Story Archives 2007

by POOR MAgazine's Race, Poverty, Disability and Youth Scholars

Don't Forget the Four Little Girls and the Struggle

Queennandi Xsheba,

6/25 Birmingham, Alabama

We stopped at the 16th Street Baptist Church where the four young girls lost their lives in the church bombing. I took pictures—Dynamite Bob was convicted eventually at the courthouse about four blocks away from where the bombing took place.
Juan, a homeless, self-appointed tour guide, gave us a spirited tour of the first “Nigger Park” that is across the street from the Church (still under construction). This park, currently known as The Kelly Ingram Park, is where the 3000 children came to march and were attacked by vicious dogs. About 1800 kids as young as nine, were arrested until there was no more room in the jails. Firefighters turned the hose on the brave children with 600 pound water pressure (that does a lot of damage, indeed). Monuments of the children ducking and covering themselves from the water hoses can be seen. Statues of the big vicious dogs, that were trained to recognize black skin by using black dummies can also be seen.

I took a picture standing in the place where Martin Luther King Junior did one of his first speeches. The radio station down the street was also bombed several times. And if you make a right past the park, you could find the building for the Black Masons (Prince Hall).
This is the first time I have seen this struggle with my own eyes. You can see the children; you can hear the dogs barking, ready to attack. You can hear the bomb detonate, killing the four little girls. The essence is painful, and I wept.

2007—it has only gotten worse. Coming into the South, I still got the stares from racist folks who didn’t know a damn thing about me, however hate me, or rather my skin color.
Mr./Ms. Superior say that I am inferior, but it is their ignorance that feeds the deep-rooted cancer that will eventually spread and kill their wicked ways of thought.
I am Queennandi Xsheba, descendant of slaves in these American Hells. I know who I am. What is Mr. KKK’s reason to hate? Did I Queennandi, rob Mr. KKK of his birthright? Did I rob Mr. KKK of his name? Religion? His language? Culture? His land?
Did one of, or all of the precious four little girls burn Mr. KKK’s little girls on the stake alive? These facts of atrocity still haven’t planted a seed of hate within me. I am better than that. The proof is in “his story” books of a regal lineage that flows through my veins—I will never forget.

POOR TRAIL/ No More Tears

Ruyata A. McGlothin

Anticipation, venturing into the unknown yet sharing one goal for racial, economic, social, gender and class justice. These past three days already feel well worth it. Nine freedom fighters in a small van from San Francisco, CA to Atlanta, GA stepped into our roles to pay our parts in the formation of a new her/history.

Coming to the United States Social Forum in Atlanta from such a poor environment, a poor life and a poor history, in this short period it appears to be a much more all-around depressing state than that of my own. Last night as I explored downtown Atlanta, which reminded me of the San Francisco Tenderloin, I was very happy to be in a new place and see new faces. I waved hello to everyone, but most people driving turned away immediately and everyone on foot, EVERYONE except three people in the 18 hours that I have been here, asked for money. I’m POOR also, just from another area.

The few I was able to give change or a dollar to, let me know that it wasn’t enough. For example, there was a guy yesterday who asked for more donations after simply pointing out the direction of the homeless shelter that I was looking for. I found the shelter two block away.

And it hurts my heart deeply but to make change (of all kinds) is the reason we’re here.

Luis Esparza

Inmigrante and Youth Scholar

My reflection on this trip was some what strange because I saw some things in the south that I didn't even know still existed.

On the way to Atlanta Yaya, one of the drivers, said she saw a very homophobic sign, it said, Wine like California but with out the fruits. " I was shocked because I've never really seen anything so harsh. When the trip first began I was like Atlanta here we come! But the closer we got to the south the more I started feeling a bit scared. They started telling me that people get killed here by white people. At first I didn't believe it but it seemed that every where we went people stared at us like we had a visible disease or something.

There was this white woman in front of us in line at the store and the cashier woman was a smiling and real nice but as soon as she saw me and my mom her voice changed so deep and when she told us have a good day she rolled her eyes. I have never felt so scared and so unwelcome in my life. Before this trip I didn't believe that white people were racist. I thought it was just people making up stories to scare other people.

The worst part was the when we were about 1 hour from Atlanta and we wear staying at the Comfort Inn; me and my brother and Kim decided to go swimming. When we got to the pool some people wear already there. A mom and a little boy about 3 or 4 and a 14 year old girl. When my brother got in the pool he went towards the kid to play with him and as soon as the mom saw him she told her soon to get away because she didn't want him to get splashed. It didn't make a whole lot of sense because my brother wasn't splashing, but I thought maybe my brother is just too big to be playing with him so it didn't bother me.

Then I started to talk to the girl and the first thing she said to me was “Hey boy,” which later I found out was a bad thing. She kept talking about herself saying she was smart and i said i was too. She said her IQ was 96 then she asked me what mine was but I've never taken the test. When i told her she made a sound and rolled her eyes like she knew i was gonna say that she sort of started to make me feel dumb for a moment. But then i thought to my self I'm not dumb and i snapped out of it.

She told me her name was Forest and I told her mine was Luis. And then she said that she had been to Mexico and that the houses there were rundown and that the people there were poor because they were ignorant. She said people in Mexico married their cousins.

I was thinking in my mind that is so not true, so I told her that people in Mexico are lawyers and hard working people and that just because they don't get everything given to them on a silver plate doesn't mean they are ignorant. Thats when i started to think she was a bit racist but then she told me she thought all the people in Africa are ignorant and she didn't even have a reason she just said because they don't have resources and go out on the street running around naked and having sex and babies with aids.

