Story Archives 2003

by Nomvuyo/Special to PNN

I called Pozna last night. I had met her last year during a solo and
self-funded tour of six African countries from October 2001 to March 2002. I
volunteered for advocacy focused non-government organizations, lived with
families and stayed as close to the ground as possible. I met Pozna while I
volunteered at a domestic violence NGO that she worked for. She is a
31-year-old Xhosa woman living in one of the poorest black townships in
Capetown, called Guguletu.

She held my hand and walked me through the rows and rows of shacks to show
me, "her beautiful people." Pozna showed the 2 room houses where sometimes 9
people stay in a room and the toilets located outside where which could be
shared by 10-20 people. She told me, "It is important that you know how my
people live." As much as it hurt me, it was important for me to know. She
organized the girls that she teaches traditional dance to, you dance for me.
They did not have a drum, so they used a garbage can and they welcomed me
with dance.

She told me I was a community healer and told me that I must meet other
healers. She brought me to the homes of local advocates, to the hostels, to
the people. I met Mrs. Florence Diamsche, a woman who had started a school
in her house in an area called crossroads for black children who had their
education disrupted by all of the violence of Apartheid. It is now a five
building school built across the street from her house and she is the
principal. There was Mavis Mamtambo Baja, an 80-year-old woman who worked
extensively for the youth. She told me I must work for change and to share
the little that you have, because the little that you have is more than the
person who has nothing at all. There were so many community healers that I
met with Pozna and we prayed together before we ate the soda and cookies
they served me on a tray.

At the hostels, we walked through one of several. We walked through the dark
hallway, as there were no light except for the sun coming through the door
at the end. We peered in to the six rooms the size of a dorm that were
separated by curtains and the community kitchen with the rusted out sink and
hot plate. We went to the community bathrooms separated by concrete walls
with no doors that had concrete holes in the ground that you squat over. We
went to the co-ed community showers with no curtains that were merely
spickets that poured water on a concrete floor. This was one of the newer
hostels built by the current government, the older ones were worse.

The hostels were one of many tactics used by the Apartheid government to
break up African families as only men were allowed to stay there. The
hostels were close enough to the city, which was reserved for whites, so
that the men could work for whites during the day, but far enough away so
that whites did not have to be conscious of the raids and murders by police
at the hostels at night. The dorms were now shared by whole families or
women and their children and although movement is no longer restricted, most
black South Africans still remain in townships, just as most of economic
power remains in white hands.

We walked through and people peered out of their shacks and rooms. Pozna
told them, "Come out, there is a black American here." Before I knew it, 50
or more Africans surrounded me in a circle around me. If I stepped backward,
I would step on someone (which I did). All these eyes peering at me, I
prayed a silent pray, "Spirit, shine through me, shine through my eyes and
my smile." I met as many eyes as I could, smiling the widest smile and the
most compassionate heart I could find. Pozna pumped me up before the crowd
and said, "She came all the way from America to be with us, to see us, to
bring us hope. She came by herself to volunteer to help our community. She
is a lawyer, she is a community healer. We call her Nomvuyo, because she
makes us happy." They said ooh, wow, and wow, nodded and pushed against each
other to be near me. They just stared and stared with wide eyes and smiled.

Then they would say something in Xhosa and Pozna would translate for me. She
said, "They are saying the ancestors brought you to them. They say you look
just like them, you are African." Pozna told them, "See, not all black
Americans have relaxers in their hair or wear their hair long, some wear
them short like us."

One man said in English- "Excuse me, what is the difference between a black-
American and an black South African? "I said, "Look at me, what is the
difference?" Everyone said, "Nothing, nothing!" They all agreed and talked
to each other and then came back to staring at me and I felt consumed, it
was intense. One little girl who held on to me telling everyone that I was
her new friend, ran and got her grandmother! I just started shaking their
hands and they hugged me. They touched my hair and my skin. Many had never
seen a black-American except on TV. He said, "We know about black-American
culture, but do they know about us?" It was so silent you could hear a pin
drop. He said, "Do they know that we live like this? Do they know we do not
live without any electricity, with no bathrooms, do they know?" I said, No
they do not." He said, "Kisha, will you please tell them, tell them about
us." I said " I give you my word, I will" and I shook his hand.

He said, "Did you take photos?" and I said "I will have to come back,
because I ran out of film". He said, "When, when will you come back?" I
said, "Next Saturday or Sunday." Another man, holding his heart said, "And
Kisha when you come back?" I said, "Yes". He said, "Will you please bring
your phone number, so I can take you out to lunch?" Everyone died laughing.
Pozna said, "See Kisha you bring light to the people. If you have light you
must share it." She said, "They need more time with you Kisha". I came back
the next weekend.

