by Joe. B.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hopefully most of you have ways to cope as well.

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

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

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

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Joe at 255 9th St.

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by By Isabel Estrada

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Marlon Crump/PNN

When I think about the true meanings of “journey” and “destination” memories of my road to POOR Magazine/POOR News Network often race through my mind. Devotions at manual labored jobs with no future promotions. Supporting my family of four, with meager earnings, while living in Cleveland, Ohio. Going from one homeless shelter to another, until my arrival to San Francisco, California in 2004.

In between the hardships of homelessness, I found sanctity with extensive reading at the library, taking numerous G.E.D night classes for writing, and sometimes writing my poetry in the dark. There was always the need for me to feel the very words written from my own hand, created from my own mind. My passion for writing grew.

I began to feel my own words during my brief period, as a volunteer for the San Francisco Coalition on Homelessness, in 2005. On May 2nd of that year, I recited my poem that I wrote the night before, “Care Not Cash/Trash” aimed to criticize Mayor Gavin Newsom’s resentful policy to those receiving welfare aid.

For twenty nerve-wrecking minutes, I was here. Facing a relatively large crowd on San Francisco City Hall steps, with eyes gazing blankly, and news cameras glued to me. Hoping that I wouldn’t faint from the hammering of my heart, I summoned a subliminal will for a boost of adrenalin to carry me, even after I concluded my poem.

A woman in the crowd’s forefront smiled at me, as I stepped off of the steps. She had an easy smile, with the aura of a teacher and a revolutionary vision. “That was really great.” She said to me, still sporting that easy smile.

Six months later following the unlawful attack that occurred upon me, on October 7th, 2005 by twelve members of the San Francisco Police Department, I saw her again. She was “Tiny” Lisa Gray-Garcia, co-founder of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network.

Our worlds immediately collided as we both shared similar visions in literary art, media and access.

A year later, I learned from POOR what the meanings, and value of what a healing tool is with literary art through their revolutionary Digital Resistance media and journalism training program and later their POOR Press publishing program. After writing my first book, a series titled “Citizens & Civilians Over Corruption: Savagely Removed Occupant” I knew what I was going to give to the world, and much, much more.

To write about one’s painful experience through a path of healing re-introduces the fact shared by everyone at POOR that “writing is fighting.”

POOR Press Publications integrates the voices segregated from Corporate Mainstream Media, and its industry of Amerikkka affiliates, through the literary art of the POOR Press Authors, themselves. Each POOR Press Author, including myself, although experienced different issues we face and write about; all of us have one thing voiced to world:

Silenced voices are untold journeys in of, themselves.

“Taking Back the Land, Resisting Criminalization One Story at a time.”

Los Viajes: The Journeys, a bilingual (resisting linguistic language domination) POOR Press Publication that chronicles the journeys of scholars ranging from migrant, indigenous, poverty, and a revolutionary worker are detailed in this book, with their very own voices. Stories, images, art, and the sound of people crossing borders all over Pacha Mama (Mother Earth) are all featured in Los Viajes.

Courage displayed from Ingrid De Leon in her escape from domestic violence and poverty from Guatemala, and battling barriers to sustain a stable life in the U.S.A. are heard in her poem, “I am scared.” Prolific
poetry from Silencio Muteado revealing the horrors of how lavish lifestyles of America brainwash some undocumented immigrants into senseless competition in “What is the Amerikkkan Dream?”

The sorrows from a grandmother name Chispita for having to release her young grandson in order for him to be cured, while hanging on an ounce of faith they’ll be someday reunited with tears of joy in “From Oaxca, Mexico.” A poetic memoir from Tony Robles of his brief encounter with his grandfather in “Non-Returnable.”

“Should we go to San Francisco?” Told they could not have hotel room extension, labeled as “bums.” Dragging heavy bags while driving from strip mall to strip mall, gas station to mini mart, and then again. Terrified and unsure of what else they should do. Having friends, but no money and no hope for any money.

The mother and daughter team, “Mama” Dee Gray and “Tiny” Lisa Gray-Garcia, future co-founders of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network in “From Los Angeles to San Francisco.”

Other stories of the silenced peoples in Los Viajes: The Journeys shows its reader that the struggle from each testimony in this book proves that people in poverty continue to face have the opportunity of “Taking Back the Land, Resisting Criminalization................One Story At a Time.”