I was mad but I didn't want to loose my cool. I felt not anger but pity; I felt sad for her because she is gonna miss out on so much because of the way she thinks. I didn't blame her. She told me she was home schooled all her life so i guess that's all she learned. I know that when you have some one telling you something at a young age thats what you usually end up believing, even if it's wrong.

After that Joe came in the pool and the mother went crazy. You could see her face it looked like it was gonna explode because she was so uncomfortable around us. After that I went back into the hotel and started to feel so sad and horrible. That was the first time ever in my life that I met a racist person and I hope it's the last.

The Greyhound- San Francisco to Atlanta

By Dharma, POOR Magazine, Poverty Scholar and Digital Resister

I am here at the first U.S. Social Forum, a long journey away from home seeking out a justice among all.

I am glad to be here among my peers at a time of much social change in the world. Unlike many people who are here in Atlanta for the forum, I traveled by bus for 2 and a half days straight. I got on the greyhound bus in San Francisco and traveled through the nights till the bus reached Atlanta. The trip was non-stop for sixty three hours to what feels like the other side of the world.

I felt like I was traveling through time. I traveled by bus to get a feeling for what my ancestors went through during the great Black exodus to the West. I thought back to a time when my ancestors, African descendants traveled the underground railroads out of the South to escape slavery. My mind drifted to what it must have been like to find paths through the trees and land beyond the highways to escape the south. I imagined what early black Americans went through to find a better life.

I traveled by myself. The trip was long and drawn out. I kept my mind off of the long hours by reading and starring out the window. I read about the conditions of prisons in California. I was reading letters from women in prison. from mothers who are locked up while their children live without a family.

I stared out the window for many hours. The land was desolate with dark rainy skies. Thunder and rain pounded us in all five states. At the border of each state we hit thunder storms. I felt like I was traveling on another universe. The lightning struck and reminded me of our country's bloody history. We passed through hot, muggy dust storms. We passed ghost towns, abandoned buildings, empty, boarded up and burned. Nothing but cactus plants, desert flowers, barbed wire, and heat for miles. Single oil pumps dotted the landscape in Texas. The moons I saw are like none I have ever seen before with light shining out all around us. The skies, the land everything was new and frightening. Big skies I thought would never end. But I knew eventually we would make it here to Atlanta.

I leaned my face against the cool window and stared out at the long stretch of dry barren land. I was surprised by the ghost towns between New Mexico and Dallas. I could see the broken down houses in the light of the storms. A dust bowl of memories of leftover life. You can rename poverty but all across America it looks and smells the same. Small houses, trailers, shacks and old towns. One town in Texas the sign read Population 3. We stopped in towns and all the major cities on our route. Some historical and everywhere I went the American flag was flying. I can't imagine living in these small towns with nothing around.

We passed hundreds of McDonald's, Burger King's and Wendy's. They cater to Greyhound. Fast food joints sit waiting for buses and hungry drivers trying to get back on their way. I will not eat a burger again for a long time. The only good thing about eating fast food was I knew I would not get left. I never walked far from the station. The bus would leave without you. In some places there was only restaurants. Some people on my bus were left in the rain in Alabama. Every seat was taken on the bus. Extra buses were ordered.

In Jacksonville we stopped for a moment. I stepped out into the shade. I saw a disabled man ordered off Greyhound property they said for loitering. It was the heat of the day. He was looking for bit of shade, but he was on greyhound property. He told me he lost his legs in the Vietnam war. He said he can barely get by on his veteran benefits. H told me he has nowhere to live he cannot afford a house. I met one young man who was returning to Oklahoma to his father's house. He left about two months ago to escape the beatings from his father. He was forced to return because the landlord threatened to raise the rent because of him. I met one woman traveling with her ninety year old mother. They were coming from Vegas returning home to Atlanta. They befriended me.

After we crossed the border from New Mexico into Texas the driver pulled over. I thought maybe it was a weigh station. I heard the men's boots before I saw them. They wore green suits, I immediately knew they were border patrol. They walked up and down the aisles, asking each person, "are you an American citizen. If not get out your papers." Fortunately we were allowed to keep driving without further problems.

This trip has taught me humility. This trip has taught me to be ever more understanding of the hard work and dedication of the early Black Americans who traveled to California in an effort to escape the unjust and brutal treatment of the South.

Reflection: Of my travel to ATL from SF

Vivian Hain/Digital Resistor/welfareQUEEN

Yesterday the POOR Magazine crew embarked on a our journey to the US Social Forum, traveling from San Francisco, California to Atlanta, Georgia. Though half of the POOR crew traveled via van and even on bus, a group of POOR Magazine folks, including myself, traveled by air. For me, this would be my first time traveling with POOR Magazine. The journey would be quite a harrowing and learning experience for me.

The night before my journey, I was up all night, packing and cleaning the house. I was feeling a lot of anxiety and anticipation, especially since it is the end of the month and for me, it is always a tough time financially. I am on welfare, so my food stamps and money usually runs out, so I was a little nervous about leaving my kids. I wanted to make sure that they had everything that they needed while I was away. By the middle of the night, I was still frantically packing my things and feeling very restless. I didn't get any sleep at all. I went into my children's bedroom and kissed each one of them on their little foreheads and quietly whispered goodbye, as their little bodies lay asleep in their peaceful bliss.

By 6:00 in the morning, I was feeling even more anxious and a little delirious, yet I continued to get myself ready for the travel. By 8:00 a.m., I was out of the door to meet Leroy Moore, POOR Magazine board member. Seeing Leroy made me feel better and more relaxed, as we made our way to the BART train station three blocks from where we both live. We took the BART train to S.F. from Berkeley, riding on a hot, packed and overcrowded train full of dull-faced 9-5 commuters. We arrived at the POOR office, met others and got on our way to SFO, where things went quite smooth. Even the security check was not so bad, but I didn't like the way they treated Leroy. The airport staff were pushy and rude toward him, rushing him through and not taking in consideration of his disability. This made me angry inside. I made sure that Leroy had whatever help he needed.

