Working for C & H Security is a trip. Been doing it little less than a year. You meet all kinds; people that have worked in other professions, traveled extensively by plane, train, bus or by not even leaving the ground. In security you are told your primary function is to observe and report; you’re told to be on the lookout for suspicious looking persons and/or activity. Some guys who do the job take it much too seriously, as if auditioning to appear on the TV show “cops” (as the pursuer, not the pursued, of course).
I have met interesting people; Latinos who have forgotten they are Latino, Samoans who share their last bit of food with you and others who walk, breathe, talk and love in their own way.
Some guards have forgotten that others like them (that is, those with arms, legs, noses, armpits, etc.) are human and not criminals. They make comments and tell jokes that show their petty biases and prejudices. One such cat is a Filipino guy who I worked with for several months. He would talk about black people at the supermarket he was hired to guard by the supermarket owners. He said that the black people had this black attitude. When people say this, what it means, as far as I am concerned is that black people somehow don’t love their elders, their mothers and fathers, their children. They don’t see the beauty in plants, the ocean, the moon, nature; that God doesn’t love them like he loves other people, and that, of course, they deserve to be locked up in a variety of jails or prisons, because that is, of course, where God thinks they should be. Then he told a joke that kind of went like this:
Where do you end up when you cross the Bay Bridge?
Answer: Africa (because of the large black population)
I got up and walked out of the room. Sometimes this happens. You can’t find the words to counter the stupidity and you feel like a coward afterward. I should have told him a little about the history of African-Americans in the Philippines, namely the Philippine-American War; a war in which the US took over the Philippines after the Spanish-American war. This war killed hundreds of thousands of Filipinos who were fighting the colonial Spanish and, after they had been defeated, were once again colonized by another colonial power, the US. Black soldiers from the US known as “Buffalo Soldiers” were sent to fight in the islands (as well as in Cuba). When many of the soldiers saw how the Filipinos were being shot and dehumanized, those soldiers jumped to the Filipino side and fought against the United States. I didn’t tell him this. Maybe he should have known. Maybe he did know and forgot, or maybe he knew and just didn’t give a damn.
But after a couple weeks I came up with a joke of my own
What do you call a Filipino guy working as a guard for C & H Security?
The Mayor is water-hosing human beings in the most recent example of "cleaning up"
by Bruce Allison/PNN Elder and Poverty Scholar
The increased criminalization of poor folk in San Francisco and across the nation is alarming. San Francisco has called for and will be implementing a community court in the Tenderloin at the behest of Mayor Newsom. There are reports of citizens, poor folk, houseless folks--ie, human beings being hosed by high power water hoses by DPW (Department of Public Works) trucks performing the noble job of cleaning the sidewalk. Hygenic metaphors such as dirt, blight, and "cleaning up the neighborhood" when referring to poor and houseless folks are dangerous because they ultimately cease to be just metaphors--they manifest into brutal attitudes that say that incarceration is the answer.
DPW has been driving down the streets with water canons, hosing people without warning. Those being hosed are elders, undocumented people, and people whose work is unrecognized--such as recyclers and street sheet vendors who can't afford a home. This is a direct result of limited beds due to Newsom's Care Not Cash policy. I personally talked to a DPW worker who said of the hosees, "These are just crackheads".
The Coalition on Homelessness plans to expose this ridiculous scenario to the public. They have cameras and are collecting more information. For the safety of the coalition, I cannot disclose the location of the cameras.
Using water hoses on human beings will cost the city money in medical costs as a direct result of illness such as pneumonia brought on by being hosed. This is not helping the city's economy--it's actually hurting the reputation of San Francisco. The city and DPW should be ashamed of their gestapo tactics-- hurting people whose only crime is not having any money in their pockets.
Mayor Newsom, I am tired of you using these cruel tactics on people who cannot fight back. And to the Chief of Police, you should be ashamed of yourself. You are hurting innocent people who are just trying to get a little rest.
I remember my first job in radio. I was attending City College of San Francisco (“Harvard on the hill” or “Extended high school” as it was jokingly referred to), in my first semester. I was sent to an academic counselor who was to shine her guiding light upon me. After much back and forth about my dislike of anything resembling a suit and tie, the counselor blurted out the immortal words: Why don’t you major in business? I left her office, taking in an array of (mostly forgettable) faces about campus; many of whom were as confused as I was.
I checked the course directory and saw that the school offered classes in radio, had a radio station (which broadcast on a FM cable signal) and production studios. I signed up for the radio station class, but of course they wouldn’t just let you in. You had to learn about Marconi and the radio pioneers first; then you had to take a class on how to push buttons.