She showed me a side of South Africa, I would have never seen. She showed me
the invisible, the oppressed and the suffering 15 minutes away from a major
city full of malls, tourists and a metropolitan downtown city center. She
showed me a side of myself, I would have never discovered. She showed me a
side of love that I did not know existed. She showed me all of the latest
dances and we shared the hardships we had suffered.

One morning, she told me how she had survived death threats from the church
for pursuing charges against a local pastor who was molesting girls aged 4
years old to 13. She was accused of breaking up their church. He had had
full-blown intercourse with 12 of them. After 2 years of denial by the
community, Pozna was the only one to attempt to protect the children after
one of the 9-year-old girls disclosed to her. She organized the children,
taped 16 of their stories and could not find anyone to take on the case, as
he was a community leader with a wife and children.

Tears drenched our face as she told me how she organized the children,
taught them to say ‘No’ and run, how she failed 11th grade as their stories
would haunt her. . No one had ever listened to her story before. She said,
"Kisha will you help me write this story?" I promised that I would.

We shared the stories that no one wanted to hear. The stories of surviving
domestic violence, incest, isolation, poverty, the stories of being black
women. We had been living mirror lives despite an ocean being between us.

And when I left Capetown, she gathered all of her friends and threw me a
good-bye party. She gave a speech and said, At the party, she made a speech.
She said, "I don't know Kisha, since you are here, I feel like a baby born
anew. I have so much hope. The ancestors brought you to us. I am so very
proud to know you. I was lost and just going to let my community stay the
same, but now I know, I must work for change. Thank you. I look forward to
knowing you through the years."

As I prepared to go the next morning, we danced to our favorite song about
the doors being open. She would say, "Ah the doors are opening now, you are
here. Now you must go, if I could turn back time." When I left, we were both
inconsolable and I knew that we were extensions of each other. It was like
leaving a part of my heart behind.

My transition back to the U.S. was as hard as letting her go and it would
not be until three months upon my return, that I sent her the book, "The
Color Purple" by Alice Walker. I had told her about it while I was in South
Africa and she had never read or heard of it.

In the book, I had stuffed $50 from my unemployment check. I called her, as
I was worried that she never received the package.

The phone rang and I heard her voice on the other line. There was a delay.
She said, "Hello" I said, "Pozna?" She said a dry and stern, "Yes". I said,
"It is Kisha." She screamed, "Oh my God, Kisha! Baby Alrright? Oh Kisha, I
am in the street going crazy!" I laughed!

We are trying to find out how each is doing faster than the delay will
allow. "How are you?!!!" we say simultaneously. She said, "I am fine. My
family is fine also." I say, "I am fine."

I said, "Did you get the package?" She said, "Yes, I wrote you, did you get
my letter?" I said, "No." She said, "Shame." She said, "Thank you very
much. She said, I got the book and the $50. When I got the money, I put it
on the table and my family joined in a circle and we pray for you."

She said, "The timing was perfect for the bucks, because I had Pagama's (her
daughters) school fees and I did not know how I was going to pay it. I
turned it in to 500 Rands and I paid her school fees and I bought her a new
school uniform. It helped with the household also. I told her that this is
from Kisha." Pozna takes care of her elderly Aunt, her mentally delayed 28
year old sister (who she rescued from her mom who was prostituting her for
beer), her teenage daughter, her 5 year old son as well as two abandoned
children on $100 a month. She gets minimal support from the youngest child's
father. Unlike in the U.S., it costs money to receive public elementary
education.

I said, "Wonderful." She said, "Kisha, I have started a little phone
business. I have put two phones in Langa and then I will continue to work at
the NGO." In the townships in South Africa, people often go to places that
have phones to make their calls, as many do not have phones in their homes.
The amount you pay determines the amount of time you can stay on the phone.
It is a great source of income.

She said, "Do you remember Langa? Remember the lady we visited who had built
the school?" I remembered. When Pozna was convinced that I was a community
healer, she had taken me to
I said, "Yes, I remember well. I am very proud of you" She said, "I feel so
empowered Kisha. You empower me." She said, "Before you came, I was
depressed, but now since I met you, I know I can change my life." She said,
"You are such a bright star in my life." I said, "Oh honey, you are for me
too." She said, "Thank you very much."

She said, "The children and I, we talk about you every day. Now all my
children have dreams of going to America. I tell them that I know all is
possible since we met you." She said, "Please don’t ever leave my life." I
said, "I wont."

She said, "Even now, water fills my eyes." I choke up and say, "I know." She
started crying, a deep weeping cry, "I love youuuu Kishaaaaa. I love you
very much." I met her tears with my own, "I love you too Pozna."

She said, "When will I see you again?" I said, "I will be coming in August
or September." She said excitedly, "What is the exact date?" I said, "I do
not know, but I will write you." She said, "Yes, write me."