We got on to the plane and were packed in tightly in the mid rear seating area. The airline crew didn't seem too friendly. We managed ourselves well and got ourselves settled in on the plane. Though the plane ride started out smoothly, it got very rough during mid flight with turbulence. This put a lot of us on edge, feeling as if we would not make it! The plane bounced around in the big thick clouds. We were scared, yet I knew that we would get through it, just as we always manage to do in our lives of daily struggle. We had no food offered on the plane and were very thirsty. We had crappy snacks. We landed safely in Atlanta. The minute we got off of the plane, I felt the hot air hit me like a big punch, knocking the breath out of me. The air was hot and humid. I felt as if I was breathing inside of a hot metal drum that was left out in the middle of the desert.

Yet, for me, being here in Atlanta for what and why we are here is most important, as the issues that we deal with in CA are endemic throughout the US. As we drove through downtown Atlanta, I could see many lone silhouettes moving about the dark streets. I knew that no matter where I go in America, the same issues effect many like myself. Also on this trip, I am filming a lot of video footage. I want to catch the raw essence of our experience at the USSF and beyond it. I hope that we can bring forward and share the 'truth' to why this whole forum is what it is meant to be, not just a gathering for social justice groups. It is important to keep it real and get the message out of this reality.

I know that the same issues affect communities here in Atlanta just as they do in the S.F. Bay Area. As we drove in the hot van through the city center of Atlanta, I saw the same images despair that I see back home; the vacant streets of closed business as many roam the streets looking for a place to rest their bodies upon. I can only imagine how difficult this must be with this suffocatingly hot weather. I wonder where they go to get out of the heat, out from under the scorching sun, where can they go when all I can see is nothingness for them out there..

We drove in the hot van for another couple of hours, dropping people off, picking people up. I was sitting in the back of the van. Every time we stopped, it was very hot outside. It was still very hot after midnight. By the time we reached the hotel, my asthma had kicked up, making me feel very listless and exhausted. My chest felt like it was going to burst, my heart racing like a horse. I needed water. I felt very suffocated, but remained calm and quiet. When I got into the hotel, I immediately went to sleep. My body was beyond its capacity.

As I drifted off into a much needed deep sleep, I thought of all of those lone silhouettes I saw walking through downtown Atlanta in the night heat and how I was very privileged to be able to lay my head on this pillow in an air conditioned room. This is why I am here in Atlanta to give voice and send a message to the world that this type of social dynamic must change, for everyone should have a pillow to lay their head on in an air conditioned room here in Atlanta and everywhere throughout the US and the entire world. This is where eminent change must happen and we are here to be part of that.

Reflection on my journey to the US Social Forum in ATL

By Jewnbug

Hustling funds just to have access to a conversation where often times I am the subject and not the story teller required a lot of work.

Foundations and organizations provided limited money, and there are so many of us in economic limbo

Traveling to tell my story in hopes that I will make effective impact to stabilize equality.

The process at the airport felt like I had just entered Hitler's concentration camp

My shoes off and my bags wide open, the commotion over the lotion for hands and body almost taken away, but never will my mind and soul be taken away
riding in the third class economy on the plane I ate crackerjack snake boxes as if these crumbs would actually provide nourishment on a 5 hour flight.

In ATL, and the cost of living high, many people asking for fifty cents, I didn't feel I had left Frisco, still in the concrete jungle with bright lights, big buildings and still house-less.

We are staying 10 miles from the US Social Forum, where we are facilitating a process in which our message IS MEDIA.

We are working, and yet we are still marginalized.

Just to get here to the Social forum is a struggle and a story in its self, a story that speaks to PO' folks having accessibility to framing main stream media, to digital equipment, to policy making, to legislation and most importantly, making laws.

I feel like everyday we have to cross borders, and challenge criminalizing and dehumanizing mannerism.

We are running the Ida B. Wells Media Justice Center in a hallway. Everyone has to travel a hallway to get to a room, but when your room is the hallway, its sends a clear message , &quot There is no room for you &quot
However, I am blessed to be here to utilize this opportunity to move towards justice and freedom through various mediums. But the real question is, Are we all moving towards the same vision?�

by Lola Bean

The Whites of your eyes

Can’t find my light

See my shape right

Unless your lids are locked tight

Or your eyes are cast down.

The curves of your ears

Deflect words

Left unheard

Without tone

Unless my lips make your sounds

The wind in your throat

Blast sirens over notes

Lost songs to the monotone

To drone out my wide mouth

And the pain and the love that&actures pouring out

And you cover yourself in your skin

Hide the motion and electricity

With thin tint

Believing it is

Where you stop and where I begin

Stop

My Eyes See just fine

I find light through your lines

Sense the motion behind

And see yours as what&acutes mine

My ears hold

Vibration from your soul

Shake words free

Lets loose tone

And then fills me

With you

Whole

My throat cuts notes

Makes waves out of air

Beats drums in your ear

Fixes your stare

And reveals what you fear

And my Skin

Created When

You meet me

A living process where light meets being

And I can feel you

To know your meaning

In this moment we create each other

You sense my eyes

Locate your light

Pull out that dim spark

You&acuteve spent lifetimes trying to hide

And your muscles grow hot

And your breathing slows deep

And you swell with my words

Spoken with intimacy

And so I reach through your hot soft shell

And into your soul sleepy and scared

And seek longingly for your connection

For passion and revelation

And you fear what you feel

And accuse me of obscenity

Say my eyes blindsided

Everything that you claimed to be

And you knock out my shine

Just to teach me a lesson

To you I&acutem not human

I&acutem just something lesser.

by Lola Bean/PNN Community Journalist

This story was produced in POOR Magazine's community newsroom at the US Social Forum in Atlanta.

