Story Archives 2009

by C. Ali

I was working my security guard job at the supermarket when the voice over the intercom said, “Security, register 3!” I moved slowly. I had been called to the same register earlier in the day when a young man had said some not-so nice things to a lady in line. I approached the young man. He was short, not too big but looked like he’d fight anyone. “You need to leave,” I said. As we headed to the exit doors he pleaded his case--“I didn’t do nothing, man” and “I’m gonna sue you Motherf**kers.” “I hope you do,” I answered, “And I hope you get all the money you can get”. I imagined him suing and winning and treating me to dinner at the House of Prime Rib, dining with big smiles on our faces, washing it all down with ample amounts of foreign (and/or domestic) beer. We parted shaking hands-—but not before he left a six pack of Pacifico Beer behind him.

I got to register #3 expecting someone combative; or perhaps someone the manager or clerks suspected was concealing merchandise down their crotch or some other. I asked the checker what the problem was. She pointed to an African-Descended elder in the line.

“Yes dear?” I said, approaching. “How may I help you?”

“My ride is outside, can you tell her I’m in line? I’ll be out in 5 minutes.”

“No problem ma'am,” I said. “What is your name?”

“My name is Ms. Taylor. My ride is one of those mobile transport vans.”

A metal cane hung from the crook of her arm. Her eyes were two blossoms whose brilliance was hindered by thick glasses. I headed for the exit door.

Before I reached the door a voice called out “Hey!” I turned around. It was Edgardo the Assistant Manager—all 24 years and 125 pounds of him contained in a short-sleeve shirt. He marched towards me with the gait of a commissioned officer, nametag affixed to his chest like an official stick of gum. Like a scholar, I saw his evolutionary chart with every step he took: 1st step: 40 pounds heavier; 2nd step: double chin; 3rd step: hunched back; 4th step: hacking cough,
and so on.

“Hello senor,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to tell the customer’s ride to wait.”

The little man looked at me, disappointed he hadn’t found anything wrong.

“Just let us know whenever you leave your post for any reason.”

"Whatever you say senor".

I proceeded out the exit door.

I approached a white van with a red stripe painted across. I walked to the driver’s side window. A young woman sat talking on a cell phone. I gestured for her to roll the window down.

“Are you waiting for Ms. Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“She told me to let you know that she’ll be right out. She’s in line and—“

The young woman sighed.

“She knows I'm supposed to leave in 5 minutes. She always do this. You tell her I’m giving her 3 minutes…if she ain’t out in 3 minutes I’m taking off.”

And with that information I galloped back to the store.

The checker was ringing up Ms. Taylor’s merchandise.

“Ms. Taylor, the driver says you got 3 minutes…then she’s leaving”.

Ms. Taylor hurriedly reached into her purse and pulled out a smaller coin purse. She opened it but spilled her coins on the floor in the process of rushing. I scooped up the quarters and dimes and began bagging the groceries. I bagged as fast as I could—-fruits, veggies, meat, cooking oil, cookies, ramen noodle soup. I put too many cans in one bag causing the handles to tear. Ms. Taylor was busy counting her money. The cashier rang the grand total and gave the change. 3 minutes have surely passed, I thought.

“Where’s my cane?” Ms. Taylor asked, craning her neck up and down.

“It’s right here,” I said, pointing to the cane hanging on the crook of her arm.

We pushed the freshly packed groceries towards the exit.

“I hope your ride is still there,” I said.

“I hope so,” said Ms. Taylor

Outside the van was waiting amidst a mosaic of shopping carts, baby strollers and people. The young woman was on the cell phone. I guided Ms. Taylor up the steps. The young woman continued to talk.

“Yeah girl, this woman is taking too long…fuck!”

Ms. Taylor sat down in silence, her eyes looking straight ahead. The young woman started the ignition. I loaded 7 bags of groceries onto the van as if someone were pointing a rifle at me.

“You know,” said the young woman, “You only supposed to have 3 bags of groceries. You lucky I’m letting you bring more in the van.”

“I was the one who bagged them,” I cut in, “I didn’t know about the limit. I guess I owe you one.” The young woman didn’t reply.

I got all the bags into the van. Ms. Taylor was strapped into her seat. She reached into her purse and pulled out 2 dollars.

“I owe you this.”

“No…the only thing you owe me is a smile.”

