Story Archives 2007

by Staff Writer

Who is the superior? You?

Who is inferior? Us?

But who’s the one infectin’ nations with poverty, wounds full of puss?

Who let the people die? You?

Who was the people you killed? Us?

This ain’t a mighty nation

Hollin’ in God we trust

If that’s the case, why I see devil all over yo’ face-

Kids being murdered, prostituted-

And ya’ll praise that disgrace

In cali we got a terminator for a governor

Stand up fo’ youz, he ain’t gonna be back

Right then and there

He gone somother ya!

Send yo’ offspring to be amongst me claimin-

They understand my pain

Knowin’ damn well if they lived in our conditions

It’d drive they ass insane

I’m homeless & po’ while

Ya’ll organize ya hoity-toity committee

If ya down wit tha’ cause

Then why can’t ya sit down and have dinner wit me?

Nose all in the air- naw

Those people are dirty

All tha money you made off me-

Ya took tha profits

Gave me the finger

Then flee

That’s fuhked up, didn’t even

Give us a blanket and sheet

To sleep on tha streets

Who said you was superior? You

Who said we was inferior? Not us

You gave a donation, yea

Tossed me a penny that collected rust

While as a whole you said

You respected immigration, racism, colonization and hurricane Katrina

Could I get some help to find my aunt, cuz after Katrina I still haven’t seen her

Don’t march wit me

You don’t want equality

Perpetrating in tha rally

Left us to die-

But hurried up and restored

Semi Valley

Takin’ billions to bring hell to millions

All over tha world

Cut my grant

Objective was to starve my baby girl

While ya sleep in silk

But my baby survived

Off my breast milk

She got up age

Asked where’s my daddy?

Damn baby girl, he got kilt

A Queen by blood

I’mma tell you what’s up

Quit smilin’ in my face

I know you don’t give a fuhk

I’mma keep spittin’ shit at white supremacy

Mr. KKK- better duck

Destroy you’ beastial mentality

Cuz I’m sick of it runnin’ amuch

Who is the inferior? You!

Who is the superior? Us!

by Staff Writer

Thinking back on my experience at the United States Social Forum with POOR Magazine, I feel many mixed emotions. First, when we (POOR Magazine) arrived at the Civic Center in Atlanta to set up our Community Newsroom meetings, an innovation by POOR Magazine that uses an indigenous organizing model to create media, we were allocated to an isolated, dank and damp confined basement hallway space with prison-like concrete walls painted in toxic oil-based battleship gray paint. Due to the extremely narrow hallway, we were told that our presence there was a potential fire hazard. We were marginalized and completely separated from the rest of the media and most of the USSF guests and participants.

We (POOR) were unable to access and work collectively with other media sources with whom we had hoped to collaborate with. We were also unable to get all of the USSF guests and participants into our Community Newsroom and media workshops, because they had to have a special media pass in order to get to the upstairs basement like dressing room. If they even had a pass and made it through the maze of confusion to the media center, they could just stand in the narrow, half blocked off hallway space were we were thoughtlessly put by the USSF planning committee to conduct our workshops and Community Newsroom. By the second day, a few of my fellow POOR colleagues and I developed acute asthma, unable to breathe properly, due to the toxic paint fumes and lack of fresh air in the media center.

I felt truly kicked to the bottom of the barrel, separated from the rest of the forum and hidden away in the darkness, not to do important media work but just to get sick with asthma. We had to literally fight for our right to be allocated to a more humane, healthy and open space that was accessible to all USSF guests and participants. We took it upon ourselves to find one that would not continue to segregate POOR Magazine’s community newsroom from reaching all people at the USSF.

In addition, there were no proper accommodations for people with disabilities, many being forced to use a freight elevator in the Atlanta Civic Center to access the basement area of the media center. This was a thoughtless and discriminating action of the USSF. By not providing access to those with special needs, the organizers ended up marginalizing even more people.

The media- made up of poverty, race and disability scholars- should have been the first thing that those who were attending and participating in the USSF saw when they entered arrived at the social forum, not just the vendors selling their cause. It is the voices, faces and words of the people that make a social justice movement, not capitalism with a 501c.3.

At the USSF, I was also very disturbed by the extreme paramilitary security presence, which totally contradicted the whole meaning of the forum itself. This was very unpleasant and unnecessary by all means for an event of such, one that is supposed to promote social peace and justice.