Filipino Building Maintenance Company
(Dedicated to his uncle, Al Robles.)

Tony Robles is a native San Franciscan, community organizer, activist, co-teacher, co-editor, and a “Revolutionary Worker Scholar” of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network. Robles ‘s book, Filipino Building Maintenance Company, drafts the reader’s eyes in this depth detailed novel, combined with poetry of his life experiences, while maintaining a father and son work/love relationship.

His father, James Robles, a janitor by trade worked for the City and County of San Francisco from 1977-1978 before deciding to become self employed, by starting what would be the “Filipino Building Maintenance Company” thus defying the workforce-apartheid of the U.S.A.

“The house of a janitor is supposed to be clean. One would assume this to be true because the janitor performs his duties with the sacred mop, broom, and toilet brush” A lecture once given to him by his father.

Robles’s poems present interesting themes when it comes to the reminiscence of their relationship, such as in "Broadway Chicken."
“Some of the best exchanges of words with my father came across the tables of Chinese restaurants. They weren’t really exchanges, my father usually did all the talking.”

Filipino Building Maintenance Company reveals to its reader of a father/son relationship, showing discipline, responsibility, the value and pride of hard work. It also shows motivation for entrepreneurship, and breaking barriers to future goals………..such as writing.

Untold Stories of Amerikkka

Silencio Muteado is a member of the Po Poets project of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network, a Race, Media, Poverty, and Migrant Scholar. A native from Michoacán, Mexico, Muteado was raised on the eastside of Oakland, CA.

Experiencing what most of the youth in poor communities of color endure, such as poverty, racism, oppression, and violence, Muteado realized where he was standing at: “The New World.”While living in a city with a high homicide rate, Muteado saw the bright side of the whole thing. He published his book through POOR Press Publications, in 2004 called Untold Stories of Amerikkka.

His book contains poetry (bilingual resistant to linguistic domination) that graphically details the indefinite immoral values of the U.S.A., such as slavery, war, poverty, violence, and the unrelenting attacks undocumented immigrants, and migrant people.

Additionally, Untold Stories of Amerikkka features graphic art and pictures expressing the impact of immorality from the U.S.A. has had on people. With the visual and vocal art instrumented by Muteado, Untold Stories of Amerikkka can be heard through his words as he sees the bright side of this country’s callous culture, “Rhythm was born inside the humankind.”

Life, Struggle, and Reflection II: Raw and Uncut

Kim Swan, a.k.a Queennandi X-Sheba, is a Race, Media, and Poverty Scholar, Po Poet, Revolutionary Rap Villain, of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network, a motivational speaker, and a “Super Baby Mama” mothering three daughters.

Raised out of the San Francisco’s Fillmore District, the “Moe” Queennandi is a formidable poetic voice for all poverty-stricken African Descent men, women, and children in general. All of them whom from which are daily chased by racism, police brutality, and Child Protective Services. (C.P.S.)

As a survivor of the streets, and the cruelties of modern day society, Queennandi’s categorizes these experiences in her second book released through POOR Press, Life, Struggle, and Reflection II: Raw and Uncut.
Her life experience is referenced to the title, itself. It is a sequel from her first Life, Struggle, and Reflection, as she puts it, “Black By Popular Demand.”

Queennandi’s book contain numerous poems, such as the need for urgent prevention of today’s ongoing problems, the oppression, disrespect of women, (Black Women in particular), angered feelings that follow as a result, and the massacre of revolutionary Black Men, past and present in her poem “Black Revelation.”

In “Have You Ever Heard of a Tale?” challenges the uncaring that Life, Struggle, and Reflection II: Raw and Uncut, would not need future sequels expressing its content, if people could change for the better.

Complicated: Moving into the light

Ruyata Akio McGlothin, a.ka “RAM” is a member of the Po Poets Project, Race, Media and Poverty Scholar of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network. He is also a “Super Baby Daddy” fathering two daughters.

A native San Franciscan, survivor of police brutality, and racial profiling, RAM has released his third book through POOR Press called, “Complicated: Moving into the light.” His book poetically envisions into the reader’s heart of what RAM’s feelings are in his world.

Into a world of internalized love, regrets from unsanctioned addictions, road to recovery, and memory lanes of pain toured through his mind.
Its very introduction is an induction of inspiration for those who are lost and unable to find their way in life:

It’s complicated
In recovery, in love
Poetically concentrated
If you pull, or if you’re shoved
Get clean, trying to stay
Shouldn’t mean to get away

Like its subtitle, RAM’s book inspires anyone who’s isolated into the dark to move into the light.