The radio station fascinated me. I’d watch the DJ’s and news reporters speak into the microphone from behind a glass. To me it was an aquarium of brilliance, each word uttered, profound—although I can’t recall for you anything that was ever said. After what seemed an extended period of voyeurism, I was “allowed” on the air, that is, given my own show. I had to be trained on the equipment so I sat in with an on-air guy who called himself Jackson Clarkson—his real name was Marco Bertolucci. I watched him play records and say things like, “It’s Jackson Clarkson with you…spinning tunes to keep you in tune”, or some sort. After the shift I said, “Wow, that was pretty good Marco”. He gave me a chickenshit grimace and replied curtly: “Where’d you get that Marco shit? My name is Jackson Clarkson”.
“Oh”
Soon I was spinning records and uttering various radio bullshit (i.e.: time and temperature) on my own. I wasn’t smooth, every other word out of my mouth was
“duh” or “uh” or a combination of both. I began taping my shows, listening over and over until I barely recognized my own voice. I was trying to sound like “them”, whoever they or them was. I didn’t’ sound like me anymore—I didn’t know what I sounded like. I started sending tapes to radio stations for possible employment as an announcer.
I sent tapes to all kinds of stations—country, adult contemporary, oldies, easy listening—I didn’t care, I just wanted to get on the air. At the same time I had an uncle who was involved in community work and struggle. He knew of my interest in radio and suggested I visit one of his friends who ran a radio apprenticeship at a community station across the bay. I went to an orientation—one of three people. I met my uncle’s friend Roman. Roman was an activist who fought the eviction of elders of the International Hotel in 1977. He spoke about the need for community radio, to serve underrepresented and silenced communities. After the orientation, I decided that community radio wasn’t real radio. I didn’t return.
I got a call from a guy with a booming radio voice a few weeks later. He was the program director of an AM station in Concord. He hired me to do weekends. “We’re startin’ you off at 3.35 an hour…ok?” I would have done it for free but I gave the impression that 3.35 represented, to me, a gold mine. I signed on. The studio was big and fancy; it had a news department and a little guy who did traffic reports dangling from a helicopter. We had color coded songs—reds were hot hits, blues were songs moving up the charts, greens and oranges were the tried and true—Beatles, Eagles, Abba—all the stuff I disliked (for every 10 of those, you might get one Marvin Gaye). Somehow the Century 21 corporation supplied the bulk of the music on reel to reel tapes. The tape decks were mounted on the wall and were activated by remote control. We had to keep loading the tapes and cleaning the tape heads. In addition, the station had an FM sister station which was located down the hall in a room the size of a closet. We had to load tapes to keep that operation going as well. They were getting their $3.35’s worth. I lasted all of 2 weeks at the station. Rookie mistake—they told me to get to the station Midnight Saturday morning (i.e.: Friday midnight). I showed up Saturday at midnight, i.e.: Sunday morning. I was let go without a second chance.
After that debacle I worked at stations in Stockton, Napa and Vallejo. The Stockton gig was ok. The station was located in a cow pasture. On my first day, I was greeted by mounds of steaming cowshit. I knocked on the door and was greeted by the station secretary who informed me (while eating a hot dog on a stick) that the DJ’s had to enter through the back—which meant wading through more cowshit. I did my show in a bug-infested studio playing the likes of Michael Jackson, Madonna and Michael Bolton. Sometimes I’d look at the window and a cow would be staring at me. An audience, at last! Sometimes I’d be in a pissy mood and say to the cow, “what the hell are you staring at you son of a bitch?” But those instances were more the exception than the rule. Things were ok until the station owner suggested I change my on-air name from Tony Robles to Jeff Scott. I told him that I didn’t look like a Jeff Scott. He said, “This is radio…they don’t see your face”. He jabbed his index finger close to my face as he spoke. I told him my idea for an on-air name. “Marco Bertolucci” I blurted out, thinking of the guy from City College. The owner looked at me and walked away.
I continued the weekend shift for a year or so, the most memorable moment being an hourly newscast. There I was reading stories I’d ripped from the Associated Press newswire when this moth appeared out of nowhere—hairy and ugly like the station owner. At the midpoint of the newscast, the moth decides to fly into my mouth. I coughed and gagged into the microphone. Luckily I had the presence of mind to hit the button for the commercial. It was for the US Army: Be all that you can be. As it played I ran to the bathroom.
And there were ladies and young girls, of course. I knew I was in trouble when I’d answer the request line and a sweet female voice would make a request. It would be followed up by a question such as, how tall are you or what color are your eyes? I got hung up on the request line with one such woman who hooked me by saying that she listened to my show regularly while flipping through the Victoria Secret Catalog, that she had been an underwear model at one time. We set a date to meet at a nearby restaurant. She described herself. I walked in the door and saw her. It was obvious that her underwear modeling days were well behind her. Where was the cow in the window? I rushed out of the restaurant and into my car.
After Stockton there was Napa and Vallejo. The Vallejo station was a “Hot Country Hits” station. The owner was a little old man named “Stu” who had a flatulence problem. He’d walk about the station farting after each step. It went kind of like this:
Step>fart>step>fart>step>fart
Then it was on to Napa to a station resembling a winery. It was there that I became acquainted with wine and I have forgotten (forgive me) most of what I did on (or off) the air. I don’t remember if I quit or was fired.