Ms. Taylor smiled. I stepped off the vehicle. The door closed and the van drove off. I headed back to my post. I hope Ms. Taylor got home okay.

by Teresa Molina/PNN-Voces de inmigrantes en resistencia

Scroll down for English

Miercoles 25 de Febrero, San Francisco- “Ya estamos cansados de que la policia nos paren y nos quite nuestros carros sin razon.”

Sin escusa, la policia municipal detienen y abusan a nuestra comunidad inmigrante con los retenes policiacos en la Mision para decomisar a algunos, la unica fuente de transporte que nos lleba a nuestro trabajo y a nuestro ninos a la escuela. Tambien estan tratando de criminalizar a nuestros jovenes sin darles la oportunidad de peliar su caso o ser cargados como menores de edad. En muchos casos, hemos reportado que la policia esta trabajando con la migra para deportar a nuestra juventud sin darles una oportunidad igual a la que le dan a los ciudadanos. Cuando la policia nos quitan nuestros carros, arrestan a nuestros hijos, y abusan de su poder, rompen a nuestras familias. Yo soy Teresa, mujer trabajadora y luchadora, madre de cinco hijos y reportera comunitaria de la Prensa Pobre que lucha contra abuso policiaco en comunidades de color local y global. El problema mas que nada es la descriminacion hacia las comunidades pobres de color.

Especifiquamente, mi comunidad latina estamos muy enojados por tanta mala fama que nos estan dando los medios de comunicaciones grandes. Nosotros no asemos mas que trabajar y buscar como mantener a nuestros hijos y pagar impuestos en este paiz para prosperar la economia. Nadie merese que la policia los detengan sin ninguna razon, a lo contrario, todos meresemos respeto.

Estubimos tratando de buscar soluciones para resolver esta crisis de familia que esta produciendo los retenes policiacos. Hubo una reunion comunitaria “townhall” el 25 de febrero a la 5 de la tarde en la escuela Horace Man en la calle 22 y Bartllet en la Mision. Fue patrocinada por como 30 organizaciones comunitarias. Entre las organizaciones presentes hubo la Raza Centro Legal, La Colectiva de Mujeres, el Comite de Vivienda San Pedro, Mujeres Unidas y Activas, Carecen y unos grupos de iglesias que luchan por los derechos de los imigrantes. En todo, heramos como 200 personas discutiendo el problema de acoso policiaco en la Mision, tratando de buscar soluciones. Con todo el apoyo que hubo presente en la reunion, nos sentiamos confiados en que ibamos a ser escuchados, y eso es lo que necesitamos. Con todo el temor en el que vivimos, de ser detenidos, de ser arrestados, de que nos quiten el carro, de que trabajamos y trabajamos y nunca nos alcansa el dinero, de que la sociedad nos considera terroristas, la lista nunca acaba… el punto es de que a veces todos estos temores nos quitan el fuego que necesitamos para luchar para una mejor vida en este pais, y peor que todo, nos pone en nuestra mente la mentira que no meresemos vivir en mejor condiciones. Pero el hecho de saber que tenemos el apoyo de organizaciones y de la comunidad nos ase fuertes y nos da la esperansa de que pronto bamos a tener respuestas positivas y bamos a salir triunfantes y ganadores.

Mi testimonio fue entre los muchos testimonios que todos oimos esa noche, y fue asi.

Yo recuerdo un dia mi hija iba manejando conmigo, y mis otros hijos sintiendose muy confiada porque todo estaba bien. Su aseguransza, su licencia, y sus placas todo bien a simple bista, cuando de repente de un Rincon sale una patrulla y nos para. Ibamos mi hija, mi nieta, mi hijo y yo. Era un dia como estos dias llubiosos y frios. Mi nieta solo tenia 2anos y mi hijo solo 7 anos. Ellos estaban vien asustados, sus ojitos engrandecieron de panico, y llorando desesperadamente. Mi hijo Marcos gritaba, “Por que nos queiren cuitar el carro?”

“Esta haciendo mucho frio… y la casa queda muy lejos de aqui.”

El policia no encontro ninguna razon para poner un tiket. Solo queria demostrar su poder y invento que la silla de mi nieta no era la adecuada. Por esa razon, y solo esa razon, nos quito el carro y nos dijo que tenia que rebisar el carro porque tenia sospecha de que teniamos drogas.