" I felt safer in the box than I did in the shelter. " A lot of the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans gender) Community would rather stay on the streets than subject themselves to the violence and abuse running rampant in the New York City Shelter System. A stoic woman with steely eyes and a salt and pepper crew cut sits with me in a grey and musky cubicle, as she recounts gut twisting stories about being beaten, sexually assaulted, and tossed like a worthless and used up sack of garbage down a flight of stairs in a shelter that was supposed to be there to provide her with a safe place to sleep - all because she is queer.

" I talked back to one of the shelter staff, and she just grabbed me and threw me down the stairs, " she recounts with an accent of stern dignity

I met Jay Toole in POOR News Network's Community Newsroom at the Atlanta Social Forum. She is a strong and unapologetic butch dyke that spills the brilliance of her scholarship and uncompromising dedication out of her thin, light pink lips. She is the Homeless Shelter Community Organizer for Queers for Economic Justice, and a queer woman with close to three decades of poverty scholarship with a focus in houslessness under her belt. Jay probably knows more about the New York City Shelter System than anyone else in the Big Apple.

As she details the inhumane and violent stories the New York shelter system has written in her mind, my stomach began rejecting the pizza I had eaten just moments before and my headlight wide eyes began to fill with tears. As a poverty and abuse scholar myself, I immediately connected with Jay's experiences of being physically, emotionally, and economically violated because those with authority and access considered me to be less than human. The mental and physical blows she described almost knock the wind out of me.

The abuse she sustained was not limited to single instances. It was an unsaid contractual obligation in exchange for the right to sleep under a roof. " The guards would be in the same room I was being beaten in. They just turned their backs until they were done." She could be attacked in the bathroom, in the stairwell, in the main room – there was no safe space in the shelter. In addition to physical abuse, Jay sustained mental blow after blow as the shelter system psychologically battered her will.

When asked what the most difficult part of her experiences was, she immediately answers, “The loneliness. It was just lonely not being able to talk about who I am.” The shelters forced Jay to participate in group talk therapy. This was supposed to help her in her healing process and recovery, but actually served to further alienate and isolate her. Jay wanted to talk about her relationship, about the experiences she had as butch lesbian, about the trauma she was forced to endure for being a queer woman. All of these things were at the root of her joblessness, her houselessness, and her addiction. The counselors said she needed to talk about her problems, but when she did, she was told that her problems were to be kept to herself. The consequences for speaking were violent.

Jay was also separated from her partner of 14 years, Shiela. They were not allowed to stay at the same shelter together, although they were each other’s main source of support. Jay not only had to deny her own legitimacy, but that of her partner as well. The shelter system did not want her to exist.

Again my stomach turns. I hear so much of my story in her own. I’ve taken many beatings, lived in conditions I would not wish on anyone, and fought through trauma and its accompanying self medication. The most painful part of these experiences was, and in many ways still is, the lonliness. It crushes your will and dulls your sight. It leads you into dark places and traps you there. It eats the lining of your stomach and bleeds your tears dry. It is where you live with the flashes of memory and the shock of fear.

" Homophobia – it's alive and well in New York City, " Jay says with an upturned eyebrow elevated by dark irony. Jay's queer scholarship spans decades, and I follow her word all the way back to the mid sixties. Saturday nights, to be exact. Which one doesn't really matter, they all ended up the same. Jay and her crew would get together, go out for a night on the town, and end up arrested by the end of the night. Back then, women were legally forced to wear three articles of "female" clothing. Anything less was considered to be male impersonation and violators were charged with sexual deviance. As butch women, their clothing style was a criminal offense.

This is especially offensive considering that on the whole, it was impossible for butch women to get jobs unless they pretended to be men. " I used the name Melvin. " But even as Melvin, Jay could barely earn enough money to pay for a hotel every once in a while. She explains that it's hard to find work and that she was forced to live on the streets because with no work, there was no money.

Her words echoed in my ears loud enough for me to momentarily believe that they were my own thoughts replaying. In a flash, I relived countless failed job interviews, years spent moving from couch to couch with all of my belongings in my car, hours and hours of dumpster diving to try and find hopefully that last bag of bagels that would feed me for at least 3 or 4 days if I spread it out right. My stomach started turning again and the dry slice of starchy pizza started climbing once again up my throat. Most nights, I could find places to sleep and today cleaning houses helps keep me fed. Jay, a woman who lives to find safe spaces for houseless LGBT community members, spent decades living on the streets of New York City.

With a depth of experience that is only paralleled by her depth of dedication, she admits that as difficult as it was for her to earn a living, it was and still is even more difficult for queer people of color. Without skipping a beat, Jay proclaims, "It's a brown community in the shelter system in NYC. " To take it another step further, the most vulnerable population, is the trans gender community. They used to send the trans gender women off to an island. Ward's island, to be exact. " You're not going to believe the name of the building they were sent to on that island. It was called the Charles H. Gay building, " Jay said. Jay as fought for years to get transgender off of that island and into safe shelters. This task is all but impossible considering the general abusive treatment experienced by the trans gender community in most sectors of Amerikkkan life couple with the fact that out of 53 shelters, only 4 of them are considered acceptable by Queers for Economic Justice. In a recent victory, though, QEJ won a long fought battle and now trans gender men and women are allowed to self determine their placement in shelters.