San Francisco County Jail Cookbook ‘Tu’: Attack of the Ass Clowns

Brother Y is a Race, Media, Poverty, and Disability Scholar of POOR Magazine/POOR News Network. He is also a frontline fighter on the “War on Drugs”, a formerly homeless veteran, and an advocate for medical cannabis patient’s rights.

Living in a Single Room Occupancy (S.R.O.) Hotel for a number of years, Brother Y experienced many encounters of harassment. From property management to police regarding his legitimate use of marijuana, Brother Y details these events in his second book released through POOR Press titled, “San Francisco County Jail Cookbook ‘Tu’: Attack of the Ass Clowns”.

A sequel to the first (released in 2008) he summarizes his resistance to the criminalization of marijuana, denied medication (while incarcerated), grievances made to uncaring property management and public officials.
Brother Y returns informing the reader that although the “War on Drugs” charges against him were dropped, most recently, his struggle continues.

He defines the “Ass Clowns” as being a landlord, a security guard, a police officer, a prosecutor or district attorney who targets people in poverty.

Brother Y shows the reader that the San Francisco County Jail Cookbook series he wastes no time exposing a recipe for disaster, as he concurs, “Time to get down to the meat of the matter.”

Non-Profit Industrial Complex: A Love Story and Other Poems

Thornton Kimes is a Race, Media, Poverty Scholar and staff writer for POOR Magazine/POOR News Network. He has also written poetry (some in haiku) for The “Street Sheet” a publication of the San Francisco Coalition on Homelessness. Before he joined POOR in 2008, Kimes worked at Goodwill Industries.

The release of his very first book, Non-Profit Industrial Complex: A Love Story and Other Poems, Kimes categorizes the elements in his experience of working such industry: “Nature, politics, love, weirdness, working for a Non-Profit organization, and Wizard of Oz imagery"

Kimes expresses his fascination for haiku and short poetry, in his book. He enjoys trying to say the most with the fewest words: "I’m not comfortable with longer poems, but that is changing. Non-Profit Industrial Complex: A Love Story is one of the longest poems I’ve written."

"We all live in Oz. Sometimes spectacularly strange, America/Oz feels like the Yellow Brick Road’s traffic signals are broken and we’re in a giant parking lot. Finding the way is a quest for more brain, more heart, more courage...”

A first and foremost informative piece by, Thornton Kimes, not foretold by many.

Ray’s Day

Marlon Crump is a Race, Media, Poverty Scholar and journalist for POOR Magazine/POOR News Network. He is also a Revolutionary Legal Scholar.

A survivor of police brutality and racial profiling, Crump earned the title “Revolutionary Legal Scholar” by representing himself in a civil suit against the City of San Francisco.

A prolific and talented writer in his own right, Crump has released his second book released through POOR Press titled, “Ray’s Day.” He reluctantly wrote this book to finally subside the demons (trauma) that plagued him and his family for many years.

Ray’s Day is a novel that brings its reader into a deep, dark fantasy world of Crump and his callous confrontation against an individual, who committed unforgivable crimes upon his family. Creative graphic details, in fictitious form by Crump, the reader sees the true objective of Ray’s Day when they hear his voice:

“I am ultimately hopeful that “Ray’s Day” will equal a new day for all sexual assault victims to cope with their pain with self-healing………...by the potent antidote means of creativity, arts, and literacy.”

To purchase any of these books on-line by mail order you can click on POOR Press on the left-hand side of this column.

POOR will also be hosting Mercado de Cambio/The Po'Sto' Holiday Art Market and Knowledge Exchange on Wednesday, December 16th 12-9pm at their offices at
2940 16th street 1 blk below 16th street BART in the Mission /SF- Books, Po'kies and Art from POOR Press, Po Poets, neighborhood DJ's, musicians and many micro-business people and artists in the Bay will be
available for sale and exchange!.

To register for the next POOR press/Digital Resistance media and publishing training beginning in January email deeandtiny@poormagazine.org or call (415-863-6306) and leave a message.

by Leroy Moore/PNN

Krip-Hop: Tell us about Heavy Load.