“Se miran muy nerviosos.” Nos dijo el policia. “Por que? Hay una razon por que estan nerviosos.”

La verdad es que no estabamos nerviosos a ese punto, estabamos enojados. Como ibamos traer drogas cuando tenemos ninos en nuestro carro? Es ilogico. Que tipo de personas nos creian. Nos mando ala casa caminando con lluvia y frio no le importo. Cuando entrego el carro en el corralon , no entrego las llaves la policia. Al otro dia que fue mi hija por el carro no abia llaves, y tubo que esperar 4 dias porque la policia tenia 4 dias off. Por ultimo tubo que mandar aser una llave de 80 dolares y pagar la sacada del carro.

Hubieron muchos testimonios parecidos a el mio y de mi hija y la injusticia fue obia. Aunque esta noche fue solo un paso para cambiar esta injusta realidad, yo se que siempre vamos a seguir luchando hasta tener las respuestas que meresemos. No nos venseran nunca y lucharemos hasta la victoria siempre…

_______________________

Engles Sigue

Wednesday February 25, SAN FRANCISCO-
“We are tired of the police taking away our cars for no reason.”

Without any good excuse, the SFPD detains and abuses our Raza community with police checkpoints in the Mission District that racially profile and take away the only source of transportation that takes us to work and our children to school. They are also trying to criminalize our youth by arresting them and deporting them without giving them the opportunity to be held as minors. When the police take away our vehicles, arrest our kids, and abuse their power, they tear apart our families and our community.

I am Teresa, migrant struggling mother of five, struggling everyday to survive and community reporter with POOR Magazine who fights against police brutality on communities of color living in poverty locally and globally. Specifically, my community and I are very angry for all the bad rep that corporate media is giving us. We work and find ways to survive, all while raising children and paying taxes to this country. Nobody deserves the police pulling them over for no reason, on the contrary, we all deserve to be respected.

We were trying to find ways to resolve this crisis that police checkpoints in the Mission are causing. There was a community townhall meeting on the 25th of February at five in the afternoon at Horace Mann Middle School on 22nd and Bartlett in the Mission District. About thirty community organizations were present at this meeting, among them La Raza Centro Legal, Mujeres Unidas y Activas, CARECEN and a few religious groups that fight for immigrants rights. In total, we were about two hundred people discussing the racial profiling issue in the Mission, and trying to find solutions. With all the support that was present at the reunion, we felt confident that our voices would be heard, and that is what we need. With all the fear with which we live, the fear of being detained, arrested, the fear of having our cars decommissioned, the fear of never having enough money to survive, the constant fear of being considered terrorists by society, the list never ends… the point is that sometimes all these fears take away the fire that we need in our hearts to fight for a better life in this country, and worst of all, it imposes a defeatist mentality that internally perpetuates the lie that we don’t deserve to live in better conditions. The fact that we know that we have the support of organizations and the community makes us strong and gives us hope that soon we will have positive answers and we will see a better day.

My testimony was amongst the many testimonies that were heard that night, and it went like this.

I remember one day my daughter was driving me and my other children back from school feeling worry-free, because everything was going well. Her insurance papers, her license, and plates we’re all legit. Suddenly out of an alley a squad car peels out and stops us. Riding in the car was my daughter, my granddaughter, my son and I, one happy family. It was a cold day and I can remember hearing the rain beat down hard on the roof of the car. My granddaughter was only two years old and my son was only seven. They were very scared, their eyes grew big with panic and then they began crying from their desperation. I could still hear my son Marcos scream.

“Why do they want to take our car away?”

“It’s too cold and we’re too far away from home!”

The cop didn’t find any good reason to give us a ticket. He still just wanted to flex his power and he wrote us up for not having an adequate child seat for my granddaughter. For that reason, and only that reason, he commanded us to get out of the car and told us that he was going to search the car because he suspected we were smuggling drugs.

“You look really nervous.” The cop said. “Why? Is there a reason why you are so nervous.”

The truth is that we weren’t nervous at that point, we were mad.

Why would he think we were smuggling drugs? We had our kids with us. What kind of people did he think we were. And just like that, the police sent my son, my daughter, my granddaughter and I marching home, in the rain, for no reason. Worst of all, when the cop turned the car into the impound, he didn’t turn in the keys. When my daughter went to go pick her car up, there were no keys waiting for her and she had to wait four days because it was a long weekend. Finally, she had to have the key remade which cost her $80, and she had to pay everyday that the car was in the pound.