This is unacceptable in and of itself, but considering the large number of queer folks in the New York City shelter system, it is outright appalling. Between 40 – 60% of homeless youth in NYC shelters are from the queer community. Jay explains, "“The kids I'm seeing on the streets today are the people I'll be seeing in the adult shelters tomorrow.”" Identifying as queer in the United States often leads to forced conditions of violence and poverty. Many men and women in the LGBT community are separated from their families and communities, find it extremely difficult to find work and places to live, and are left vulnerable to hate crimes and other acts of violence. It is no surprise so many queer youth and adults must pass through the shelter systems in New York City and throughout the nation. The large number of poor members of the LGBT community passing through shelters coupled with the high rates of abuse establishes the New York City shelter system as an institutional system of violence against queers. Jay Toole is working to change this.

" Education in the shelter systems is #1." Jay has spent years advocating for sensitivity training in the shelter systems. She worked tirelessly for three years to institute a pilot program in which shelter staff in 4 shelters would be trained on queer issues, especially in trans gender sensitivity. She conducts monthly “Know Your Rights” Trainings for houseless LGBT folks and has run outreach groups in a dozen shelters throughout New York City. Jay is fighting for the right of houseless domestic partners to have access to the family shelter system so they don’t have to be separated as she and Sheila have been. She is also active in the "Shelter Safety " campaign which seeks to end violence in the shelters.

When people are taught that some of their brothers and sisters are less than human, whether it’s because of their race, gender, sexual orientation, class, etc., it takes a lot of work to undo the damage that kind of teaching causes. When that damage causes hate and fear and violence that goes unchallenged in any system, it takes a great deal of strength to fight these battles. Jay and those in struggle with her are forced to face violence at all levels in order to secure a safe place to sleep for those in her community. There’s a lot of work to be done before shelters are safe for the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans gender community. There’s a lot of work to be done before any of us can find a safe place to sleep.

by Mari Villaluna/PNN Youth in Media Washington D.C. correspondent

We are the children of the migrant worker…
We are the offspring of the concentration camps…
Sons and daughters of the railroad builders…
We will leave our stamp on America.

- a song lead by a Reverend Norman Fong from Presbyterian Church of Chinatown in San Francisco at the Washington DC May Day API Mobilization

When I was little, I knew nothing of how my mother came to this country. My guess was that they had just moved here. As I got older my Nanay and Lola would reveal to me their stories to carry on their voices of diasporia. My Nanay would always make it clear that first my Lolo (Rest In Power) came to San Francisco by himself. He lived in a house with many other immigrants, who were saving up money to bring their families over or to send it back home. My Nanay told me, " Your Lolo (Grandfather) was already waiting for us in San Francisco. Then I remember hearing on the radio that Marcos declared martial law. We were already trying to leave the islands, and now it seemed it would never happen."

These words rang again in my head when I was living in my ancestor’s homeland and then again when I visited Tagatay, and saw the vacation house that Dictator Marcos built for U.S. President Reagan. They were best buddies, and when Marcos was kicked out of our country he was given political exile in Hawaii. What a slap in the face to my People. This infuriated me to the very core of my soul. My family left the islands to escape political oppression only to have to survive another form of oppression in the United States, a country that caused and supported the oppression of my family and our nation.

So when it came time for May Day 2007, I knew I had to represent for all my ancestors and their struggles. I was born here, so to many I am not an Immigrant, yet to many others I am from the outside, an Immigrant. When asked by an Associated Press reporter why I was participating in the march even though I was a reporter and a U.S. citizen, I stated simply, " My mother immigrated to this country. If I don't support immigrants then I would be denying myself. It's important to be here."

On this May Day, the first day of the Asian and Pacific Islander History Month to support my ancestors and all immigrants, I participated in not only the May Day March, but also the National Mobilization of Asian Pacific Americans. This action was made by a coalition of Asian, Pacific Islander, and Raza organizations. This powerful action with interfaith leaders, US Representatives, API Organizations and Korean drumming circles, was made by a coalition of Asian, Pacific Islander and Raza organizations. In the few days before May Day, these organizations and many Asians and Pacific Islanders lobbied on Capitol Hill to speak out on the injustices of the current immigration policies that the U.S. upholds. First there was a press conference, in which Congressman Mike Honda stated, “" There is a stereotype that Asians are quiet, We aren’t going to be quiet about this right? "

I found it fascinating that there were so many preachers of color out supporting immigration reform. I spoke with Reverend Eun Sang Lee of Warren United Methodist Church, and asked him to comment what Christianity has to do with immigration, “" In God there is no border. This is a human right. We (Christians) have an obligation to care for marginalized and oppressed… There is a biblical mandate to protect the vulnerable." He went on to speak about third world peoples’ need, especially Christians, to stand in solidarity with each other, " We, as persons of color, we are playing into the politics of fear. Pitting one group against the other. We are getting played. In God there is abundance when we lift up each other."

After the press conference, a stage was set up for the rally. There was a moment of silence given in remembrance of the students and faculty of Virginia Tech. After the silence, someone shouted out " Go Hokies! " Throughout the rally there was one constant chant, “What do we want?” The answer was always, " Immigration reform! " Solidarity from other third world communities was shown when other immigrants came and stood beside the Asian Pacific Islander community.

The NAACP came out as an organization and spoke about immigration. Hilary Shelton, Director of the Washington Bureau, NAACP, stated, We " must move from the politics of scapegoating immigrants…Indeed we must move together." Later in the rally, Congressman Guiterrez commented upon immigration reform, " We have only begun the fight." After he spoke, many started to chant, " Si se puede!"

