him that night. Aside from his bizarre behavior, Santana was angry. And hurt. Anyone could see that.
Santana is like many homeless people who suffer from mental illness. He simply appeared at the shelter's door one day. Soon, once Santana learned that his exploits weren't considered acceptable—especially to the emergency shelter's longtime victims of long-term and extended stay emergency—he began a campaign of instigation. The more he was called on his behavior, the more he caused trouble for the shelter's rulemakers and enforcers.
Of course, Santana wasn't really a troublemaker. He was, and is, mentally ill. Sure. It seemed at times that he was intentionally making himself unwelcome. But could it have been that he was drawing attention to himself to get someone to notice that he was asking for help? What really bugged me came in the form of other questions. How many situations like this had Santana already endured? How many towns had he gone through? How many shelters kicked him out?
More worrisome to me, however, was how casually the shelter's supervisors handled Santana's disorderly conduct. When he was kicked out, he was kicked out as if he was any other personally responsible and supposedly adult troublemaker: drunk, stoned, violent, whatever. Despite admonitions that Santana see a doctor and adhere to treatment plans and regimens of medicine, when the time came to give Santana the boot, the shelter's supervisors treated him as if he were suddenly normal. No other steps were taken to help him. He wasn't referred to a clinic. He wasn't taken to Dallas' Parkland Hospital for observation or treatment. He wasn't interviewed by mental health caseworkers who might have been able to agree that the streets are no place for mentally ill men like
When I asked one of the shelter's security staffers why such a thing had been allowed to happen in a supposedly Christian institution—and many area shelters are quite vocal about their faith-based mission and moral diligence—I was told the directors simply don't believe it's their responsibility to go any further than offering residents a bed, a bath, and a meal for the night. Everything else is considered the responsibility of the inmate—I mean, resident. While most of the shelter's residents agree that the streets are no place for mentally ill men like Santana, many simply don't see the glaring misconnection between punishing normal people for rule violations and punishing the mentally ill for behavior they just can't control.
Worse, shelter directors—and, as personal experience shows, every shelter in Dallas misbehaves like this—rationalizing their often misbegotten decisions in order to protect the bottom line, tend to wash their hands of the matter in unconscious imitations of Pontius Pilate.
Santana, of course, isn't alone on the streets of downtown. There are plenty of pariahs just like him—men and women who were not rational enough to obey rules they probably couldn't comprehend anyway. Many, like Santana, live on the streets. They've been kicked out of all the shelters. They've been oppressed by tough policies that were never designed to accommodate them.
But this is how the homeless/industrial complex actually operates. While there's plenty of talk about creating a continuum of care that links troubled shelter residents with effective treatments and appropriate care—plenty of compassionate prattle about the victimhood of the homeless—the proof is in the pudding. Nearly every homeless man and woman with an obvious behavioral problem—these are the people we see living on the streets every day—more than likely has been thrown out of shelters simply because they are mentally ill. No one can deny this. Where does the responsibility for this actually lie?
Joe, do 'ya think
you have too much time
on your hands?
No, not nearly enough...
But it beats being Mesmerized
by TV, Oil War.
by Joe B.
Where was I? Oh, yes-good or bad Alchemists.
Before and during Easter and Spring Break vacation besides the Lord’s crucifixion and resurrection it also got me thinking about exact opposites of good and evil.
As children most of us were told and literally scared into believing that both God, Satan, Saints, and Angels existed and an eternal battle for our priceless human souls and not to sell or barter it at all but if we did be aware once sold rarely will we get it back!
On those lines a thought pops into my brain.
If minions of demons are Satan’s to command then Alchemist’s are under spiritual command of God.
If a few demons wish to be good then why not the same hold true for accomplished enlightened Alchemist’s who’ve achieved the great work.
If demons or mythical Vampires fighting their evil side and brethren, sister’s wouldn’t alchemist with dark sides also turn?
Yes, avoiding so called war talk, a macabre empty victory dance over in Iraq’s blood soaked oil and sand while scientist’s, researchers, brightest students around this globe find hydrogen and other alternative renewable energy sources beyond dead decomposed dinosaurs.
Back to God’s few but powerful soldiers.
I know most Alchemist’s were long suffering men and women seeking portents or signs in astrology, numerology, even the Cabala. Some use pure primitive science.
For the majority death by explosion or suffocation from mercury gases or other fumes.
Those surviving, testing the, lead/brass into gold and succeeding found after taking a terrifying drink of what could’ve been poison gagged a little and found them selves not only alive but changing in ways they never imagined!
Their minds afire with there own past lives confronting them, everything they ever saw, felt, heard, learned, supposedly forgotten, all the joys, hurts, pains, physical/mental flash immediate all clear crisp as their whole being expands.
Not only that but voices of living or long dead friends, lovers, surround them, other alchemists, and cutting through it all God’s voice and vision both female/male telling you "Careful Child; Sit, Rest, Do Nothing But Relax - The Changes Will Take A Few Moments And Only When I Say Its Time Explore Your Being."
What does on do when hearing God’s command for one to rest, relax, pause, as your body, mind, spirit changes?
You do as the Lord says as you change from mortal to a being if not eternal but closer to immortality than most mortals will ever be.
Days, hours, months, or years however long it takes you rest as commanded as your powers are slowly revealed to you.
After this long rest where you might have to isolate from others the real adventures begin as death is less an adversary more an annoyance there are plan: long range plans you have to rethink everything because your life span is so long you cannot see its end which is still disconcerting if not downright frightening.
The mysterious alchemist Fulcanellie and Nandita (Mohuya Mellamphy) comes to mind.From www.alchymie. net/english_version/critiques/fucanelli_uk_.htm.You folks will find a title there too.
If they both drank from it a man’s virility is restored and for women besides youth they become prolific who knows how may children came from them or if they decided to stay a physical loving twosome without progeny.
After a long rest what happens? That’s another thought for another day… Bye.