Fast-forward a few years. Ended up working in TV as a production assistant shooting dogs (with a camera) for TV 20 followed by a stint as a radio-advertising salesman for a Spanish station (owned by a gringo whose father was a diplomat in Costa Rica). I spoke no Spanish but looked Latino (I’m Filipino) so I was pimped to pimp a community…I mean…market. I got a few accounts—a car dealership, an appliance outlet—but not enough to keep from getting fired. My last job was at a station known as “The Quiet Dorm”. I produced commercials and worked with on-air talent. That was short-lived as I mislabeled a commercial, costing the station several thousand dollars—another common mistake, but this mistake took place during the year-end budget crunch. They did not forgive. Neither did I. I quit, for good. Or so I thought. More than 10 years later I’m back where I started, in radio—a place I vowed I’d never return. I’m co-hosting the POOR Magazine radio show with Lisa Gray-Garcia, AKA Tiny at that community station my Uncle sent me to so long ago. I am having a good time…this time. And it’s real radio. I realize that now. I’m finally where I should have been all along. It just took me a while to realize it. I’m back.
Legislation is introduced after a five year struggle by advocates to give 24 hour notice to homeless folks before seizing and discarding their belongings.
by Clive Whistle, PoorNewsNetwork
Clive is a staff writer for POOR Magazine and a member of POOR’s writer facilitation project, which aims to give voice to very low and no income adults and youth desiring to be heard within the media about issues of race and class oppression.
“WAKE-UP..WAKE-UP!!!” Their voices were knives with serrated edges – pummeling through my battered skull.
“Hey Buddy- ya gotta move”- all I saw was four boots, for several seconds I thought I had been attacked by four talking boots- but then I looked further out of my cardboard cave towards the voices and discovered the boots origin – two police officers – writing in their small brown bendable notebooks –about me! - chronicling my hard life in two or three words of short hand- “ African-American….late 40’s…. Homeless…obstructing sidewalk-substance – alcohol-possible 647j and f violation…and so on….
It had taken almost six hours out of my day yesterday to find what I thought was a safe place – safe, of course is relative when you are homeless – it means maybe the cops won’t see you – maybe – you will get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep- maybe you will get an hour or two alone – maybe….
I resigned to move – feeling a little nauseous – but unwilling to appear “uncooperative” I dragged my body forward and began to collect my stu………oh shit.!!…. “Where’s my stuff?” – I looked around – all of my things- my just-cleaned blankets (which I had spent $14.00 of quarters on at the laundromat the day before)….my little radio and my new batteries – but most terrifying of all – my BACKPACK –with my meds, were gone!!! “Officer- where’s my stuff?
“Well. (Department of Public Works).DPW was here before us – - I guess you’ll have to check with them”
Before screaming, crying, hauling off and slugging the officer- landing me in county jail for longer than I care to think about – I blinked back desperate tears and stumbled down the street with my last remaining belonging – a torn and soiled sweatshirt….
I knew this drill - it would take approximately three hours and change I didn’t have to take the bus to the DPW yard which is located across town – at which point DPW people would act like they had no inkling of what I was talking about when I would describe my… out of the way – under the bridge… location where they had “seized” my stuff while I slept …and the description of my worn-out army-issued backpack.
But worse than anything else, was the loss of my meds- it had take me seven weeks of constant calling back and forth to my health provider while they waited for approval of my prescription under medi-cal- another three days after they got approval to reach me who had gone on a “self-medicated” alcohol binge and couldn’t be found and another five hour wait in my health providers office to actually get the meds- I could not go through this again- I could not….
The Civil Rights workgroup of the Coalition on Homelessness has worked for five years with the Board of Supervisors- (the current administration and the past) – Department of Public Works, Rec and Park – the Police department and so on to get a new policy implemented- that gives homeless folks like me a 24 hour notice on our belongings before they take all of our stuff – a hearing was finally held Tuesday July 3rd 2001 – five years, several hundred broke-down souls, and thousands of pounds of precious belongings later – this measure was debated with Supervisors Gonzalez, Ammiano, and Hall in the Rules committee- before it is taken to the full board.
“My office has worked extensively with advocates on the drafting of this legislation and we are very happy to have it before us today as a proposal” Board Supervisor Tom Ammiano introduced the legislation before the committee
“This legislation is extremely important to protect the civil and human rights of homeless folks in San Francisco, Mara Radar from the Coalition on Homelessness began the heated testimony
“1-5% of the people who have their belongings picked up by us come to reclaim it at our yard” Edwin Lee from the Department of Public Works responded to a question by Supervisor Hall on how many people actually retrieved their belongings from DPW.