We started to march toward the Democratic National Headquarters. The Korean Drumming group led the March and provided the beat for the movement we were all a part of. When we all reached the DNC we encircled the front of the building, while chanting about Immigrant rights. The Chants never stopped. Even when the chant leaders took breaks, a Grandmother in the contingent would make sure that we continued chanting together.

People never stopped marching in that circle, even though the sun was blazing upon our backs. I felt that this march was part of and connected to all the other walks/marches/protests that had been taken place before. This was not a march that was separate from any other movement; it was one that was intertwined with all movements, especially the movement to have one’s human rights recognized, implemented and respected.

We started to march again. While heading out to march, I lead one of the chants. I chanted " We didn’t cross the border, the borders crossed us." As I chanted, I thought about this land. This land has always been and always will be First Nations land, and the first illegal immigrants were Europeans. One difference between then and now is that Indigenous peoples do not believe that a person can ‘own’ the land. It is ironic that the same people whose ancestors immigrated here are the same people who are against people they view as immigrants. They themselves are immigrants, yet they continue to scapegoat immigrants.

We finally hit the Good Old Party Headquarters; which is the home of the Republican National Party. We encircled the front of the building yet another time while chanting out " Are you tired? " The protestors always responded with a firm, loud, " NO” " It was around 3:00pm and the crowd was still strong and passionate about our voices being heard in the Capitol. I thought about my Lola and her diaspora to the United States. I remember the stories of shopping at the thrift stores, carrying bags of groceries on the bus, and everyone living in a one room bedroom with her husband and all her four kids. I remembered seeing the sign that said, " Positively No Filipinos Allowed " hung inside my Tito’s house as a reminder of the racism that Filipino immigrants survived. I was continuing this walk for my family, ancestors, and community.

As I left the march with my face covered in a rag that said "Who's the Illegal alien PILGRIM?" I crossed the street from the Headquarters of the Republican Party. I passed by two white men in suits, who I could feel were speaking about me. One looked at me directly and stated, " Don't worry darling, I won't tell anyone." I was reminded of my own Lola (Grandmother) and Nanay (Mother) and their stories of immigration to the U.S. and how they escaped the Martial law of Marcos's regime. I was reminded of how my ancestors struggled to live in this country. I looked at him, and stated " I am from this land."

by Leroy Moore/PNN

Since Bush highjacked the presidency for the second time, our country has been at war not only aboard but also at home. Although we have heightened our Homeland Security to protect from " terrorism ", all kinds of State, City, and County police along with the growing INS and Minute Men have not made our society safer, but in fact have made American society unsafe and increased violence in our communities and homes.

Last year alone Florida had at least three, probably more, violent attacks on individuals who were homeless. In California a White racist group attacked and beat a Black man who uses a wheelchair and a Latina transwoman was found dead in March. All of these cases and more like them tell us, people who are disabled, gay, transvestites and homeless that we need to be protected in hate crime legislation. Bush, however thinks it is unnecessary.

One recent article criticizes the bill, saying it leaves groups out like the police! Examining the definition of a hate crime explains why the police are not included and why such a criticism is unfounded.

If we had a President that read the newspaper and was in any way connected to the public then we wouldn’t need to waste time explaining why this legislation is desperately needed.

Another criticism of the bill by Bush and the Republican party, as well as some Democrats, is that this law creates a special class. Once again the blame is on the victim and not the perpetrators. The outrageous fact is there has not been any new amendment to original hate crime bill of 1968 that only covers race, color, religion, or national origin.

Bush and the Republican Party’s reaction to this Bill is not surprising when you realize that this is the same guy who didn’t want to talk about the case of James Bryd, a Black disabled man in Texas who was brutally attacked dragged and beaten to death by a group White non-disabled men. James Bryd's disability was only a footnote in the case.

Bush’s reaction to this bill is unbelievable considering how hard he works to fight the " War on Terror " yet won’t protect his own citizens from violent attacks in this country. We are simply asking for Bush to prevent any more unnecessary deaths and injuries in his presidency.

Leroy F. Moore Jr.
www.leroymoore.com

by Sam Drew/PNN

" They have stirred up a sleeping giant. This issue has awakened the community, " said Minister Christopher Muhammad as he looked intently at his audience at the Grace Tabernacle Community Church. He was talking about the continual poisoning of the Bayview Hunters Point district caused by the redevelopment project at the Hunters Point Shipyard headed by the Lennar Corporation.

The sleeping giant is the organized and unified community that is confronting negligent city and county officials. The sleeping giant has had his peaceful sleep disturbed and is now seeking retribution from those who committed this dastardly deed.

In previous townhall meetings that I have attended olive branches have been extended to the Mayor, Board of Supervisors, the Health Department and the Redevelopment Agency to come and test the community's land and water to see if the claims are true. But those fair gestures were met with indifference and the community is moving on to the next phase, as Muhammad calls it "the direct action" phase.

" They have ignored the poor and now the poor are coming to their door," he stated defiantly. " Next Tuesday we need to visit Mayor Newsom in his office, Tuesday is our D-day, D stands for decision" Muhammad continued. " We call for the resignation of the Director of Public Health Mitchell Katz and if he doesn't resign the Mayor should fire him." Muhammad firmly stated.

He went on to speak about how Katz never sounded the alarms when known health violations occurred in the Bayview. Minister Muhammad was referring to the four months from April to August that the Lennar Corporations had no monitors on site to check the levels of toxicity being put into the air. Muhammad smiled as he told the engrossed audience how haphazard the monitoring system was. " Half the time they put the monitors out they didn't work," he stated forcefully.

The sleeping giant has a few more doors to knock on, besides just the mayor's office since his rude awakening. " Archeology needs to be terminated, Archeology is a non profit entity that is suppose to inform the community when they have been exposed to health issues. It is funded by the Redevelopment Agency to the tune of $600,000. Why do you need $600,000 to do nothing, " exclaimed Muhammad.