In addition to this, it was a social atrocity that there were no ‘real people’ from the local community in Atlanta representing at the USSF. Many houseless folks and low and no income people were kept out of the tall iron gates of the Civic Center, marginalized and cast away in extreme heat. They stood outside on the sidewalk surrounding the Civic Center completely ignored and disregarded. As a poverty scholar myself, I found this whole social dynamic very upsetting. Watching many young, privileged and educated folks mindlessly dance about to music without a care in the world within the confines of those tall security gates as if the USSF was some sort of progressive Disneyland, made my stomach turn.

The USSF is an event that should bring people closer together to form alliances and coalitions and to create solidarity collectively, not individually and certainly not by marginalizing and separating people through class and privilege. It is clearly imperative that the USSF planning committee changes its thought process when planning for the next US Social Forum. It is most important that the USSF provides an event that includes more than just privileged activists, but also the real people struggling with issues of racism, poverty, disability etc., as well as real media created by the people. I feel that human connectivity must be the true foundation of the next USSF if we hope to create ‘a new world.’

by Staff Writer

To me, media justice is about people with privilege giving up some of their power and sharing skills and collaborating with people who don’t have that same access to get the untold stories told. I didn’t feel that most of the organizers of this media justice center, who had more privilege, access and media skills understood this at all. They really didn’t even want to surrender just a little of the control they had over the creation of the Media Justice Center, which lead to the marginalization of poor people once again. This was evident in not only the space that we were given to make our “little” media in, but also in the fact that almost none of the organizers of the MJC, those who claimed over and over again to understand the concept of collaborative news making, attended community newsroom. It seemed like they felt above the whole process. They worked separately the whole time and isolated themselves and never really shared their skills with people unlike them, further perpetuating the digital divide and individualism- rather than breaking down these barriers to media justice. When it actually came down to sharing power to make media justice happen, most of these organizers weren’t willing to give up enough control to make this possible. I believe this is reflective of what’s happening in the world of activism today. To make a new U.S. and a new world it is necessary that we learn how to truly collaborate and work together; that we, the people with privilege and access- share our skills and those with experiences with poverty, racism, disability, etc. share their scholarship .

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

ATA Carpool Journal

What a wondrous, strange, annoying, oddly fascinating trip it was. So
much could've gone wrong didn't, others so predictable was laughable
if wasn't so intense at the time. Minor problems began with logistics
of travel I, Joseph of Ask /Tell Joe POOR Magazine columns, KPFA, and
Pirate radio, formally houseless, jobless, minor guess part in welfareQUEENS' play. (no where near famous) was to go alone by bus,
others by plane, and 10 person Van. Because of economic hardships I end up in a 10 seat van.

We were departing San Francisco at 10 am Saturday, June, 23rd I'm infamous at POOR for missing assignments, being late, or getting totally lost
on news assignments. To prevent this the night before my backpack, a
travel bag donated by my mother are filled with clothes, toiletries,
extra shoes, even a can opener plus a water bottle with ice. With
monies from my resent Clerk job by way of S.H.EC. [Supportive
Housing Employment Collaborative] by way of Housing Activist Mr.
James, Tracy donates hundred dollars which helped immensely.

On time,
ready, doors open for fellow and female passengers. A customer using
the van we were to use forgets placing the two seats and our two
driver's Mr. Anulfo, and Laura Yaya, went to Fresno/Colma for
reseating van.
It delays our departure by two hours making us leave at 11am or later.
We stop in Bay Veiw Hunter's Point to pick up Bay View newspapers to
distribute at the U.S. Social Forum in Atlanta, Georgia. They've
thrown down for us with our stories we're return the favor throw
down for them. It’s all good.

We rode out with tunes of Paris and Public Enemy"reality rap CD's
spitting angry, logical, conscious knowledge rap in Dolby surround
sound stereo from front to rear. This is going to be interesting
trip, I thought to myself.
Ms. Laura, Ya ya one of our two intrepid drivers had been driving for
four or 4 or 5 straight hours is tired and needs to rest. Mr. Anulfo
takes over as Ms. Ya ya before sleep had been documenting the early
start of our trip with video-voice, and quickie interviews of the trip
much will be edited out and some of the bloopers saved for posterity.
Micky D's, Carl Jr.'s eateries are the places Yaya, Anulfo, Louis,15,
Marcus,7, Theresa, Dee, Allen, Ruyate, myself(Joseph), Queennandi,
I'm not hungry. In fact from the week before I've been feelin' ill and
queasy on and off constant fighting dehydration by drinking and
pouring water all over me.
Drinking vitamin water don't cut if only cold or ice water works in
the days heat.