There were many testimonies that night as bad as ours, or worse and the injustice perpetuated by the police was obvious. Although this night was just one step to change this unfair reality, I know that we will keep fighting until we see the results that we deserve. They will never defeat us and we will fight until victory, forever…

----------------------------------

by Stefana Serafina/PNN

Homelessness always seems to happen to others: third parties that have nothing to do with the rest of us. Until one is faced with houselessness herself, it is the problem of “those poor people out there” that evoke--depending on the observer-- either pity or disgust. Faced with the tangible possibility of losing my own roof and bed for the first time in my 33 years, this is no longer an issue in the life of others. With unemployment money growing insufficient and unpaid bills invading both my wakeful time and my dream space, homelesness has hit home.

Yet, every Tuesday evening, when I join the circle of POOR Magazine's community newsroom, I am reminded that I have it easy: I am well-educated, with a pretty resume and a by-line, and have access to many privileges that most people in this room could only dream of, including a credit card. The reminder comes as I listen to the poor folks in the newsroom report on their own stories, in their own voices, hoping that by doing that, they can de-construct the media and social stereotypes created about them without them.

One story that sticks with me for weeks after it was told in the POOR newsroom is that of XXXXXX, a single mother of three who was evicted unexpectedly from her “affordable” home and put into the street. As she remembers the chilling reality of eviction night, her voice trembles: the little ones kept asking where they were going, the baby pulled on her shirt ready for a meal, and the world was a vast, hopeless place.

by By Thornton Kimes/PNN

Part 1: Moi?

I started seriously wanting to conquer my 3-to-5-year cycle of employment-to-crash-landing-and-start-over-from-scratch (from the proverbial grassy roots, the streets) Summer 2008, after the end of the Goodwill job mentioned in “Who’s Budget? Our Budget!”

How does “success” in life, by anyone’s standard, happen when you don’t have a coherent “this is how we do it” handbook in your head—-primarily put there by parents? I was born a middle class white guy. The white’s still there but the middle class status got squeezed out like lemon juice into ice tea over 30 years.

I was allowed to quit and not succeed at many efforts after turning 8 years old and being a Christmas season Nutcracker recital clown. A terrified clown. Boy #3 of what began as 4 boys in a ballet class I wanted to be in for all of 5 seconds of jealousy over my sister being a ballerina. We mutinied at least once. Didn’t work. We lived.

My parents quit too--divorce. College was a family thing and it became my thing too, except that I didn’t understand how much work any success requires at the adult level of the game of life. Didn’t work.

I lived. The silver lining is that like many people I’m stubborn about surviving and finding ways to rescue myself—-with a little help—-from both self-inflicted and Capitalism-inflicted failure and doom and gloom.

The San Francisco version of Economic Doom And Gloom 101 and the Budget Ballet of Horror (you know what I mean—-ballet is at least as mysterious as opera without a guide who speaketh the language), the Gavin Newsom Show—-with or without Stimulating Stimulus Stuff to Stymie Sticker Shock and Giant Sucking Sounds—-makes bouncing back from demolition, disruption, despair, doom and gloom, so much tougher than it has to be.

I’m reminded of what it was like to be homeless in San Francisco in 1989 and 1994. Gavin Newsom has re-set the computer clock back to the Bad Old Days that got us the Gospel of Social Services According to Frank Jordan, Art Agnos and other Patron Saints of Not Allowing The Dirty Horrible Aggressive Panhandlers And Other Bad Poor People To Spend Our Tax Money The Same Old Same Old Way blah blah blah alakazam alakazotz Care Not Cash not lots of care and cash not lots.

The only difference is now all the shelters that exist (which, of course, aren’t enough) are linked by computer, and all the shelters that exist are under the thumb of you-know-who and the staffs of all the shelters that exist are so demoralized and overworked (remember that word “decimation” from “Who’s Budget? Our Budget!”?) they don’t have much reason to accurately count empty vs. full beds—-so we have a constant low-intensity-conflict war of words over beds and people wanting to fill them often don’t.

Part 2: Us!

In 1989 and 1994 I wandered the streets with crews of homeless friends met by happy accident until I respectively left town and decided I’d had enough “vacation time” the hard way and it was time to do what I had to do to get employed, housed, etc. Several times in ’94 it seemed like my bed for the night would be cold concrete except for 10 or 11p.m. late night luckiness for me and other folks leading to floor space at what is now Next Door Shelter.