In the audience was support from Supervisor Chris Daly who received special kudos from Muhammad, "Anyone who stands up for this community needs to have the support of this community but anyone who doesn't stand up for this community should be recalled-all it takes is 10%. No one should be comfortable in a seat when the community is dying," he added.

To show the strength and diversity of this giant various clergymen spoke on behalf of this successful effort for environmental justice. Pastor Joe Niumalelega, who has been with the cause from day one spoke of the joy he felt seeing all of Gods people coming together as one. "God, I want us to come together one time. Let all nations know. Let's do this thing for our young for our community," Pastor Niumalelega said.

Reverend Victor Santana told of his problems attempting to explain to the Supervisors the importance of this issue, as he said, " The last time I went to the civic center to explain to the Supervisors the Supervisors didn't understand."

To reiterate the simplicity of what the community is asking for, Minister Muhammad once again explained the reasonable demands the community is demanding. " We're asking for a temporary shut down of the construction at the shipyard, so we can access the levels of exposure from arsenic and lead and we can't trust the Health Department under Mitchell Katz to do it.we want an independent party."

To put a human face to this story of toxic nightmares, I spoke to local resident Pat Thomas who lives close to the shipyard. She told me how her life has changed since Lennar began digging and showering the community with toxic dust.

" For the last six months my eyes are red and itching. I have headaches and I'm short of breath. I've been breaking out in rashes. Where I live at we had green stuff on the carpet. My husband had to wash it off," she said exasperated.

Host Pastor Ernest Jackson compared the movement for environmental justice to another famous and successful movement. " In the sixties I was too young to be involved in the civil rights movement. I've always regretted that [but] this movement has allowed me to be in a cause for humanity, at least I can say I was with them," he said.

The pastor added the final words to the evening's powerful meeting, as a call to all community members and anyone with principals willing to stand up for what's right.

" The doors will remain open at Grace Tabernacle Community Church."

by Dee Allen, Joseph Bolden, Queennandi Xsheba, Jewnbug, Luis, Vivian Hain, Dharma, Ruyata

The trip to Atlanta by Greyhound

By Dharma

I am here at the first U.S. Social Forum, a long journey away from home seeking out a justice among all.

I am glad to be here among my peers at a time of much social change in the world. Unlike many people who are here in Atlanta for the forum, I traveled by bus for 2 and a half days straight. I got on the greyhound bus in San Francisco and traveled through the nights till the bus reached Atlanta. The trip was non-stop for sixty three hours to what feels like the other side of the world.

I felt like I was traveling through time. I traveled by bus to get a feeling for what my ancestors went through during the great Black exodus to the West. I thought back to a time when my ancestors, African descendants traveled the underground railroads out of the South to escape slavery. My mind drifted to what it must have been like to find paths through the trees and land beyond the highways to escape the south. I imagined what early black Americans went through to find a better life.

I traveled by myself. The trip was long and drawn out. I kept my mind off of the long hours by reading and starring out the window. I read about the conditions of prisons in California. I was reading letters from women in prison. from mothers who are locked up while their children live without a family.

I stared out the window for many hours. The land was desolate with dark rainy skies. Thunder and rain pounded us in all five states. At the border of each state we hit thunder storms. I felt like I was traveling on another universe. The lightning struck and reminded me of our country's bloody history. We passed through hot, muggy dust storms. We passed ghost towns, abandoned buildings, empty, boarded up and burned. Nothing but cactus plants, desert flowers, barbed wire, and heat for miles. Single oil pumps dotted the landscape in Texas. The moons I saw are like none I have ever seen before with light shining out all around us. The skies, the land everything was new and frightening. Big skies I thought would never end. But I knew eventually we would make it here to Atlanta.

I leaned my face against the cool window and stared out at the long stretch of dry barren land. I was surprised by the ghost towns between New Mexico and Dallas. I could see the broken down houses in the light of the storms. A dust bowl of memories of leftover life. You can rename poverty but all across America it looks and smells the same. Small houses, trailers, shacks and old towns. One town in Texas the sign read Population 3. We stopped in towns and all the major cities on our route. Some historical and everywhere I went the American flag was flying. I can't imagine living in these small towns with nothing around.

We passed hundreds of McDonald's, Burger King's and Wendy's. They cater to Greyhound. Fast food joints sit waiting for buses and hungry drivers trying to get back on their way. I will not eat a burger again for a long time. The only good thing about eating fast food was I knew I would not get left. I never walked far from the station. The bus would leave without you. In some places there was only restaurants. Some people on my bus were left in the rain in Alabama. Every seat was taken on the bus. Extra buses were ordered.

In Jacksonville we stopped for a moment. I stepped out into the shade. I saw a disabled man ordered off Greyhound property they said for loitering. It was the heat of the day. He was looking for bit of shade, but he was on greyhound property. He told me he lost his legs in the Vietnam war. He said he can barely get by on his veteran benefits. H told me he has nowhere to live he cannot afford a house. I met one young man who was returning to Oklahoma to his father's house. He left about two months ago to escape the beatings from his father. He was forced to return because the landlord threatened to raise the rent because of him. I met one woman traveling with her ninety year old mother. They were coming from Vegas returning home to Atlanta. They befriended me.

After we crossed the border from New Mexico into Texas the driver pulled over. I thought maybe it was a weigh station. I heard the men's boots before I saw them. They wore green suits, I immediately knew they were border patrol. They walked up and down the aisles, asking each person, "are you an American citizen. If not get out your papers." Fortunately we were allowed to keep driving without further problems.