Heavy Load: We're a five piece punk band from Brighton, England. We've been together for 12 years. Three of us have learning disabilities (Learning disabilities in the UK means people with developmental disabilities like Down Syndrome)¦Jimmy started everything by telling his support worker he'd like to be in a band. They sent out an advertisement and a week later the band had formed.

Krip-Hop: What kind of music you play?

Heavy Load: It's loud garage/punk rock.

Krip-Hop: Name the members of Heavy Load

Heavy Load: Heavy Load is Simon Barker (vocals), Jimmy Nicholls (guitar and vocals), Mick Williams (guitar and vocals), Michael White (drums) and Paul Richards (bass)

Krip-Hop: Name some titles of your songs?

Heavy Load: Stay Up Late, When will We Get Paid, Farty Animals, We love George Michael

Krip-Hop: Tells us about your documentary.

Heavy Load: The film follows us for 2 1⁄2 years as we try and take our music to a more mainstream audience playing at music festivals etc and particular challenges that face each member of the band in their lives. It's going to be broadcast on IFC on 23rd June and then at cinemas in the UK later in the year as well as being shown on the BBC.

Krip-Hop: How long will you be in the US?

Heavy Load: We're only in the US for five days and for all except Mick…it's our first trip to New York City.

Krip-Hop: Have you ever played with an all disabled Hip-Hop group like 4Wheel City?

Heavy Load: Last year we played with a young hip-hop group from London who had learning disabilities and we hear great things about 4Wheel City. We're really looking forward to it.

Krip-Hop: Tells us Heavy Load's experience in the music industry.

Heavy Load: I don't know what the US is like but it's difficult in the UK. It seems to be a lot about money. We've had a couple of meetings with record companies but no success. But with the Internet we can do our own thing, release what we want, and there's no shortage of gigs so we're happy do everything our own way. It seems to work for us.

Krip-Hop: Name some other disabled musicians in London/UK

Heavy Load: We're just about to release a compilation album called Wild Things “ songs of the disabled underground' which is a project we've undertaken to gather together learning disabled musicians from the UK together on one CD for the first time. There are some really great acts on it. Ones to look out for are Beat Express (also from Brighton), Vanessa and Kick Me Ugly, Dele Fakoya, Dean Rawat and The Coasters. It's a really varied album and we're really excited to be releasing it. We'd love to do a US version if people want to send us their recordings.

Krip-Hop: Tell us your Stay Up Late campaign

Heavy Load: For years we'd been playing gigs at disabled club nights and got frustrated at how early everyone was going home.
We soon realized that it was because support workers were
only scheduled to work until 10pm at night so would want
to leave by 9pm so they could get the person they were
supporting back home . We thought this was wrong so we recorded a single 'Stay Up Late', got some money from the
National Lottery and set about raising awareness and
getting disabled people to tell their staff that from time to time they wanted to Stay Up Late â“ and that this should be their right. After all most live music nights don't normally end at 9pm

Krip-Hop: What is your next project?

Heavy Load: We're currently getting the Wild Things album out there and then we'll be releasing our second album 'Shut It' at the end of June. After that we've got various gigs lined up across the UK either to promote the film or the Stay Up Late campaign. We also organizing 'mixed' nights that involve bands with and without disabilities as it creates a great vibe with the audience and introduces the public to music they might not have heard before so we'll be doing more of that later in the year. We've had a lot of requests to play gigs so the film will probably keep us busy for a good while – we hope.

Krip-Hop: Tell us about the disabled rights movement in UK compared to USA

Heavy Load: There's some great and challenging stuff going on with websites like www.bbc.co.uk/ouch which has got correspondents discussing all sorts of issues. There's also a healthy self-advocacy movement making sure that people are able to have a voice and know what their rights are. There's still a fair bit of work to be done though.

Krip-Hop: How can people get in touch with you?

Heavy Load: They can check out our myspace which is www.myspace.com/heavyloaduk or go to our website
www.heavyload.org and you can email us from there.

by Queennandi Xsheba/PoorNewzNetwork

"Yes, I called em' (cps) and reported abuse and neglect, because I didn't like her!" The voice of new SF resident Sherie Lewis still echos in my ears as she confessed to me her part in the separation of Christana Martel's family. As we further spoke, she also admitted that she called the calworks department (Alameda county) and falsely reported that Christana sold all of her food stamp benefits on her EBT card for in exchange for marijuana, (that accusation resulted in Christana paying a HEFTY price) which according to (then) neighbors Mertis Bowden and Michelle Howell was a "f-ed up lie!", and that Christana kept "plenty of food"- Michelle explained to me that she was a guest over for dinner often. Ms. Lewis boasted on with her vengeance against Ms. Martel, attacks ranging from "manipulating" Christana's family members just to cause dissent, and too in one case, to win a frivilous lawsuit against a former landlord.