She said, "I went to the world conference and I had slides and everything."
I said, "Good for you! That is great!" She said, "It was wonderful for me.
People had a lot of questions and had a lot to say to me."

The phone cut off, but not the connection. Pozna does not know that we met
at the same place, a closed depressed heart that had lost its vision. As
much as I empower her, she empowers me and we re-ignited a repressed and
oppressed fire of passion. I would give her the world, if it were mine,
because she gave me a larger vision of the world and of myself that is
priceless.

We touch each other, because we remind each other who we are and we see our
potential as children of spirit within each other. We remind each other
about our mission in this life-healing and community service. I remember
telling her one time, "The ancestors are looking to us to break the
inter-generational patterns of abuse and addiction, to complete the work
that they did not have a chance to do. When we heal, we heal seven
generations before us and seven generations after us. I think that is our
work in this life." She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears and said,
"I think that is true."

We help each other rise above our individual circumstances, to our larger
purpose. We remind each other who we are when we forget. We share the load
when the burden of day to day living becomes so heavy that our heads are
bowed under the weight, limiting our vision to our feet and our small and
individual steps, tempting us to focus only on our individual journey.

When the world tells us that we are not beautiful, too dark, too round,
weak, insignificant, too loud and that our value and our role is sexual and
domestic, we remind each other of our strength, our beauty, our soul and our
significance and ability to make change in our smaller and larger worlds.

I never would have imagined that I would find my soul in a woman in one of
the poorest townships in South Africa. I am sure she would not have imagined
that a poor African in America raised up on welfare would come to Guguletu.
Yet, we have met. I wonder sometimes, if that was the only reason I went to
Africa, so we could find each other, so that we could find ourselves again,
so that we could rediscover each other as the spirits that we are.

Never underestimate the power of you to touch someone's life and for you to
touch theirs, never estimate the power of spirit and who will help you find
her within yourself.

by TJ Johnston/PNN

Last Friday, March 21, a parade of protesters against the war marched by me at the United Nations Plaza. Having joined similar processions since the bombing of Iraq, I decided not to let this parade pass me. By this time we walked past City Hall, our parade ran into a moving, riot-geared detour.

Near Grove and Gough, one of the marchers called out for us to turn back to Franklin: SFPD and Highway Patrol were cutting us off. We did so, but as I made it to the sidewalk, the blue centipede surrounded us. I figured it would be at least a late night for me, assuming I would be released hours later. It was already 6pm and I wondered if I would be able to walk the dogs that night.

The stretch of Franklin cordoned off included the San Francisco Opera. Outside a venue that sees heightened theatrics, the unfolding events carried an unexpected mundanity. A bullhorned officer announced that all 200 of us were under arrest: the charges were going to be blocking traffic and failing to obey a dispersal order. Funny thing was, most of us were on the sidewalk and we never received such an order. The cops knew as much.

The cops' faces at once displayed resentment and boredom. We whiled the next couple of hours, talking, singing, playing music and chanting for the cops to let us go (one implored our release "in the name of Jesus").

Not only was my timing bad, my ill fashion sense was sure to implicate me as I wore Bloc Black. I fished a card printed by the ACLU out of my pocket. The card included tips on how to comport yourself in a detention/arrest situation. There was a Middle Eastern looking woman beside me. I asked if it was OK to read it aloud, as it might actually be helpful.

The converted school buses weren't enough to carry us: double-length MUNI vehicles were also required to transport us. We were patted down and Polaroided. Our belongings were tagged. Plastic handcuffs bound us.

I wondered what the Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant would be like. As it turned out, we were being herded to a detention facility on Pier 27. On the Civil Disobedience Special, female arrestees were placed in front of the bus, males in back. I hadn't experienced this gender segregation since elementary school. Cheers greeted our departure.

We hit the Embarcadero around 9:30pm. The makeshift holding facility reminded me of an air hangar or the set of a Jerry Bruckheimer production sans aesthetic value. We were corralled behind iron partitions. The cops seeked for individuals with the Polaroids as their guides. I was struck by the absurdity of giving my tame so they could tag my stuff: didn't they think of writing it on the photo, too?

Corrals were set up on opposite sides. Those waiting to be called for processing and those being processed (meaning the cops were running a check on them). I weighed the balance of giving them my ID or going "John Doe." If I gave them my driver's license (not that it's required here), the paperwork would be speedier as I have no priors. Not volunteering my name meant a lost weekend in custody. As my cuffs were cut, I told a cop I was carrying my ID in my wallet and presented him my license. I was escorted to the opposite corral for more "hurry up and wait."