This trip has taught me humility. This trip has taught me to be ever more understanding of the hard work and dedication of the early Black Americans who traveled to California in an effort to escape the unjust and brutal treatment of the South.

by Staff Writer

by Laure McElroy/PNN columnist, welfareQUEEN, race, poverty and disability scholar

This is how we do it at POOR; using the " I ", the first person, we centerpiece our own knowledge. We choose to use who we are and what we’ve personally experienced as both the keystone narrative for any story we write, as well as the lens through which we interpret it. We believe that doing this is the best way to be honest about where one’s point of view is coming from, and that the journalistic cult of the third person in this country is not objective at all, but rife with hidden, mostly privileged bias. We also insist that those who experience it must create the news, rather than any non-participant journo, however formally educated; those who live the stories both interpret the stories and claim the byline at POOR.

The Ida B. Wells Media Justice center at the US Social Forum was an original proposal authored by POOR. Our vision was to create a space for non-hierarchical story generation, print, radio or blog. The USSF seemed like the perfect place to model a setup for media creation that was not elitist and that did not reflect mainstream hegemonies (powerful interviewer/passive interviewee; writer-outsider who interprets event, " expert " -outsiders who provide " facts, " and actual event participants or those affected by event relegated to pictures to give the article " color, " unheard) with its power relationships.

The National Planning committee knew what we needed because we told them, appealing to them in countless emails and exhaustive conference calls for a space that was accessible to everyone, including houseless people and physically disabled people. We needed a room that was big enough to have our Community Newsroom (which is at the heart of our process of non-hierarchical news making) with the usual suspects of big indymedia, the conference-goers, and the actual community of Atlanta involved: people like the residents of the inner city housing project that is about to be destroyed to make way for privatized " mixed use " (read: not for the poor) housing; people like the houseless folk and workers from the Task Force Shelter in Midtown Atlanta, which the city is threatening to close despite the fact that a disabled houseless man recently died from what appears to be negligence in the only other shelter (which, incidentally, is city-run). We needed a space big enough for the houseless folk who, by city ordinance, can be arrested simply for being anywhere within a five block radius of the Civic Center, to tell their stories, working with a POOR trained writing facilitator only if they chose to do so. Sadly, our media revolution was not to be, despite the fact that the USSF organizers claimed to accept our proposal.

It is my opinion that what went wrong started long before any of us grassroots independent media arrived at the forum. What went wrong first went wrong in the minds of the main organizers, the people who told us (and this was actually said to us) that maybe we could get a space to make our " little " media if there was one left, but that the " real " media would take place elsewhere. These were the people who subsequently told us that it was ridiculous to expect Pacifica Radio to broadcast out of a homeless shelter (the Task Force having been one of our early alternatives to the basement hallway that they ended up trying to put us in months later, when the forum happened). What was wrong was the idea that powerful elites, be they government, family, capitalist or NGO, would willingly share power with anyone without a fight.

by Staff Writer

There are a lot of people here at the US Social Forum claiming solidarity, claiming alliance, claiming other people’s struggles for their own personal gains. At POOR, we are poor. We’ve fought through fire, illness, disease. Gunshots, poverty – you name it – to get here. To get to the US Social Forum. To this place that’s supposed to be filled wall to wall with people in “solidarity” with folks like us. And how were we treated by our privileged brothers and sisters? We were separated from the forum and relegated to a bathroom where it was impossible to share our skolarship. We were treated like an annoyance when we asked for an acceptable space. We were told we were fire hazards when we tried to actually work with what we were given. Our signs were torn off the wall because “tape is not allowed” when other organizations were allowed to keep THEIR signs on the walls.

The folks at the social forum, people claiming to be at the forefront of social change treated us no different than the folks they claim to be fighting against. We are put in basements everyday so we are not seen, not heard, not felt. Access is granted only to those with the pass of a certain color, respect is given only to those with resources and connections. If we can’t be treated like human beings at the US Social Forum, what hope do we have that these people are even capable of creating social change? What’s worse, if these people and organizations are working against us, what does that say about out chances – poor, abused, people with disabilities, people of color – what does that say about our chances of finding TRUE solidarity?

by Staff Writer

Undress the media

Get POOR Magazine out of the dressing room
to yo stage

Reality combined wit art

We are castaways

To play restricted parts

We are fire hazards

trouble breathing, unfair air

Airtime to
5 minute commercials

To one hour away

4 public service announcements

We are news, accomplishments & blues

Nothing but the truth

So we help God

I crossed the border early Thursday morning

Without my US Social Forum Passport

I felt I made it to the stage

On the down low tip

Undocumented

Still chanted & sang

Story quickly told

And then put out
tha back door

Cuz I'm fire hazard

And I breath unfair air

So I took over the airwaves

For public service announcements

Security at every post

Decided what pieces of bread become toast

Youth in the media

On a positive note

Wut a joke?

We are in the attic

Thru static 2 fix antenna

So the perception is clear

U marginalized me

U made no room for

JUST US

U disrespected Ida B Wells no center

U can't find us

U can't have justice

Po folks struggling to obtain

Technologies that document

Stories to educate

Only a few found

Security doesn ´ t make me feel safe

They make my heart pound

We are sound beings

Beings of sound

we create safe events

When we can build

A circle to build a community

People ´ s news

Workshops, panels, resource tables

In this for everyone-

Not just a few

We are many

Struggling to be heard

So let me kick

People had to really search

We are here

We are there

Yet even amongst

These gatherings making differences

They had no space to spare

So we had to rise up and challenge

2 get a bigger hallway

2 have our story flow through the airwaves

Painful and precious

Learning goes beyond four walls

We are media

Dispite displacement

We didn ´ t fall