I stood there in awe as I literally watch this sista take sadistic pleasure in tearing down another sista. When I asked Ms. Lewis why, the sad and simple answer was that Christana was a poor mama. Far as CPS goes, people like Ms.Lewis whom in this case overstepped her boundaries and abused it (the Sssystem) tend to do this to "get back" at someone who was either an adversary to them, or out of plain jealousy. Either way, what is more than always overlooked is the children and their feelings towards being torn apart from their families, for no ligitamate reason other than their mama wasn't very well liked, or "crossed" by a certain individual. CPS "stands" for Child Protective Services, indicating that if a child is in immediate danger, or if the child is being abused, there is a hotline number to call and report such actions- granted. However, there are mamaz like myself, tiny, vivian and jewnbug who strongly believe in "Tribal Intervention" and the "It takes us to heal us" theory, which is unfortunately not practiced amongst all of the members of our tribes (communities), thus the results are tribal dissent, and definitely reasonable (understatement) mistrust for the outside Sssystem.

The impact of being removed from the home affected baby girl Destiny a bit more than her brothers, Dalevon and Deshawn. She was depressed, withdrawn and suffered from massive hair loss, but has been improving since Christana was given more time to spend with the children, and to see about Destiny's mental well-being. Why is this type of CPS abuse allowed to continue? The question remains in the "smokeblower", while mamaz such as Christana and myself ponder on non-exsistent penalties for folks like Ms. Lewis who abuse the law and walk away laughing, taking high stride pride in helping to break up fellow black families.
"Looking back at the Hassani case, in my opinion, placing the children in foster care isn't always the best option." Ms. Martel said. "If a mother is able- bodied, mind and willing, she should be given more access to resources that would enable us to become indpendent caretakers, rather than just snatch our children away from us."

Christana Martel is a single mother of four now, who loves her beautiful, talented children dearly. Fighting and overcoming a heartbreaking situation like hers took alot of strenght, and we @poormag call for others to press on, at the same time we commend Christana on her perserverance.

Ms. Martel is currently a supervisor at a popular eatery and keeps in close contact with her children regularly, since the children are with family members, Christana should have all the love and support from the family to help her and children repair the temporarily broken bond.

by Ken Moshesh

ODE TO LANGSTON

UNSEEN

ARE THE DIVERSE FACES

OF MY HOMELESS AND AT-RISK

PEOPLE

STILL CLOAKED IN INVISIBILITIES

OF

SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGICAL, COLD

WAR

DENIALS AND FEARS

PASSED DOWN THROUGH

PAEENTINGS AND NIGHTMARES

OF PAST AND POSSIBLE

DEPRESSIONS

VEILED IN PRESENT

INSECURITIES AND OBLIGATIONS

DEEMED NECESSARY TO PREVENT

THE NON-BEHOLDER FROM

BECOMING THE BEHELD.

STEEPED IN SELF-SERVING

NEGATIVE STEREOTYPES

DEMOCRATIC PROCLAMATIONS

RATIONALIZING

LOFTY, POSITIVE,CONCEPTS

FOR WHICH WE HAVE KILLED.

AND NOW, FAR TOO MANY

WHO RISKED ALL TO KILL

FOR THE CAUSE

ARE ALSO RENDERED

HOMELESSSLY MISSING IN

ACTION
B
Y THE UNNECESSARY

UNREGULATED GREED

OF A FEW.

BLIND ARE THE TUNNEL

EYES

OF THE ABUNDANT SOLUTIONS

TO THE BEAUTIFUL HUMAN FACES OF

MY HOMELESS AND AT-RISK PEOPLE

WHO ALSO

BARELY SEE EACH OTHER

AS THE NATION STRUGGLES

TOWARD HOMELESSNESS

RECOVERY

K MOSHESH 3/00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Tanya Brannan/Purple Berets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PURPLE BERETS

Women Defending Women

PO Box 3064

Santa Rosa, CA 95402

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

by Marlon Crump, QUeennandi, RAM /PNN

No more stolen lives

Police get a gun and badge

And think they just can thrive

And be full of jive

Wheres the us and the we when they only think about the I

How much more shit must we take

How many constituional rights must they break

On the Bart plaque shooting us in the back

Police reports be lies and the wrong stats

Planted guns and planted sacks

Lying in court about some nicks and nacks

Marching in Oakland on broadway Ave.