There we waited for our names to be called. A small group ran a pool. Each person chipped in a dollar. The last person released was supposed to win the pot. I had nothing to contribute, so I wasn't interested in the outcome. Waiting to hear my name, yet another constable announced that if they catch us protesting again in the next 48 hours, they wouldn't cite us but throw us in jail. We collectively groaned at this blatant intimidation tactic. We were already there for constitutionally protected activity and they compounded it with bogus charges.

I strategized about not getting caught next time, or at least joining an affinity group (as most of my fellow detainees were). Then my name was announced. Just like "The Price Is Right," I came on down. I left the pen, went to a table at the back where my citation and ID waited. The slip contained the vital stats from my license; the numeric designations of my charge, name and badge of arresting officer (for the record, Officer Baretti 175) and my court date (about five weeks from now). I signed it, gathered my stuff and exited. I didn't feel defiant or triumphant as those who left to cheers. I was more annoyed for forfeiting an evening for a glorified traffic ticket.

I spotted an assembly of the newly sprung. Some people from the National Lawyers Guild handed out paperwork I desired. With a fresh citation as my guide, I copied the information and my contact info. In exchange, they gave us their number and that of the County to check the status of our case. By then, they heard enough particulars of this mass arrest to expect charges to be dropped (as well as a class action to be filed).

A pizza was brought and I scarfed a slice before the pie disappeared. Dinner provided small comfort, less than not having to pee the entire time. Like a fool, I asked if anyone was going to my 'hood and expected an affirmative. That meant another bus. Still, I walked away from the ferries and into midnight.

by Leroy Moore Jr. /Illin and Chillin

In this month, Women History Month of 2003, my disabled sisters of color voices are once again muddled or is it nobody’s listening to their beautiful voice, art and activism in this critical time. Early this month Gov. Gray Davis apology on the history of California in sterilization era that included an overwhelming number of Black women but the article goes on to say that there is a lack of information connecting California Gov. to the large number of force sterilization cases. I wonder have our state government ever read Killing the Black Body by Dorothy Roberts, who researched and wrote on this topic of force sterilization on Black women. According to KPFA, after the first day of the so called war on Iraq, women and elderly has filled up hospitals, some will have to live with war inflicted disabilities.

What about disabled women of color artists, writers and advocates? Oh, they are out there in full force but once again their voices are muddled but growing strong daily. Locally Patty Bern, Noemi Sohn and Mariana Ruybalid are putting their beautiful and strong voices out there in their own way. On February 13, 2003, San Francisco Women Against Rap in conjunction with Fearless Words held a showcase of digital stories of survivors of sexual assault. Patty Bern, a revolutionary disabled woman of color put together a digital story in which disability, sexuality, dehumanization\violence, transformation and healing are understood as social and political phenomena as well as an individual process. I felt proud to see my disabled sister of color artwork in the mix of other women of color stories. This proud feeling continued to grow when my friend, a disabled Filipino, poet, activist Noemi Sohn told me that she is working on her first chapbook of poetry due out soon. I am blown away by the focus, determination and the words of Mariana Ruybalid, a spiritual, beautiful soul that forms this disabled Latina who will be coming out with her first full length novel in July of this year and found a publisher on her own.

From my research, the mother of the Black Disabled movement, is Mildertte Hill of London England. Hill helped start The Black Disabled Movement in the UK and is the co-founder and has been the chair of the Black Disabled People Group in 1990. In 1993 Hill formed the Black Disabled Women’s Collective and help edited the first book I found on Black disabled people entitled Reflection: Views of black disabled people on their lives and community care . We can’t forget the mother & daughter team, the Dunhamns, in New Jersey that started the New Jersey Minorities with Disabilities Coalition. Last but not least our own San Francisco Bayview Columnist and Black Panther, Kiilu Nyasha who reminds us the injustice in the prison system and this racist country we live in. When I see Kiilu roll up to the mike in her stylist wheelchair, at rallies I feel like I’m not alone. Kiilu, one day I want to sit down with you, listen, learn, take notes on how to organize people of color with and without disabilities. You are something else! Please teach me! So to honor my gorgeous disabled sisters of color in Women History Month of 2003 I dedicate this poem to you. Black in this poem means all women of color.

I'm Beautiful


(For Black disabled women)

I am fucking gorgeous

with my brown smooth skin and my shaved head!

Oh yeah my body is slammin

with my long thin legs, firm tight butt and young breast!

Mmm mmm mmm I know I'm fine!

My green eyes stop traffic.

Mick Jaguar wish he had my lips.

High check bones, dimples and my thin eyebrows.

Yheap, I kissed myself in the mirror!

Although I'm the finest thing on this earth,

many people think I look like a freak.

I'm shock!

They don't see my beauty!

My legs are twisted inward.

My speech is slow.

How can any man or woman pass

me without noticing how hot I am?

I should have a date every day of the week.

You don't know what you're passing up!

Mondona, Janet Jackson, En Vogue & The Spice Girls

stand in line behind me!