“We are willing to work with the city in regards to improving the current situation” Mr. Lee concluded
“I am opposed to this legislation because it will lead to the increase the theft of shopping carts” Lieutenant Bruce from the San Francisco Police Department voiced his one sentence opposition and then leaned back in his chair- keeping his eyes fixed on the three supervisors.
“I hear you officer, because I am opposed to the theft of shopping carts but I don’t think this legislation even speaks about that – this legislation only speaks to the issue of personal property – and I believe that people’s right to their own personal property should be protected” Supervisor Hall responded nervously to the Lieutenent’s recalcitrant statement.
“ I understand that the legislation in fact mentions the belongings in a shopping cart or something like that, so I believe after reading the legislation that it would in fact promote the theft of shopping carts..” Luitenent Bruce’s’ statements elicited several logical arguments by Matt Gonzalez, Ammiano and Ms Radar on why that was not the case – Supervisor Hall became increasingly nervous and more unsure until the Lieutenant excused himself from the proceedings saying, “Excuse me, I have to go, I have another engagement”
After his departure there was supportive testimony by Sup. Ammiano and Sup. Gonzalez as well as members of the community who advocate for the civil and human rights of homeless folks, as well as several homeless and formerly homeless folks who have lost their stuff over and over again…
“Please try to understand the position of someone who is suffering from mental illness, physical pain and homelessness and has spent several weeks trying to get there meds and then loses it because it is disposed of. Please try to understand how horrible that is for a human being” Mary Kate Connor from Caduceus spoke as one of the advocates with words that described how I feel now and if this legislation does not pass will feel again and again and….
The Personal Property and Storage Container Removal and Storage Ordinance was recommended by the Rules Committee with a 2 to 1 vote and sent on to the full board for approval.
Armored Cops Love a good fight
as long as its in their favor.
by Joe B.
On Monday, April, 7, 2003 Cops in Oakland went off!
It seems to me when police are wearing armor, visors, with sticks it’s a good bet they may use ‘em.
What’s different about Oakland where the police go ape shit beating down of people? Guess.
Did they ever discuss that lots of people will be marching, some are innocent by standards and the bulk of marchers are first timers and not experienced activists.?
I don’t think it was really talked about in their office maybe the Krispy Kreme, Boston Cream Donut Debate, coffee or other confection sped their brains backwards into thinking:
"Oakland-blacks, browns, ghetto kids, dopers, prostitutes and strippers, it’ll be a cake walk, we won’t be blamed but confiscate all video if we can."
So our blue buds are in Oakland dressed like armadillo’s and rhino’s for the sole purpose of protecting the public in case a few rowdy activist act out their aggressions improperly.
Well, when one where’s armor and the other side has shirts, coats, sighs, flyers, pamphlets and flesh who do you think isn’t worried about confrontations?
Rubber Bullets in wood is supposed to be shot on the ground where they bounce onto human targets.
"They were throwing bricks, rocks, cement blocks at us." Police say and yet if that’s true wouldn’t people be frozen in the act of doing that?
Instead we see cops shooting into crowds hitting all kinds of people not part of the march.
Mother’s with children, children, hard working, law abiding working stiffs called "Warehousemen and or women going to or from work and for what, standing, sitting, or otherwise being at their own worksite?
Am I wrong or are cops still the slave catcher
and invading, occupation group?
People were actually dispersing and still getting hit. Have you seen what those so called (safety weapons do to human flesh?
Yeah, they though Oakland (black) and what they got was multi racial groups but they cannot single out blacks and browns this time and when white flesh gets pummeled it tends to colors like red, green, violet, blue, orange, pink, and grey.
There’s an old 60’s joke about when white folks get punched or beaten up the punch line is
"You turn all those colors and you call us colored people!"
But it ain’t funny when you finally see and feel what blacks, and browns have go through every day of their lives.
To brave protestor’s who were hurt, this is how police treat your rainbow brother’s, sister’s, and their children our lives are always in peril from some cop or cops with the power to kill us and get away with it.
This is why most blacks folks are reluctant to be in rallies/marches/protests we’ve been done all this shit before first alone and then with other courageous people.
I don’t presume to speak for most blacks but I’m thinking a lot are thinking or saying to others "Wait ‘til pigs turn on ‘em and start beating living crap out of them it ain’t gonna be pretty and it’ll wake their asses up."
Slave Catcher’s, Cops, Bull, The Fuzz, Police, Pigs, Goon Squad, or Our lovely Boys in Blue whatever you want to call them they are here to uphold law of the land and if one does her/his civic duty well sometimes cops can be literal pains in the crotch.
Blue folks are not the enemy at least most of ‘em aren’t but a few rotten apples spoils it all their brother cops doing good, saving lives, and dying on the jobs.
All I say folks is get as many video, dvd’s, and web enabled access as you can so if cops conficate, lose, destroy, or otherwise suddenly evidence gets "lost" there is always backup so the truth is known.