Spirits black as panthers putting unjustice on the slab

So many times we took this path

Mothers crying and brothers mad

RAM

by Lisa Gray-Garcia/PNN

When I read with terror and disbelief about the proposed Gang Tours of Los Angeles, I was reminded of the well-meaning, neo-liberal, writer of the early 20th century, Charles Dickens, who launched a deadly media-based campaign of poor people fetishizing when he toured, surveyed, studied and reported on the Manhattan tenements a.k.a the dwellings/residences/ roofs of thousands of poor immigrants in the New York at the turn of the century. When Dickens published his report in the New York Times which became instrumental in the displacement of thousands of poor people out of New York, he characterized the tenements as deplorable cesspools. The subsequent demolitions of thousands of buildings in New York housing poor folks was for our own good, the social workers, city planners and real estate speculators told us, for the betterment of us seething, unwashed masses of poor people, unable to care for ourselves, speak for ourselves, or think for ourselves, our children or our homes.. Silenced people they were, we are, intentionally unheard , talked about, studied, gazed upon, critiqued and researched.

To be fair Dickens didnt invent poor people/indigenous people fetishizing, we have anthropology, ethnography, politicians and psychiatry to thank for that since the beginning of time. From Daniel Moynihan pathologizing , single, African descendent, mother headed households as broken, which led to the criminalizing welfare codes we welfare dependent mamas struggle with today to the poverty tours of favelas in Brazil people have been speaking for, studying on, and talking about poor people without ever really listening to us, talking with us, or properly compensating us for our images and knowledge for hundreds of years, but nowadays we have reality shows, tourism, corporate media and the non-profit industrial complex to truly progress us all into the complete and utter zoo-ifying of us poor people of color or as my fellow PNN poverty and migrant scholar Muteado Silencio says, "We are not animals in the 'hood."

And in the case of the bizarre, wrong-headed-ness of the LA Gang Tours and its non-profit organization of the same name, once again it is staffed by well-meaning advocates who aim to Save Lives, Create Jobs and Rebuild Communities, as their tag-line says. We are told by staffers and their corporate and non-corporate advocates that bus tours through gritty, neighborhoods peopled by poor youth of color caught up in violence, drugs and poverty, is for our own good. It will bring us jobs and opportunities and hope.

One of the many oxymoronic aspects of this concept is the notion, just like Dickens reported, that our neighborhoods, our communities, our corners, our schools, and our homes, are crazy, dirty, sick, disgusting and must be cleaned up, cleaned out and eradicated, hygienic metaphors about humans scattered about with impunity. And the complete and utter disregard for the fact that in everyone of these so-called, blighted neighborhoods, filthy apartment buildings and poor people schools, homes and communities, there are families and elders and children of color who are living, thriving, learning, and resisting. There are heroes, and leaders, and lecturers and healers, and dreamers and teachers, and poets and artists, revolutionaries and scholars. And it is only the people who have engaged in philanthropy pimping, colonized learning and formal institutions of helping that get honored, recognized and listened to for their heroism, beauty, power and agency.

It is the reason that POOR Magazine launched the PeopleSkool and promotes the notion of poverty scholarship. It is the reason we launched PoorNewsNetwork/PNN and a non-heirarchal form of media creation based on indigenous teachings and eldership. It is why we create our own research and up-end all forms of institutional domination. It is the reason we resist the notion that there is only one form of legitimate education, research and media production.

Try raising a child in poverty with very little money and almost no support, try taking care of an elder, or keeping your family fed, try healing outside of the western Medical industrial complex. Try eating well in the hood or being endlessly po'lice harassed, racially profiled and messed with. These things happen and they dont happen. Heroism happens, beauty happens, art happens, violence happens, just like it does everywhere.

Last year when I did a walk-through of the Tenement museum of New York, I learned that several hundred extremely poor mothers and fathers of 9 and 10 children managed to raise and feed and clothe their children with no indoor plumbing in a room the size of a closet. Try doing that. Tell me that mama or daddy isnt a hero, a scholar.