My beauty goes deeper than what you see.

My mind is beautiful!

College and street graduate.

I'm dying for a stimulate conversation.

You can't ask for anything better!

Strong, intelligent, beautiful, independent,

Black disabled young woman.

But you can't deal with me!

You'd pass me by for what?

It's too bad you can't handle me.

Am I too much for you?

If you can't say it than you

need to stop starring at me!

I know what you're thinking!

"She is fine but............
If only..............."

But I don't need you to tell me

what I already know.

I'm beautiful from the inside out and outside in!

I'm beautiful when I drag my feet

across the street!

Everything about me is beautiful!

God damn I'm drop dead gorgeous

and you're ugly, stupid, and narrow-minded

and a waste of my time!!

This poem is dedicated to all the Black disabled women who have been over looked by the Women Movement, the Black Feminist Movement, the Black Gay Movement and the Disability Rights Movement. You're BEAUTIFUL. Fuck that you're Fucking Gorgeous!

by Joe B.

Last Sunday’s Oscar Show I missed mainly because its too much like sports in that its, tedious, long, and most of all,many of the films featured I haven't seen.

Even though Michael Moore praised the Dixie Chicks in his "Fiction" speech the Dixie Chicks/Bush thing means nothing to me.

Then I get an email on the DC/B thing and what started it.

Ms. Natalie Maine, one of the there DC’s made the comment causing all the hubbub in Lubbock, Texas.

A Republican State Rep. Catherine Ceips introduces a resolution last Wednesday call on them to perform for South Carolina troops and their families.

I don’t know, it seems that the group being from the same place as Selected President’s from can say whatever they want but when Ms.

Natalie Maine back tracks apologizing. It is the wrong tack.

As for the troops that’s plain personal pique on C. Ceips part, sounds like a she's got personal problem.

My Editor and boss has said "Being from L.A. all publicity is good publicity."

What occurs to me is if they're going to sing for the troops they might as well inform them what’s happening in the states, repeat what they said about the ‘Pres., and expand on it.

If C. Ceips is so thin skinned about what people say about the 'Prez Chicks True or not think of what kind of problems she’ll have as more and more hip hop, rap, and mainstream entertainers say what is really on their minds.

What’s she (Cieps) trying to do, use the "Entertaining The Troops" as code for placing Dixie Chicks in harms way?

Backing up, saying sorry we’ll be good little girls is not this real band they or one of their member have devalued themselves.

So Texas radio bans their songs, ladies you’re in good company all banning does is make more folks check out your stuff.

The world isn’t Texas and even though some family and friends may turn their back on you this will pass as for now all of you must do your music, speak out but no more wimp outs as women love saying of men.
It does not feel good being on the other end of W-word does it?

Remember the feeling when voicing your views.

That’s why most men, women, youth, and young adults say nothing its safer letting other people catching the flack.

The next fem rock group may say something more outrageous, not apologize, take a few hard hits for year or more and come out of it stronger for going through the baptism of public outrage and fire.

The Dixie Chicks apologized and still get flack for what one of them said.

So it seems the best thing is don’t take back what was said and move on people may not forget but they have lives and cannot stay on one subject too long unless its really unforgivable.

This is why some guys say don’t apologize just keep going, bare up, and deal with it.

Actually men have learn apologizing only leads to more conversations about what?

About why apologizing means nothing without action behind them and then not doing the same action again.

Movies have gotten so high 8$ or 9$ that going to them really is a challenge.

Between video or dvd movies this problem is solved at least when using the library instead of video/dvd rental stores.

All I need now is a VCR/DVD/TV combo and rare
outings at Walk-in/Drive-in Movies and most of my entertainment needs.

If lucky we’ve already celebrated and after the walk or drive-in movie celebrations can begin again.

Like food I do enjoy 2nd’s 3rd’s, 4th helpings which reminds me, remember: eat food because water can only fill one so much.

Dating is difficult for me but with patience, laughter, and women with minds and bodies relaxed less tense good times are easy regardless whether there is sex or not.

I have to say that incase people were wondering.

Until this Slaughter ends be well people…. Bye.

Please send donations to

Poor Magazine or in C/0

Ask Joe at 1448 Pine Street,

San Francisco, CA. 94103 USA

For Joe only my snail mail:

1230 Market St.

PO Box #645

San Francisco, CA 94102

Email: askjoe@poormagazine.org

by Alex Cuff PNN Newsbrief Editor

Despite ex-mayor Rudolf Giuliani’s ingenious and humane policy of slashing services and housing to those in poverty to cure homelessness (the "if you build it, they will come" fear), the number homeless in NYC has risen by 16,000 and is currently over 37,000. The homeless population in New York City includes 12,000 mothers and 16,000 who are under the age of 18.