The only time I’ve actually slept out was one night in some bushes in a park in Denver, CO, after a friend of a homeless friend went Mini-Me Incredible Hulk on us for some reason probably having to do with alcohol, and destroyed the door of his apartment we’d been hoping to crash in for the night.

by Staff Writer

“Redemption? Who is being redeemed? And who is doing the redeeming?"
Gloria Esteva, migrant, poverty scholar in residence, recycler/worker
and reportera de Voces de Inmigrantes en resistencia at POOR Magazine
looked at me sarcastically as we sat with a large group of poverty
scholars and staff writers from POOR Magazine in the 1st
congregational church of Oakland at a showing sponsored by the Poverty
Truth Commission of The Graduate Theological Union to view the new
movie, Redemption, by Amir Soltani.

Gloria’s plaintive question synthesized many of the feelings of anger
and depression that were lodged in my heart and throat after the 20
minute film finished--lodged so deeply that I was unable to speak in
the few minutes of Q& A with Amir after the film before an oddly timed
break where most of the audience departed, never to hear the voices of
the recyclers in the film, the revolutionary lawyers from Homeless
Action Center (HAC) and POOR Magazine’s poverty and worker scholars
who talked about a proposal to decriminalize recycling and support the
recyclers as independent contractors.

Redemption, the movie, is focused on the recyclers (read: workers from
POOR Magazine’s perspective) located in West Oakland, ground zero of
gentrification in Amerikkka. Once a thriving Black community
reminiscent of the Harlem renaissance, in the 1950’s, West Oakland’s
thrival was bled away by a seemingly city-sponsored decimation
program: the easy access to liquor licenses. By the 1980’s, between
the government sponsored access to crack, alcohol and lack of economic
opportunity, the area and its residents were in deep poverty. It was
called Blight. This Blight made it accessible for the default
gentrifyers, the white, middle-class art school students, to people in the
bombed out lofts and industrial property because it was cheap and easy
to afford.

by Staff Writer

Krip-Hop Nation, Art-In-Action & the University of California at Berkeley bring you the first ever panel/performance event highlighting two upcoming movements in Hip-Hop: Krip-Hop (Hip-Hop by artists with disabilities) and Homo-Hop (Hip-Hop by artists who are queer). "Diversifying Hip-Hop: Krip-Hop & Homo-Hop" will be held on Saturday April 11th

BACKGROUND

Hip-Hop has a rich expressive history, and at the same time it is now heavily commercialized. Who defines Hip-Hop? Who controls what its image will be? This program explores two emerging offshoots of the Hip-Hop movement, "Krip Hop" and "Homo Hop." Bringing together academics, performers and community activists, the event will explore these sub-cultures, gathering leading figures from both cultural phenomena to examining their place within Hip-Hop culture(s) and their invitation to a more diverse audience. The goal of "Diversifying Hip-Hop: Krip-Hop & Homo Hop" is to bring the margins front and center, to expose the struggle of difference, as has always been the legacy of hip-hop.

"Diversifying Hip-Hop: Krip-Hop & Homo Hop" will consist of a showing/discussion of two documentary films, Kathleen Kiley's "Halfasoulja" and Alex Hinton's "Pick Up The Mic: The Revolution of Homohop"; live performances; and a panel of speakers.  Artists and speakers will be coming from as far as Atlanta, GA., New Mexico, Houston, TX, and Los Vegas and as close to home as the San Francisco Bay Area.  Performers include George "Tragic" Doman, the King of Handicap-Hop; King Montana, who is the first quadriplegic Hip-Hop artist to secure a global distribution deal with DEKA Records and his song, and video, "Freedom Fighter" will appear in an upcoming documentary, "Cycle of Life" with Carlos Santana, Miss Money, who is in the documentary "Pick Up The Mike: The Revolution of Homohop" and who has a radio show in Houston;  NaR, a queer Arab hip hop crew of Oakland, CA;  Deadlee of LA., who was recently featured in the LA Times, talking about the rise of Homo-Hop; Juba Kalamka, who served as curator/director of PeaceOUT World HomoHop Festival from 2002-2007, an event featured heavily in Hinton's "Pick Up the Mic"; and more leading voices of both movements.
 