We're in Lost Hills? 4:32pm We drove through a town named Boron, a chemical compound on the periodic table.
10:28 pm we are in Arizona. In a motel our van's right side has
green/yellow paint streaks on it from another car's swipe. I didn't
see it until the next morning. I don't know the motel's name but it
has a pool and I before going for a swim I shower, do some swimming in
the pool with Kim, Ruyate, Louis, Marcus, and were others not known to
me. 10 am we're on the highway at 11am breakfasting in Denny's
Restaurant at 12:05 again riding through the Arizona Desert. 1:40 pm
or so Mr. Rayata and Ms. Kim have heated Afro/Euro,
multicultural/parallel socioeconomic argument by 2pm it cools.

We
arrive in New Mexico 4:40 pm. A sign painted red, green, chili
peppers says " Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment &quot. Across the
street and highway is Navajo Nation with stores, gas stations teepees,
and mountains, trading posts. 7pm stopped in Edgewood a city in New
Mexico for restroom breaks before hitting the road again. 11:31 pm
Texas, then Arkansas 9:45 am Drove through Clinton, stopped in Hillin?

A blue and White patrol car rode by us. 1:44 pm in Tennessee, 4pm
Alabama, " Alabama, The Beautiful " the sign reads as we enter the state
Ms. Laura, Ya ya, video-ing all that can be seen. We're ahead by a
day! Quick, weird weather patterns. Five minutes in heavy rain, heavy
fog in two minutes. Strange riding through Beautiful Alabama.

4:30 pm
rain on our side of highway dry on other side strange and weird
indeed! 6:05 am as usual missed an important recording but I cannot be
everywhere. The historic 7th street Baptist Church, a motorcycle cop
rode by. The Birmingham Museum where I and school children see, hear, through audio and print media Finally a knowledgeable
citizen on a bike schools me on historical aspects in Birmingham. 3

This story is in progress and will be continued…

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

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 &quot his story&quot books of a regal lineage that flows through my veins—I will never forget.

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

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 &quot Hey boy,&quot 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.

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

A Journal by Dee Allen

SATURDAY JUNE 23, 2007:

PAST 12 NOON: The white Chevrolet van, filled with 9 Poor Magazine
staff writers--including myself-- (Teresa Molina and her two children, Joseph Bolden, Ruyate, QueenNandi, Yaya,Arnulfo,) leave San Francisco by way of the
Bay Bridge. I felt nothing but excited to be going back home, even if
it's for a 5-day activst networking event. That & hearing oldschool 1980s
Hip-Hop by Grandmaster Flash, Run DMC, Paris kept me in good spirits.
Brought back memories of high school & the movies Fame, Krush Groove, Beat Street and Fast Forward.

4:30PM: Stopover at Carl's Jr. Brutally hot. While everyone else was
inside Carl's Jr., I stepped outside van to stretch my legs. Before we
left the restaurant, Joe gave me an idea: Take an icecube from the cooler
in the back of the van and swab it across my forehead, neck, upper back.
It worked. It may have melted, but it cooled me off better than those 2
Vitamin Waters from the cooler did.

5:20PM-9PM: Rode through acres of desert. Saw electrical towers with
white fan blades on them, lining both sides of the road. Wind
power-generated electricity.

9:30PM: We left California. We entered Arizona. The van stopped at the
state line. Ya-Ya busted out her camcorder just for the sign designed
like the Arizona state flag.

10:30PM: We stop at the Knight's Inn for the night, after stopping at a
Motel 6 at first. Motel 6 had one room available, with 2-3 beds; other
than that, no vacancies. The women & kids took a room, while the men had
the room next door. Ruyata & Arnolfo occupied the beds; Joe claimed the
chair with footrest; I claimed the chair with footrest; I claimed floor
space by the bathroom, under the air conditioner. Luckily, I brought my
sleeping bag & travel pillow. The motel was hella hot well into bedtime
[Kingston, Arizona]

SUNDAY JUNE 24

PAST 10 AM: Our group leaves the Knights Inn. With a noticeable scrape on
one side of the van caused by a nearby car that long since departed.