In a creative response to a court order, which requires the city to provide temporary shelter for anyone who needs it, city officials are considering the use of old cruise ships as a solution to the chronic housing shortage. The cost of acquiring and renovating the old cruise ships is undiscloses but 'officials' say the cost will certainly be less than that of NY real estate which is at record high levels. The homeless services commissioner and other ‘top aides’ took mayor Bloomberg’s private jet to the Bahamas to inspect the ships...

This isn’t the first time that New York has turned to inane solutions instead of subsidizing more housing: In the early 1990s thousands of homeless families were put on little-used jail barges in the East River. Last summer the city put homeless families in a Bronz jail where they spent 45 days until a court ruled the jail inappropriate for housing. In this there is an eerie, yet obvious connection between incarceration and homelessness.

In LA, they are skipping the facade of the cruise ship and putting the homeless straight into jail. On the day before ‘Thanksgiving’ more than 250 police officers swept the blocks bounded by 1st, Spring and 7th Streets and the Los Angeles River. Folks were arrested both on the street and in low-cost hotels around 5th street. LAPD claims the sweep had been planned for 2 months and was intended to catch parole violators but the raid came just 48 hours after business organizations complained that the high number of homeless people was threatening the downtown economy.

by Alex Cuff PNN Newsbrief Editor

Typical of mainstream media, some of the most important stories are missed because they aren’t covering the president and his war, the rise and fall of celebrities, or politicians. The lack of these stories, which are in fact happening in our own neighborhoods, contribute to the ignorance and apathy of local residents who have the power to be making a difference. A perfect example is the story of Mack Cotton, the 42-year old Stevens County, WA, man who was the victim of a violent offense but who is being treated as a criminal. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Cotton told District Court Judge Pamela Payne before she convicted him and suspended his driver’s license for two years. After sentencing, Cotton paid for a transcript of his trial and voluntarily took a lie detector test. “I took the polygraph and passed it,” he said last week. “Now I think somebody should take a look at what really happened up there. I was a victim who was victimized.”

On the evening of 12/14, Cotton stopped by a popular hangout for residents of the nearby Spokane Indian Reservation. When the bartender served him a tequila drink instead of the gin and tonic he ordered, Cotton sent it back and went to use the restroom. Upon returning to his seat at the bar, Cotton was “punched in the side of the face and hit on the back of the head” with beer bottles and a pool stick. Cotton said that as he was knocked to the floor, he saw the bartender watching, but doing nothing.

Law enforcement officials confirmed that the bartender has had links to the Aryan Nations and white supremacists and Cotton who is African-descendant, believes he may have said something to provoke the attackers. “I heard one or two of the men beating me say, ‘Oh, you think you’re bad, nigger,” Cotton recalled. Four men aggressively kicked Mack while breaking beer bottles over his head until a woman intervened yelling at the attackers to stop. Police say they can’t find anyone to corroborate Cotton’s story! He has since taken and passed a polygraph test about the events in the bar that night.

When Cotton got away from the bar, he limped to his truck, bleeding from the mouth and the head. Scared for his life, Cotton got in his truck and loaded the .25 caliber handgun he kept under the seat. Shortly after driving a few feet, he pulled over to adjust and wipe his blood soaked eyeglasses and was stopped by the Springdale police chief, Strom, who asked him if he’d been drinking but made no inquiry about his beat up face.

“I told him I’d had a few drinks,” Cotton said. “He asked me if I had a gun, and I immediately handed it to him.” Mack Cotton was arrested on the spot. He was booked into the Stevens County jail on charges of being in physical control of a vehicle while intoxicated and carrying a gun without a permit. By the time the police chief heard about the attack and returned to question witnesses, the bar was closed.

Cotton is having a difficult time getting authorities to investigate the four men who beat him up in a Springdale bar. On 1/3, the Strom completed a report from Cotton about the assault and by then witnesses had provided names of the four assailants. Still Strom said there isn’t enough evidence for arrests. In February, Cotton reported the incident to the FBI, alleging he was the victim of a hate crime that local authorities had failed to fully investigate. An FBI agent was assigned the case in May but the federal investigation was suspended when the agent was transferred. Cotton has been unsuccessful in his attempts to get authorities to press assault charges against his attackers. Convicted by a jury, Cotton was sentenced 10/15 to 30 days in jail and fined $1,655 on the physical control charge. He was given another 30 days in jail, to be served concurrently, on the charge of carrying a weapon without a permit.

by Alex Cuff PNN Newsbrief Editor

The US government accused 1,000 Filipino-American veterans of being part of a scheme to cheat the government of millions of dollars. What scheme? The vets failed to return G.I. bill education benefits that were used for college classes the government says were bogus. The government contends that professors at Laney College in Oakland, where all of the vets attended night classes, were receiving "kickbacks." Rodel Rodis, the defendants’ attorney, said these "kickbacks" were photocopying costs and some money collected from students for a Christmas party. (To prevent vets from having to pay up to $200 for textbooks, one instructor put together photocopied packets for each student and collected $50 for costs.)