My poor single mama of color raised me alone in several of the neighborhoods slated for gang tours. In our Compton, Wilmos, East LA neighborhoods, we had gangs, which arguably were many more things than one colonized notion of violence, but we also had tamale vendors, muralists, break-dancers, poets, micro-business people, hip hop DJ's, low-rider car-art, lovers, grandmothers, grandfathers, uncles and aunties.

I started this piece by saying I had terror in my heart about the gang tours, but be clear its not terror for the poor, unsuspecting tourist, default colonizers and 21st century missionaries, stumbling and trampling over our communities and cultures as the well-meaning gang tours commence, rather, its terror for the residents of the proposed tour sites, and so I caution all of the community members, families and young people to hold on carefully to their purses, wallets, belongings, poetry, art and scholarship, cause, well, you know how dangerous those tourists can be.

by Ace Tafoya/PoorNewsNetwork Community Journalist

I was a child in the 1960's. Vietnam, the British Invasion, Martin Luther King, the hippies, race riots, Cronkite, Malcolm and the Kennedy's blared through the black and white television set my father purchased for us. My father always told us that violence never solved anything.

On Thursday, August 14, 2003, I along with scores of concerned citizens from all over the bay area and all walks of life took part of the "Heal the Tenderloin March!". A vigil organized by Glide Memorial United Methodist Church, St. Boniface, St. Anthony's Foundation and The Islamic Society of San Francisco.

With the spirited Reverend Cecil Williams leading the way, we took our spots on Ellis Street and proceeded to take over the Tenderloin. "Peace, love and happiness," Classy Martin, 17, a resident of the east bay said to me before the march began.. "We need to stop all the violence while we're still young. Classy works in the Tenderloin and is tired of all the violence happening this summer in the TL.

Louis "Lu-Lu" Williams was a resident of the TL. He lived in the Dalt Hotel. He was murdered there on June 28, 2003. "Lu-Lu" worked in the kitchen at Glide. "Louis Williams can be remembered! He didn't die in vain," reflected Brigardo Groves from Diamond Heights. He thinks this march is an important event in the community. "Homeless people are dying all the time in the street, they're nameless and faceless. A lot of people with disabilities are living in the Tenderloin."

I was proud to see the members of the kitchen staff and the guys who hand out the meal tickets for people waiting to receive something to eat out on the march too. They do a hell of a job. From my window I've seen may fights break out for any reason. They take control of the situation easily. I take my SF Giants beanie off to them!

Singing songs like 'Lay My Burdens Down', 'We Shall Overcome' and one of my favorites, 'Amazing Grace', Robin from "Tranny Talk"(which airs the 1st Sunday of the month at 11.30 a.m. on Cable 29), whose lived in the TL since 1995 exclaims, "(This event) is a healing of the community." As her dark frock ruffled through the San Francisco breeze, we eddied around Ellis to Leavenworth towards our destination, she continued, "This violence doesn't have to happen,"

"Guns are not part of the neighborhood," reveals Calvin Gipson, Director of Human Services at Glide. "This neighborhood is about recovery. We're not going to stand for violence!" Some of the employees of Glide stared to feel insecure about the neighborhood. This march was dedicated to Louis Williams, Paul Howard, Carlin Satterwhite, Joseph Garcia, James "Dirty South" Evans, James Bravard (who was the culprit of the crime) and all who have lost their lives or have been effected by violence.

When we reached the Dalt Hotel on Turk Street, the vibrant Rev. Williams took to the stage and he went off! "My brothers and sisters- we have come here for a purpose." "Amen," I and others yelled. "We want love in the Tenderloin." The crowds excitement grew louder. "We want to get along with everybody." And to the many youth in attendance he rallied, "You've got a voice in the Tenderloin, you've got a prescience in the Tenderloin." Everyone at the march were all shouting out and witnessing now, "Violence shall be overcome! Love is taking over the Tenderloin." His words brought cheers and yells from the people who gathered at the site of the murders.

Now, as I, along with Killa B, Flatfoot and many others who struggle with our recovery, I watch the Northeastern Blackout, the wacky race for Governor, that bullshit of a initiative Prop N being dragged out by the SF Board of Supervisors and the mayors race on my 27" Magnavox that Johnny, my best friend gave to me, I know that love can make a difference. . As one resident in the Tenderloin said to me, "Love is alive in the Tenderloin!" At least it was here tonight - if only for a minute.