The moderators of the event will be Khalil Amani, the author of "Hip-Hop Homophobes,." who bills himself as a spiritual advisor to gay hip-hop, and Leroy F. Moore Jr., founder of the Krip-Hop Project and community relations director of Sins Invalid.
 

"Diversifying Hip-Hop" is sponsored by the Disability Studies Program, the Division of Arts and Humanities, the Departments of Art Practice, Theater Dance & Performance Studies, Katherine Sherwood's Art, Medicine & Disability class and African Diaspora Studies at U.C. Berkeley. The organizers also acknowledge the support of Poor Magazine, Turf Unity, Homo-Hop Radio and the Doreen Townsend Center Working Group for Hip-Hop Studies at UCB.
 

by Staff Writer

"I need to see your license and registration," It seems like such a simple question, a routine traffic stop I think it's called. Just another tool of the Criminal UN-justice in amerikkka. So why was I consumed with terror? Why did flashes of grey steel and 18th century locks, urine stained wooden benches and holding cells the size of someone's smallest closet flood every inch of my terrorized brain. Why did my mind go to suicide, homicide or at best, fraud, anything, but go back to jail or more crimes of poverty.

Me and my houseless mama were barely existing in the fringes of Oakland at the time. It was 10:00 pm and we were driving around trying to find somewhere to park and sleep for that night.

The deaths of Lovell Mixon at a routine traffic stop, and the four humans who were part of an ongoing military occupation of Oakland brought back this and several other acts of po'lice terror perpetrated on me, my mama almost all of the other POOR Magazine/PNN staff writers for the sole act of being houseless, poor and of color in Amerikkka.

I did lie to the cops that night and ended up getting an 18 month jail sentence which was later reduced to 18 months probation due to the extremely revolutionary lawyering of an attorney who advocated for poor folks. That said, even with my "lie" our car was seized, I was taken to jail for the 4th time that year, leaving my disabled mama on the street as I was dragged away.

There is constant talk about the fact that Lovell was a "parolee", an ex-offender, a criminal, this knowledge always added to the corporate media stories about the case, seemingly as a way of rationalizing that Lovell's death was less important than the officers who died. This is odd, I thought, considering the murder of three job holding Oscar Grant, whose only crime was coming home from a party on New Years Eve and being African Descendent. Strange that Oscar didn't get flags woven at half mast, a visit from Schwarzenegger and a multitude of corporate media pieces about the histories of genocide by the perpetrators (po'lice) who killed brother Oscar.

The prison industrial complex has created militarized zones out of our communities of color and poor communities leading to the rise in the murder of youth and elders alike everyday. Consider the case of 73 year old, disabled, African Descendent elder, Bernard Monroe of Homer, Louisiana, shot dead earlier this month on his own porch at a family barbeque by white po'lice officers (read: military). His only "crime" was being black, alive and living in racist Amerikkka, in a militarized zone called, "a poor neighborhood."

People have told me not to be so angry, to come with love for everyone, I'm not sure im able to do that, as long there continues to be an undeclared war/attack being perpetrated on poor people of color all across Amerikkka. I don't know what was going on in Lovell's mind, but it has been said that he was afraid to go back to prison and I, for one have been that afraid, more than once.

by Bruce Allison and Thornton Kimes/Facilitator

Now that the Stimulus package (Federal Medical Assistance Percentages) has reached San Francisco, the 50%-on-the-dollar that comes back from the Federal government for Medi-Cal, MediCare and all other gov’t funding was raised to 75%. San Francisco got $100 million extra from that. Only 2 City Departments are using it to cover losses incurred by the budget deficit.

The Department of Public Health is spending the money for Director Mitch Katz’ pet private projects, none that will help low-income people (with or without disabilities) get health care. The San Francisco General steam-powered back-up power generator breaks down once a week--a huge part of the disaster that the “Big One,” the next big earthquake that we keep hearing is going to happen in our lifetimes in the Bay Area.

All records of SF General patients could be lost because the database for the whole city is in a building that hasn’t been retrofitted to survive temblors more powerful the the 1989 shaker that burned down some of the Marina District. Katz and Mayor Gavin Newsom consider the F-MAP money a one-time gift from the government that they can use as they see fit.