The original charge, filed in 1998 accuses that the vets received passing grades unrelated to the work they did and that the class size was exaggerated for the benefit of the instructors to receive increased job security. The government also says that the classes were nothing more than "group meetings." Several professors lost their jobs at Laney including the veteran program’s co-founder Earl Robinson, and the clerk Bob Pealer who is now believed to be homeless. Rodis said that during the federal investigation, the undercover agent attended supplemental group meetings rather than actual classes.

Nearly 900 of the veterans have already settled with the government but around 90 others who refuse, believe to pay is an admission of guilt. Each vet is being asked to pay 3 times the amount of the original benefits plus $5,000 to $10,000 in additional penalties. Rene Lumaban, who served as a steward on the USS Tripoli and seven submarines and who now works as a cook at San Quentin Prison, may have to pay $50,000 in fines.

During the Vietnam War, the US Navy recruited Filipinos to serve in support roles such as cooking and cleaning. "These guys were making $90 a month for working 16 hours a day, seven days a week," said Rodis. "And after 20 to 30 years of service, this is the thanks they’re getting."

by Joe B.

Yesterday, Sunday a protest/rally march in honor of the late Farm Workers and human rights activist Cesar Chavez.

Its began from Embarcadero to Civic Center Plaza across frome and under the gold plated dome of City Hall.

Being late for I think "Oh, no not late again?"

But thankfully I’m wrong as I ride a 14 bus to 1st. and Mission Street.

It looks like every peace bead, T-shirt, paper and pamphleteer are out giving out or selling wares.

With a peace sigh written by Ms. M. Villaluna which has Chavez’s and Vera Cruz’s names on them I can enter the march while taking photo’s.

Its difficult participating and being part of the march but one does what must be done.

Why is it when there is a choice of foods to by I never have funds for them?

Drinking water and like others waiting for the march to begin.

I got to the rear so as not to upstage anyone or organization in the march concentrating on the job at hand.

It began past the 12 noon hour give or take 20 minutes.

Way in front are people wearing ancient Aztec costumes with drums and voices blaring, behind me are four men on horseback dressed in sombrero’s and

Mexican cowboy outfits.

I make sure not to stumble and took at least on picture of them and Aztec dressed persons then take cross sections and close ups of people in the march.

Behind a man with a guitar singing and others I joined in and begin doing double duty as part of the marching contingent and shooting pictures while in it.

By 6th Street I’m well ahead of the march and used Bart to be at Civic Center where I saw food, clothes, and numerous trinkets for sale.

My first priority is finding an empty portable bathroom to for bladder relief.

Luckily not many people are there yet so aim, pee, shake, and shake once more and I’m ready to sit on the grass and do some Yoga forms taking out any kinks in my body.

Cross legged, flat on my back, four breaths slowly in and out is relaxing until. "Here come the first wave or marchers" said someone through a bullhorn.

Slow and reluctantly feeling each vertebrae of my spine into a full upright cross legged sit.

The first wave are coming my way across the grass.
Unwound, standing up from my cross legged position I walk toward unforgiving cement.

The last thing I did was again look and listen to Aztec dressed people dance to rhythm of drums leaving when part of it was over walking up the left side of Polk Street’s shaded side to return camera and sign.

With that done I thought of the block party on Shotwell Street in the Mission District deciding on festival is all I could stand for now.

A march for a great man event though to me the crowd seems to be less than last year it could be only my perception and more bodies might have joined in
without me noticing.

My job’s over now to walk home shower and have a well deserved rest.

One always should rest when given a chance or take it when its not. Bye.

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by Maurice Guiterrez/Youth Po’ Poet (15)

In this time of war – I only believe Cesar

Solo creo que Cesar

In this time of terror-ism perpetrated by lying
governments who have been lying to us
since before I was born

I only believe Cesar-

Solo creo que Cesar

My poor brown brainwashed brother is dying in Iraq-

my pobre brown father died in
Nam – and my grandfather died trying to come here in a bus full of other poor
migrant workers –

They all died – they were all lied (to)

and now I only believe in you Cesar

And you Cesar.. aren’t even here –

by Alex Cuff/PoorNewsNetwork

About the same time as we began POOR Press, Dee noticed a great little book with an animal rights theme and
beautiful illustrations. Dee wanted to know more about the book's origins. Lucky for us, we were able to locate
the illustrator, Audrey Colman, and ask her all the questions about Walter the Farting Dog and her
illustrations.