10:20AM: We hit up Denny's for breakfast. The dining room was packed with
old cowboys, bikers & rednekkks. Needless to say, I did not feel
comfortable there. While the Poor Magazine crew ate at the dining room
table, I took my breakfast order to go. I ate my soy Boca burder,
pancakes in the van. Washed it all down with apple juice.

11AM: Stopover at K-Mart for more H2O. We ran clean out.

2PM: Ruyata & Queennandi had a heated argument over whether or not
Amerikkkan Blacks are ignorant of their history. Ya-Ya chimed in with the
history of Capitalism, imperialism & economic globalisation & how those 3
things affected Africa, North & South Amerikkkas & their peoples. I put
in my measly 2 cents into the big conversation by talking about the
Eurocentrism that passes for "history lessons" in grade school [in
Amerikkka, that is]. I thank Ya-Ya for inspiring my part of the
conversation.

2:35 PM: We stopped at Chester's, a fast food restaurant that sold fried
chicken & doubled as a petrol station & convenience station.

3PM: We left Chester's and hit the road again, treated to a horrible
remake of " Love Will Keep Us Together " by Captain and Tenille. Yuck. I
hated this song when I was 7. My feelings about this particular song has
not changed with age.

4:30PM: Our group arrive at the New Mexico state line. Joe, Ya-Ya,
Ruyata, Arnolfo & Queen Nandi took the opportunity to take a picture in
front of a big orange sign: " Welcome To New Mexico, Land of Enchantment "
Corny poses & all.

5:30PM: We stopped at a Conoco petrol station. The cooler was quickly
re-stocked with ice & bottle H2O.

10:50pm: Stopover at Chevron petrol station in Tuquaceri*, New Mexico.
Picked up dinner at a Subway restaurant with Joe, Queen Nandi & Ya-Ya,
while Arnolfo & Ruyata pick up their dinner from the subject of " Fast
Food Nation " and " Super Size Me, " McDisease. Before hitting the road again,
Arnolfo gotten petrol for the van. Ruyate, little Marcos & myself cleaned
the van windows and windshield that had been caked with mud flecks. They looked hella
spotty. That changed immediately. Mutual aid put into practise.
*Translation: "The woman's breast". Language: Unknown, possibly some
Native Amerikkkan language.

MONDAY JUNE 25, 2007:

12:20AM: We reached the Texas state line. We keep ourselves entertained
with a comedy album by George Lopez. There's a lot of things in this life
that don't even make me laugh anymore, and when someone tries to make me
laugh, they only succeed in pissing me off. Not so in this case. I was
cracking up all the way through the Lone Star State, off of George
Lopez's hilarious take on La Raza life.

5:30AM: Stopover at Hinton Travel Centre-Sonic restaurant in Oklahoma.
Barely slept at all getting there.

8:45AM: We reach the Arkansas state line. Ruyate holds the camcorder for
the sign for "the natural state". [What the hell does that mean?]

9:10AM: Stopover at McDisease in Alma, Arkansas. Fucking rednekkk
central. I hate this state already.

1:16PM: Woke up to the sound of a politically-charged Rap song with a
dude slinging verses about Gulf War 2 Dolemite-style. Our group arrived
in Tennessee.

1:43PM: We finally spot a Tennessee state line sign. No pic was taken.

2:32PM: We roll into Mississippi----a lot quicker than I expected!

4PM: Our group reached Alabama----in a matter of 88 minutes! Ya-Ya broke
out the camcorder & Arnolfo, his digital camera. To take pics of the sign
at the state line. " Alabama The Beautiful. "

4:15PM: Upon crossing into Alabama, the van gets treated to sudden rain.
Then fog. The inclement weather ended as quick as it began 7 minutes
later. This reminds me of rainfall in Atlanta.

5PM: Our group made it into downtown Brimingham. Ya-Ya parked the van in
front of Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, across the street from the
Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was
the building that had been bombed in 1963 by Klansmen. The resultant
blast killed 4 little Black girls and wounded others that weren't
fortunate enough to have evacuated.