The Department of Adult Aging and Disability programs are trying to cover their budget cuts with this money, and improve services were they can. Helping Seniors and/or folks with disabilities receive food, shelter and adult day health care is their job. Director Anne Hinton’s priorities are for the neediest people her department serves, not Newsom’s interests.

The Dept. of Human Services Director, Trent Rhorer, is keeping his lips zipped because he hasn’t figured out how to use the money and may be tempted to continue dealing with his duty to low and no-income citizens Newsome’s way. Stay tuned to the Bruce Channel for more on this and other budget-related news.

by Marlon Crump/PNN

Wow, I thought to myself, I just purchased some groceries, and I hadn't even gotten past the security monitor checkpoint, and here was a supermarket employee profiling me!

In the aftermath of my near-death police brutality experience surrounding "racial profiling" and even "class profling" by a dozen members of the San Francisco Police Department on October 7th, 2005 at 11:50 p.m, I felt that I wouldn't be "profiled" by any law enforcement official ever again or at least in this lifetime.

Thus far, I have not had any problems with law enforcement officials. It's fair to say that people are profiled by other people 24/7, not just from people of the law enforcement persuasion.

Given my years of unrelenting efforts towards raising vast public awareness of police abuse, racial profiling, unwarranted actions into poor people's housing with my voice/attendance to the S.F Police Commission, writing stories for POOR, filing a civil action (as my own attorney) against the City of San Francisco, and even going to the S.F Police Academy last year to motivate the youth recruits to deter from such actions; I figured that all forms of "profiling" was now dead............at least for me.

Unfortunately, the death of "profiling" was reincarnated. It descended upon me on a fairly warm and nippy-like March 21st, 2009 on a 12:50 p.m. Saturday afternoon from an unlikely source..................... a supermarket employee who was "acting security."

FOODS CO, a supermarket part of a network grocery chain located at 1800 14th/Folsom St (just a ten minute walking distance from where I live) has been a significant food chain for people in poverty to purchase relatively affordable groceries.

Many customers, (including myself) have depended on FOODS CO, for quite some time now, to keep their food prices relatively low to satisfy poor people's budget, at some degree.

Right after the illegal October 7th, 2005 S.F.P.D raid in my Single Room Occupancy Hotel, I went to FOODS CO to operate my food stamp card to get just enough food to satisfy the hunger pains in my stomach, as well as to the shock of my conscience of nearly losing my life to a dozen cops over "mistaken identity."

I walked into FOODS CO to satisfy those same similar hunger urges I had back then. What I did NOT anticipate was for similar shock consciousness (mental elements from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) to resurface in light of that deep, dark fateful October 2005 night. Only this time, there weren’t going to be any deadly firearms to be pointed at me, by police officers:

Today, the ignorance of an employee was pointed at me, as a possible shoplifter!

I glanced at the construction renovations that were taking place, outside the store as I approached the entrance. Walking inside the store was like passing through a mini tunnel, due to the outside construction. This was somewhat of an inconvenience to the shoppers, because this was both the ENTRANCE and EXIT, temporarily.

The night before, I was told by a cashier that typically works the evening shift that the store would be closed for most of the week. FOODS CO was getting a "face lift" according to the flyer he handed to me.

This supermarket was always packed with customers, sometimes even at night where there weren't alot of cashiers.

I looked around various store aisles to determine what kind of food would make my heart content for the day. "Hi, do you need help with something?" an employee asked. "Oh no, I'm fine, but thank you." I replied, with a warm smile. I knew him from my frequent store visits, and he was always customer courteous.

After packing my basket with a pack of hotdogs, a can of chili with beans, a loaf of bread, a gallon of fruit juice and two cans of beer, I headed to the express checkout line. Fortunately for me, the line was very slim, and I only had a five minute wait.

"Your total is $6.35, please." said a FOODS CO cashier--a young Latino man, with short low-cut black hair, wearing square-rimmed glasses. I reached into my wallet, took out six dollars, and gave it to him along with 35 cents. He quickly gave me my receipt and tended to the other customer.

I packed my groceries into one shopping bag, doubling them to ensure strong quality, and began to head out the entrance/exit.

I was just barely a foot away from the store's security checkpoint scanner, when out of nowhere, a short middle-aged Latino woman, wearing a green apron bearing her employee FOODS CO I.D., stopped me literally dead in my tracks. It was as if she was Wonder Woman or Supergirl poised against her prey, though I was hardly the villian.