Why do you oppose breeding? (as you mentioned in one of your emails) Does
it have anything to do with "dog classism?"
Actually, I don1t believe in domestication at all, let alone breeding, while
I do acknowledge our responsibility to care for the domestic animals that
are already here.

The breeding industry perpetuates the killing of countless healthy animals
by adding to the numbers of animals that are killed simply for lack of
homes. Making money through breeding and selling animals to those who wish
to acquire a status symbol pet rather than rescue one from a shelter is an
ugly business. Those who buy from breeders fund this blood industry, which I
equate with the selling of people in the slave trade. And when living beings
become "products", one can only imagine what happens to the "imperfect" ones
that are less "profitable". Finally, every one litter results in thousands
more in a short span of years. The industry should be shut down entirely.
Any one of us who has real empathy for other species would gladly forfeit
the joy of living with them and getting to know them in order for them to be
free from our tyranny.

Why were you chosen (or did you choose?) as the illustrator for Walter the
Farting Dog?

I'd sent some of my art to the publisher, North Atlantic Books, Frog Ltd.,
many months prior to the introduction of "Walter" into the picture, in hopes
of doing the odd cover for them. When they called me with "Walter the
Farting Dog" (the first children's title for this publisher) by William
Kotzwinkle, I was very excited. I'd never forgotten his not-for-children
book "Dr. Rat", (1971) about the wretched reality of the lives of laboratory
animals. While it was written in a fictionalized style, it stayed true to
the graphic horror and details of their existence. Having been involved with
animal rights issues starting in Montreal in the late 1970's, I'd
recommended this book to many over the years.

What are you thoughts on the relationship between humans and animal (in
body and spirit and myth)?

I think that we as a species are the most destructive and the most cruel of
all animals. We are so elitist a species that our tiniest whim takes
precedence over the life and death of any animal of another species. (I
won't comment on the latter part of your question because to me the word
"spirit" pertains only to one's mood or an emotional state, probably not
your intended meaning, and I have no interest in mythology, so the word
"myth" also has little meaning for me.)

What role do you think animals play in our lives?

I think that as the most destructive of all species, people tend to consider
other species more in terms of how they can serve our needs or even our
whims rather than simply respecting their sentience and their right to live
their lives free of our manipulation and control. And ironically we deem
ourselves the exalted species, singularly infused with enough intelligence
to feel compassion!? Yes, I'm jaded from years of meeting with human apathy
regarding any animals aside from our own species.

In the lives of indigenous people?

For far too long, human culture/customs of all sorts have been considered
sacred.
I also think that many people naively romanticize the relationship between
indigenous people and other species. I don1t see a significant difference in
their treatment of non-human animals. Giving "thanks" to victims before
murdering them does nothing to diminish their fear or pain.

One example of animals treatment by indigenous people, the Siouxan nations
perpetrated pishkun, or buffalo jumps, wherein entire herds were panicked
and driven off cliffs, at the foot of which the people waited to spear and
club to death the broken bodies.

Another example involves the Hopis, who are still "legally" allowed to hunt
eagles, endangered or not, because it1s an ancient custom/ritual. Upon
capture, the terrified eagles are tethered with a leather band to the
rooftop of the capturer1s house and kept there for about 16 days. On the
final day, the eagles are smothered. The prayer during this time is one for
good fortune and happiness for all creatures. I think think it1s safe to say
that the eagles would be happier without the imprisonment, murder and
prayers.

Are you familiar with the "master animal"?
> (http://poormagazine.org/index.cfm?L1=news&story=935#results)

No

How does any, all, or none of this relate to Walter?

It doesn't directly relate to "Walter", but when the project was first
offered to me, I was thrilled that it was written by William Kotzwinkle,
author of Dr. Rat, one of my all-time favorite animal rights-themed books.
Walter does encourage acceptance of foibles, and appreciation for of all
sorts of dogs, not just the stereotypically "cute" types.

And North Atlantic Books, Frog Ltd., acknowledging my interest in doing
more animal rights-oriented stories, did encourage me to go ahead with a
story of my own that has a pro animal theme. "Francine Francine the Beach
Party Queen" will be out this May. A dog's story that people who love dogs
can relate to, based on issues that dogs actually deal with, Francine's
familiar message has a twist, addressing a deficit in the children's book
market in relation to animal rights issues. I wanted people to commiserate
with Francine without her having to act like a small person in a dog suit.
Her plight encourages empathy and love while making us laugh.

People and other animals are alike in more ways than we realize, and dogs,
for example, frequently suffer indignities and hurt as a result our
misunderstanding them.

Eventually I hope to do a portrait book of rescued dogs and cats together
with their biographies.

Dutton (a division of Penguin) will be publishing the next two Walter the
Farting Dog sequels.

See work by Audrey Colman at www.goodartstudio.com
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