When I stepped out of our white
rental van, I knew that I was staring Amerikkkan Black history in the
face.
Giving our group of 9 a guided tour of downtown Birmingham was a thin, intelligent sixty-something dude named Juan. Juan began his
tour by walking towards Kelly Ingram Park, the site where 3,000
non-violent Black youth were brutalized by racist White Brimingham cops.
Juan had shown us the sole Black-owned radio station sign, the pharmacy
next to it, the old N.A.A.C.P. office---all across from Kelly Ingram
Park.

Our party of 9 was guided down a path of the park called the
Freedom Walk. We stopped at a statue of Martin Luther King, followed by
another statue featuring a White racist cop in sunglasses siccing his
snarling, aggro dog on a lone Black boy. The third statue consisted of 2
walls; one wall had a couple of Black youth [boy & girl] standing around
it, with the engraved slogan " I ain't afraid of your jail " the other
wall had iron bars in the centre, with the engraved slogan--upside
down--" Segregation is a sin. "

At the edge of Kelly Ingram Park, we
stopped at a few white stone pillars, each one contained an engraved
picture & biography of local Black civil rights pioneers, including an
early mentor of houseless Black youth and the the very first Black
registered nurse. [I need to get better at remembering names.] Juan
directed us to the last statue in the park: A stone assembly of 3 Black
Protestant ministers in robes kneeling. All of these Black Protestant
ministers particpated in the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s.

Juan made a thought-provoking observation: Birmingham was in the national
" Bible Belt " [the Southern United States], yet there were no statues of
Christ or stone crosses anywhere in its downtown area. To prove his
point, Juan had shown our group 2 statues of Greco-Roman gods, 1 on top
of each downtown Birmingham building. Vulcan, god of fire. Electra,
goddess of light.

The statues that gave me chills the most [second to the cop and
dog-on-boy statue] was the one that had two water cannons aimed at a wall
with Black kids near it. Imagine being hit with 600 ounces of water
pressure.
Once the tour was over, Juan asked our group for donations for his time.
Each of us gave Juan cash. I gave him a 5-dollar bill for his impromptu
tour.

I'd like to have see the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute, but it was already
closed.

7:30PM: Our group stopped at the Relax Inn, a motel nearest to the
interstate. Arnolfo & Ya-Ya went to the front office to check prices on
hotel rooms. A few minutes later, we all found out that the rooms are
$55.00 each, same as the Knights Inn in Kingston, Arizona. Arnolfo used
his cellphone to call around for other hotels. Among one of them was
Motel 6.

8PM: We roll up on the Comfort Inn, across the street from a barbeque
joint, a Hardees & other motels. The kids & Ruyate got a big kick out of
the swimming pool. Arnolfo & Ya-Ya went to the office to check prices on
each room. Again, like at the Relax Inn, our group waited outside the
van. A few minutes later, Arnolfo & Ya-Ya tell us that the rooms at
Comfort Inn are hella more expensive than the last place.
Our group met, heard the room prices & we had to bring this thing to a
final vote. Joe and me wanted to go to Motel 6. I expressed my concern over
Poor Magazine's budget & opined that Motel 6 was reasonably priced
enough to be within our means. Everyone else wanted to stay at Comfort
Inn for the swimming pool, free complimentary breakfast buffet & its
nicer aesthetics compared to the other place we've stayed at in Arizona.
Comfort Inn became our motel for the night.

8:40PM: After dropping my big green duffel bag off in room 125--a
non-smoking room--and busting out a change of clothes, I went to the
barbeque joint across the street. Checked out their menu upon sitting
down at the bar. The only truly meatless options were baked potatoes,
cinnamon apples & salads. Side dishes. Not too surprising in a restaurant
that had majority meat items. I had to beg the bartender to make their
wood-grilled quesadilla vegetarian, a dish this barbeque place normally
prepared with chicken, beef or pork. Fifteen minutes later, the bartender
approached the bench near the front, where I sat, and gave me my meal in
a brown paper bag.

9:25PM: Back at Comfort Inn. I dust off my spicy dinner, take a
much-deserved shower, shave, right before Ruyate returned to room 125
from the swimming pool. Once he came back, Ruyata managed to successfully
irritate me and Joe before I switched resting-spaces [from near the
bathroom/sink to near the front door] and pass the hell out.

TUESDAY JUNE 26, 2007:

8AM TO 11AM: Ate 2 raisin bagels & drank horrible orange juice, hit the
exercise room and sat through a couple of " I Love Lucy" reruns on TV Land
in preparation for our departure from Comfort Inn.