I hope that helps the next time anti war and any civil action gets people’s head and limbs busted and broken open. Peace.
Then rain comes, sadness starts, oppression of anything and everyone around me. �Oppression� is a whirlwind of depression, no money, no help from the government because the government creates it,
the oppression starts when they stop supporting us. Oppression is depression, constantly labeling us like when their soldiers leave their wives with teenagers, like me. my family�s broke and separated: I feel depression.
Do you know how its feeling right now? Some people take things for granted.
Oppression and depression is for people to put us out, like outcasts and label people like me. Sometimes I think why am I on this earth.
MUNI dismantles Taxi subsidy program for disabled folks
by Thornton Kimes/PNN
San Francisco's MUNI bus service, like other urban transit systems, offers Paratransit vehicle service (access to taxi's and vans), to variously disabled riders who can't use regular buses. Transit systems use a discounted scrip system (the scrip is bought to pay for rides) giving certified customers access won through years of court battles and the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA).
December 5th, 2009, after much tinkering with bus service between the Bayview-Hunter's Point and North Beach neighborhoods and making noises about reducing service or cutting routes elsewhere in the city, MUNI began actually reducing and cutting same—despite considerable noise and protest made by the riding public in response, as well as a series of meetings (called T.E.P., the Transit Effectiveness Project—Thornton went to one meeting) generating even more public comments that were ignored.
December 1st, MUNI stopped selling scrip and began requiring use of a Paratransit debit card (scrip loaded into it much like the food stamps card). The local paratransit website says nothing about this (your tax dollars and the Phantom Webmaster hard at work) yet. Lady Anonymous got an unwelcome anouncement in the mail about the change, coal received in the Christmas stocking on many mantles.
There was much intense discussion of this at the December 9th meeting of the Executive Committee of the Paratransit Coordinating Council (PCC), many people labelling the debit card “Not Ready For Prime Time”. Every changed or new service MUNI comes forth with arrives with a splat: Thornton was underwhelmed by the T-line service that was new some time ago, and when required (by a welfare program) to use it frequently for several months, was surprised it actually worked as advertised.
But the “splat” is painful and stinky and stays in your memory for a long time. Beta testers of the card consistently rated the card's peformance poorly, Lady Anonymous and others have been resisting, protesting the mandating of the card in PCC meetings. Some PCC meeting minutes are, hopefully unwittingly, kinda funny. In comments about the card being made ready to “go live” in November, some taxi companies were described as waiting for wireless equipment to arrive mid-month; others, who must use a system called In Taxi Equipment (ITE) would be asked to use something called “the manual knuckle buster” until they got their ITE stuff.
The “manual knuckle buster” is a lower tech, paper-using credit card machine, irrelevant to the discussion of taxi’s and Paratransit users because what taxi driver would waste time using something that would generate a never-ending paper pile in the front seat? Beaurocrats so love to play with words.
Playing with people who have little recourse to other means of getting from Point A to Point B (and maybe back to A) isn’t so funny. Choosing an “easier” payment method your customers don’t want is at the least bad customer service, but it is also business as usual casual disrespect.
The more players,the better,quicker spaceborn
human's will be a reality.
by Joe B.
Race To The Stars
Folks,you know my views by now.
Primarily my non-profit work with POOR Magazine is to help find solutions to this one way drain-money- from-poor folk, which I am, still a part.
PM with other organizations and individuals believe bottom-up from families and persons struggling through these situation are the ultimate experts because they’ve lived or are living through still.
You know going from student to,full time worker,being laid off, fired,houseless,in shelters,G.A.(General Assistance),from odd jobs, case management,to work fare – and have I forgotten being ill with little or no medicines?
Seeing how one becomes a cipher in the eyes fellow citizen’s think "stop drinking,drugs,being lazy, begging,unprotected sex.
(yeah, like young women really look to pick up penniless guys to screw cause they have nothing better to do than to raise fallen men turning them in prospective husbands.)
But Monday, July, 22, 2004 Pilot,Mr. Mike Melvill 63 and his topflight team helped him get his private funded rocket plane.
62.2 miles straight up eating atmosphere until Melvill saw the blue blackness of airless space.
He safely lands with a few glitches to be worked out that he and the team must solve before repeating the feat twice more with 3 more people.
I’d like to train, go up and experience seeing earth, see the moon if visible.
But I’m so far below the economic scale.
The only way I could pay back Mike Melvill and his team is if I became a celebrity hero.
I could be a spoke’s person for products, guess spots on public radio or Steve Harvey’s Big Time.
I something goes wrong and I survive it Maxx Extreme would be the show to be on.
I’m so far down on the economic latter that it would be a stunt for me a non profit low wage worker to be one of three to ride a rocket up through the stratosphere for a few minutes returning as a bona fide astronaut.
That’s fine even if I never go up again I’d be forever in history books as a footnote.
My one great contribution would be not as a POOR M staff writing reporter but as regular average guy using my skill as columnist with a personal viewpoint.
Even If I was picked for this by Poor Magazine for this once in a lifetime unique story.
I’d have to write a separate version(1)what PM wanted as its theme.
Version(2)My private, real deep down soul feeling that could not ever be part of PM being too private an experience that would be for public consumption other than PM’s political view.
I’ll say this now if by some miracle I am picked to go for free.
I would be honored, gleeful,simultaneously terrified and awestruck at being chosen.
All I have is the balance presence that the holy trinity gave humankind free will,evolved us to imagine,explore possibilities undreamed of.
We are not the paragon of animals,we are feeling, thinking,beings, with a belief in a divine spark.(soul)
Maybe this can help fuel becoming a success beyond mere money so I can be one of the few to break the bonds of earth and sky if only for a moment.
(of course my personal bias is immortality first along with space travel.)
This is but a small step but will lead others and as they are built on with hard won knowledge,sacrifice, science,and technology we as a species will be in space, turning asteroids into homes, landing sites for personal space ships.
Artificial homes floating in space, moon bases, seed-ships on generation long journeys, resorts, robot factories, make ships-to-order for those able to afford them.
Finally,more people will be among the stars terra forming worlds, or as restless (spacers), asteroid miners looking for room to grow.
We might find other beings or that we are truly alone which ever is true our first best destiny is the immensity of space and stars.
In a few decades,if life extension into immortality becomes reality and I’m still alive,in better health than I thought possible…
Then I too will be either a spacer (flying, landing of worlds,flitting across galactic maybe intergalactic space) or a ground-ling settled on a world to live but not necessarily die on.
(That’s what immortality is for more time and choices).
Hey! Reader’s what do you think about our Government and Private Sector unofficial space race?
More importantly do you really "Wanna Take A Ride?"
El Acoso Racista y Clasista de gente de color, pobre, y inmigrante continua en San Francisco
Racist and classist harassment of poor folks, migrants and people of color continues in San Francisco
El Acoso Racista y Clasista de gente de color, pobre, y inmigrante continua en San Francisco
Racist and classist harassment of poor folks, migrants and people of color continues in San Francisco
by Teresa Molina/PNN Voces de Inmigrantes en resistencia
Scroll down for English
Yo soy Teresa, reportera de Prensa POBRE, una mujer inmigrante trabajadora, madre de cinco hijos, luchando dÃa a dÃa viviendo la discriminación por ser pobre y inmigrante
Era un domingo soleado, todo parecÃa normal, todos disfrutábamos del rico sol y el viento. HabÃa un tremendo calorcito que se antojaba estar en la playa, bronceando nuestro cuerpo. Los olores de comida salÃan de los restaurantes a nuestras narices, las palmeras se ladeaban de lado a lado como que querÃan demostrar que algo no iba a estar bien pero todos muy despreocupados, sin imaginar que algo terrible iba a pasar.
A Edgardo lo mandaron a la corte donde solo lo mandaron a la escuela de manejo pero le suspendieron la licencia, pero no dijeron nada sobre el carro. Estos casos pasan todos los dÃas. Ay casos donde les quitan el carro a la gente y se los regresan sin radio, gas o algunas partes, sin algún remordimiento. Nos paran muchas veces solo por ser Latin@, para acosarnos quitando lo poquito que tenemos. Desgraciadamente no se puede hacer nada, porque ellos son la ley y ellos son los que mandan, son los que deciden y asà van pasando mas abusos sin encontrar soluciones.
La Terrible Realidad Policial El Acoso Racista y Clasista de gente de color, pobre, y inmigrante continua en San Francisco. Yo soy Teresa, reportera de Prensa POBRE, una mujer inmigrante trabajadora, madre de cinco hijos, luchando dÃa a dÃa viviendo la discriminación por ser pobre y inmigrante
Era un domingo soleado, todo parecÃa normal, todos disfrutábamos del rico sol y el viento. HabÃa un tremendo calorcito que se antojaba estar en la playa, bronceando nuestro cuerpo. Los olores de comida salÃan de los restaurantes a nuestras narices, las palmeras se ladeaban de lado a lado como que querÃan demostrar que algo no iba a estar bien pero todos muy despreocupados, sin imaginar que algo terrible iba a pasar.
A Edgardo lo mandaron a la corte donde solo lo mandaron a la escuela de manejo pero le suspendieron la licencia, pero no dijeron nada sobre el carro. Estos casos pasan todos los dÃas. Ay casos donde les quitan el carro a la gente y se los regresan sin radio, gas o algunas partes, sin algún remordimiento. Nos paran muchas veces solo por ser Latin@, para acosarnos quitando lo poquito que tenemos. Desgraciadamente no se puede hacer nada, porque ellos son la ley y ellos son los que mandan, son los que deciden y asà van pasando mas abusos sin encontrar soluciones.