11:30PM: Our group returned to the 16th St. Baptist Church; this time, we
toured the inside. The 16th Street Baptist Church tour began in the
basement area. It was a museum of sorts, filled with an array of
photographs of past ministers, the Civil Rights Movement in action and of
course, the 4 Black female Sunday school students--Addie Mae Collins,
Carol Denice McNair, Carol Rosamond Robertson and Cynthia Dianne
Wesley--who were killed in the explosion of a bomb planted by Klansmen.
There were dioramas in memory of the slain 4 Sunday school students and
the Middle Passage, complete with a model slaveship, Black slave
figurines & a lone White ship captain figurine. Those alone gave me
chills.

For a moment, I broke away from our group and did some exploring
of my own. I continued my tour of the chapel on the upper levels by
taking the elevator. In the sanctuary, there were high school-aged
children sitting in the front pews, along with a female adult tour guide,
watching a VHS documentary about the 1963 16th Street Baptist Church
bombing on a steel cart-held television. I took the stairs to the balcony
and confronted the famous " Wales Window For Alabama. " The beautiful
stained glass window was created in 1964 by Welsh artist John Wetts and
donated/dedicated to the 16th Street Baptist Church on June 6, 1965. The
stained glass window depicted a crucified Black man with a rainbow halo;
below him are the large slogan: " You Do It To Me. "

Meanwhile, Joe was conducting a one-man tour of his own: At the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute across the street. Dude's lucky. I never went inside of that place, at least not after Ruyate said that the admission price was $10.00. I was hoping to get in for free. Oh, well.

After touring 16th Street Baptist Church, I walked towards Kelly Ingram Park. There, I met Arnolfo, Ya-Ya, Ruyate and Queennandi. Much to my own disgust, I saw hella White juniour high and high school-age children lounging around and clinging onto the statues as if they were jungle gym items. They totally disrespected the memory of those who lost and risked their lives confronting racist Southern White cops in the name of Black Civil Rights. This was total disrespect to me and my people.
Our group reconvened at the white van and drove away from Birmingham, for the second and final time.

3:30PM: We finally smash through Georgia. I never thought I'd come back to this state. Or return to the East Coast. When I started seeing licence-plates on cars with peaches on them, kudzu on trees and bushes and red clay instead of dark-brown topsoil, I knew I was home. Next destination: Hartsfield Airport.

4PM: Hartsfield Airport in Clayton County, one of thirteen counties that make up Atlanta.
We've made it. Ruyate, Joe, Queennandi and me stepped out of the van to meet someone who used to roll with Poor Magazine ages ago. All 4 of us was to look out for a half-Pacific Islander, half-Native American woman, her name was Mariposa. Until that point in time, the only Mariposa I knew was a street in Potrero Hill. We don't even know what gate she disembarked from the airplane at.

While waiting for Mariposa to show up, Ruyata, Queennandi and me ran into a celebrity. We met comedian Bruce-Bruce from B.E.T., by himself with no bodyguards or paparazzi. Sweet. My little brother is not going to believe this!

Queennandi and me occupied our time with talk about interracial sex, blood diamonds, hate crimes from the Jim Crow era, the police, our childhood friends and some black market documentary on Gulf War 2, where 2 Amerikkkan soldiers in the field equate shooting innocent, unarmed Iraqis to wild game hunting. We return to the airport, no sign of Mariposa. Queennandi and me wound up getting something to eat in the food court. I pick up a vegetarian bag lunch from the Atlanta Bread Company restaurant. A portobello mushroom club sandwich, apple juice and plain cheesecake.
Ruyata and Joe found Mariposa and the van left for Fulton County. Inner-city Atlanta.

Being on I-85 brings back memories. Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel, with the revolving Sundial restaurant on top. Coca-Cola. Turner Field. Olympic Park. The Underground. C.N.N. North Avenue.

5:30PM: Atlanta International Hostel. The three-story house with the old heart-shaped Woodruff Inn sign in front. I've been here once before. This place will be home for 5 days, while me and the Poor Magazine crew are in town for the United States Social Forum. I really knew I was back home when that oppressive 100-degree heat hit me upon leaving the white rental van. Extreme humidity. No bodies of water nearby. Among two of several reasons why I left Atlanta in November 2002.

Our cross-country journey stopped here.

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

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.