A mi madre y yo, nos parraban muchas veces la policia por violaciones de Manejar Mientras ser Pobre (MMSP) por mucha de mi vida. Nos quitaban el carro mientras estabamos viviendo en el, y me llevaron a la carcel. La policia acosa a la gente pobre y la gente de color," dijo Lisa Gray-Garcia, madre y co-editora de Prensa POBRE.
Yo pienso que todo esto pasa porque nosotros lo permitimos, ya basta de tanto abuso, aquà en prensa pobre pensamos que si luchamos y resistimos vamos a ver cambios porque la unión hace la fuerza. Demanden los abusos de la policÃa, no hay que vivir dominados por el miedo!
Engles Sigue
I am Teresa, a community reporter for POOR Magazine, a hard working immigrant woman, mother of five; everyday I live the discrimination for being an immigrant living in poverty.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, everything seemed normal, and we were enjoying the rich sunshine and light winds. The heat gave us the urge to be on the shores of a beach, sun bathing our bodies. The smells of food came out from the restaurants into our noses, the palm trees moved from side to side, as if giving a warning that something was not right, however we were all unaware of the terrible thing that was about to take place.
All of a sudden a police car comes out of nowhere and gets beside us on the road. At that moment we all got nervous, our hearts were racing and began beating desperately; my granddaughter began to cry, as if she suspected something was going to occur. Inside the car were my daughter, Liliana, my son Marcos, my granddaughter, and Liliana's boyfriend, Edgardo, who was driving. When we pulled over on the side of the curb, they asked Edgardo for his insurance, and unfortunately, he did not have it renewed. What happened at that moment was terrible.
After the police realized that Edgardo's car insurance was not updated, they told us we had to walk home because they were taking his car. We were far from our home, but we all went back on the bus, upset about what had just taken place.
Until now, we know nothing about our car and supposedly, no one else knows anything about its whereabouts either. My daughter has been calling about it, mostly because she left important documents inside, and they give her a series of lies. First, they tell her there is a $1,200 fine to remove the car from the impound, then they tell her it was never in the impound, and then they tell her that immigration now has possession of the car and there is not a fine.
Edgardo ended up going to court where they suspended his license and were obligated to go to traffic school, but the judge did not mention anything about his car. These cases happen everyday. There are some cases that without any shame they take the car and return it, without any gas, radio or other parts inside. Many times the police pull us over just because we are Latinas, they are racially profiling us and taking advantage of the little we have. Unfortunately, we cannot do much, because they are the law, they are the bosses, and they are the ones who are entitled to make the decisions that affect our lives, allowing abuses to take place.
My mother and I were continually stopped by po-lice for DWP ( Driving While POOR) violations for most of my life- they took our car away right while we living in it and then took me to jail, the police prey on poor folks and poor folks of color, said Lisa Gray-Garcia, co-madre and co-editor of POOR Magazine.
I believe this happens because we allow it to happen. Let us stop these abuses! Here at POOR Magazine we believe that only when we fight and resist we will be able to see real change. Unity creates strength. Report the Police abuses; do not let fear dominate our lives!
The title of this essay, "Buried Alive not Dead," is a metaphor for the unspoken and unwritten connection between Black history and disability.
In this essay I will concentrate on two major historical events that shaped the future of African Americans: the Old and New Testaments of the Bible, and slavery. So far my research into these two periods reveals a sharp connection that links early African American history to disability. You will see that although disability has been intertwined with African American history, it has been overlooked, put on the back burner for the sake of "bigger issues." This history has been buried alive, but the history and contribution of Black disabled people is not dead.
The Bible
In the Old Testament disability was seen as a sin, or a punishment from God. Sometimes disability was seen as being possessed by evil. In the New Testament Jesus healed the lame, sick, blind and crippled, or in today's terminology, ìpersons with disabilities.î
But also in the Old Testament we find a prophet of God who performed some amazing feats without changing his physical stand. This prophet comes up again and again throughout the history of Black Americans, from African slaves to Martin Luther King. I'm talking about Moses in Exodus.
In Exodus, Moses was chosen by God to lead the Israelite slaves out of slavery in Egypt and into freedom in Israel. When God came to Moses and gave him this dangerous assignment, Moses doubted his own abilities to lead because he was slow of tongue. Another way to phrase this is to say Moses had a speech impediment.
But God didn't cure Moses' "speech disability" (as Jesus did to his followers in the New Testament). God gave Moses an accommodation, his brother Aaron, to speak for Moses. Moses and Aaron were a team together. Moses had the leadership skills and Aaron provided the voice.
The connection between Moses and African slaves was the strong hold of religion in the Black community. The Black church expressed a rich spirituality that sustained slaves and freed people through hard times. Although White masters taught their slaves to be Christians by preaching the New Testament, slaves were interested in the Old Testament because it spoke of their lives, and gave them hope of a new and better world. Moses was a hero to African American slaves, inspiring them to sing, "Go Down Moses."
Slavery & Disability
Although slaves looked to Moses as a role model, Moses' speech disability did not translate into positive attitudes toward disability at that time. We can say that Moses' disability did not affect his ability to perform physical labor, so it was placed in the background of his life. In slavery times, the main link to being a successful slave was the ability to perform physical, manual work on the plantations.
Many Africans did not survive the long boat ride to America because of the inhumane, abusive conditions of the slave ships. The slaves who were sick and physically disabled from the conditions of the boat ride and the physical torment from the White settlers were tossed overboard and left to drown. Is this where my history stops, at the bottom of the sea?
The harsh treatment of slaves produced a high rate of physical and mental disabilities. One historian linked mental illness and insanity among slaves to the separation of families. In 1863 a slave woman went insane because her sons were sold and sent to the trader's jail.
Disability had to be hidden away for a slave to stay alive. African slaves who were born physically disabled were put to death by their White masters or even their own parents because these disabilities made them useless on the plantations. When a slave woman gave birth, the first thing she was concerned about was the infant's physical condition. As time went by, the mother forced the baby to stand and walk.
I'm reminded of a short story titled 'Black Diamond' by Afi Tiomble A. Kambon. The story starts out in a small village in Africa and talks about the White invaders who brought the African villagers to the New World. The story concentrates on a slave woman who gave birth to a lovely girl who sparkled like a diamond. The only problem was the baby girl's legs were thin, and she was unable to stand and walk. At the end of 'Black Diamond,' the master dropped, kicked and stomped the baby until it was dead.
Pages 133 and 136 of American Slavery As It Is: Testimony of a
Thousand Witness describe the slaves' masters' views on disability as follows:
Old Slaves:
They're seen as a tax to the Master, it would be in the best interest to shorten their days.
The Incurably Diseased Maimed:
It would be cheaper for Masters to buy poison than medicine.
The Blind, Lunatics and Idiots:
They're seen as a tax to the Master, it would be in the best interest to shorten their days.
The Deaf, Dumb and Person Greatly Deformed:
Such might or might not be serviceable to the Master, many of them would be a burden and many men throw their burden away.
Feeble Infants:
Would require much nursing, the time, trouble and expense necessary to raise them would generally cost more than they would be worth as working animals.
This document goes on to give estimattions of 1600 slaves who were deaf and dumb, and 1300 blind slaves, in 1830. The directors of the American Asylum produced these numbers for the Deaf and Dumb of Hartford, CT.
On many plantations there were hospitals for sick slaves, but these were not healing places. Slaves in these hospitals had to work while recovering. In a personal narrative, Mr. George A. Avery describes the treatment of sick slaves as "revolting!" The same book reads, "If no cure was found for the sick slave then death was ordered with no compensation to be made, but if cured a bonus up to $300.00 was to be given" (336). Nine times out of ten, when a slave was really, really sick, he was left in an empty room alone for days or even months to die.
All disabled slaves were not killed! Many slaves lived and worked on American plantations with their physical and mental disabilities by making adaptive equipment to make them seem 'normal'. Mentally disabled slaves leaned on the slave community to hide their illnesses. These slaves were watched closely by their Masters to make sure they were not dangerous to themselves and others.
The bodies of the slaves were on display for auction, and slaves and their Masters tried to hide flaws, weaknesses and disabilities. Still, slaves' masters continued to use harsh torment and physical abuse, causing physical and mental disabilities.
Harriet Tubman, who led the famous Underground Railroad, was beaten so badly that she experienced black outs and seizures. Ms. Tubman's health made it difficult for her Master to find her a new Master. In 1857 Harriet
Tubman brought her parents to freedom. Her parents were too feeble to walk, so she hired a wagon to accommodate them. In her journey to lead slaves to freedom, Ms. Tubman would leave her company hidden in the woods while she herself went into towns in search of information. After freeing slaves, Ms. Tubman watched over their welfare, collected clothes, and organized the free slaves into societies. She also raised funds to build a house for her parents.
During her days of the Underground Railroad, one of Ms. Tubman's disguises was to look so stupid that nobody would suspect her of knowing enough to be dangerous! She, like Moses, led slaves to freedom, and her disability, like Moses', was and is played down or looked upon as a pity in the history of Black Americans.
As you can see, disability was a part of slavery. Although disability among slaves often equaled death, many disabled slaves contributed on the plantations, helped free other slaves, invented adoptive equipment and gave encouragement to the slaves' population.
After the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, slaves went to war to fight for their freedom. What happened to the soldiers who returned home disabled? What happened to disabled slaves after slavery? Did Black disabled free people enjoy the benefits of the Black Reconstruction? What happened in the sixties to Black disabled people?
The two histories, African American history and Disability history, do mention Black disabled people and their contribution, but it is buried alive. The connection between African American history and Disability history needs more attention and research in a positive light.