"I need to see your receipt and check your bag."

My jaw tried to drop to the ground, but it knew I was too shocked to pick it back up, so it stayed where it was. Why did this employee even stop me before I even went through the security monitor checkpoint scanner?

Three years, counting every single hour, minute, second, day, week, daylight savings time, spring, summer, fall, and winter. Counting every single food stamp transaction, cash transaction, A.T.M/Debit card. Three years, counting good days, bad days, depressed days, stressed days, emotional days, sick days, alive and well days.

Three years, I have NEVER had ANY problem at FOODS CO, with its employees, and/or store management. The employees gave me respect, and I gave it back to them in return. Some of the managers delivered warm smiles, and I returned the exact same smiles. Even the store security guards gave me respect, with a friendly nod, and I also returned the same.

Three years, and none of that began to matter! Today on March 21st, 2009 at approximately 12:50 p.m. my humility and reputation were in the danger of being shattered. The uncomfortable feeling that you're being treated as if you did something wrong (even though you had not) grasps your dignity and humility.

"Look at this. I don't see beer on the receipt."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't see it on your receipt."

"That's kind of strange, because everything that I had on the checkout belt should've been rung up," I replied. I showed her on the receipt where it said "Age Verification Bypassed" which indicates that a customer has purchased an alcoholic beverage or a tobacco product, without having to show their I.D.

Unfortunately for me, it was revealed that there was only one beer sale listed on the receipt. Rather than get into a heated argument exchange with her and cause a scene, I suggested that we both go confront the cashier who rung up my items.

I followed her over to the appropriate cashier. He nodded to her that he did ring up all my items, until he studied the receipt further. "Uh, no, I only charged you for one beer and not the other."

Then came the real shocker: "I didn't see you with two beers, only one was on the counter." My eye lids perched upwards like a hawk, as I was surprised by his words.

"What!" I exclaimed. "That's strange, because I placed all of my items from my basket onto this belt. You scanned all of my items. I come through your checkout lines a lot and this never happened before. How could you have missed this one beer, when it was with my other items...........on the counter?!"

The cashier coldly looked away from me, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that he might have errored, irresponsibly. If he would've said, "I'm sorry, I must have forgot to scan it through." Then I would have at least understood, because everyone makes mistakes. He didn't want to appear to have been doing his job improperly, so he shifted the blame towards me.

Even so, what ever happened to the cardinal consumer rule that "customers are always right?" I guess it didn't apply to me, today.

Three f@#%$king years!

After a few brief back and forth exchanges, I ended up paying for the beer, which I had absolutely no problem doing in the first place. Why wouldn't I? I'm not a thief, and I always pay for my items. But from what I was understanding it clearly from the cashier, he was implying that I must have snuck the beer from underneath his "radar." Buy one, steal one free?

I shot them both an angry glare and asked them for the store manager. They referred me to another cashier who called the manager on the store intercom. As I waited, I alerted my comrades on my own phone to what was taking place.

The manager, a short heavy-set Caucasian woman with blond hair and slim dark streaks came from upstairs to talk to me. I politely explained to her what was going on. As heated as my temper was, I refused to lose my composure. I thought that she would've been more understanding to this situation. Something in her pupils told me a different story.

As a spiritual person having been prone to people's various levels of energy, negative and positive, I immediately got the feeling that she did not believe a word that came out of my mouth. When she started talking to me, her voice, eye contact, body language confirmed the vindictive attitude I received from her based on my observation(s) of her.

"He's already told me what happened. I believe his word over yours," she said. "He's worked here for quite a while, and I doubt that he would be making all of this up. Why are you complaining about an unpaid beer? It’s not like it’s free." Tricia then took the "undetected" beer out of my bag, and was getting ready to put it back, until I told her that the cashier had just charged me for it.

"Where's the receipt?" she asked. I searched both of my pockets, and my bag that contained my groceries. I realized that amidst this madness, either the cashier or the woman that stopped me must have kept it. Now I only had the second receipt he gave me, verifying that I had just paid for the second beer. I showed it to her.

There have been many terms that define the term "profiling." One of them in recent years is "Shopping while Black" which gives a definition to African Descent customers when they walk into an average consumer business, such as a shopping mall, a grocery store, a department store, a liquor store and even a restaurant, and are harassed because of their descent.

Yes, it's important to acknowledge the existence of criticisms, "Oh that can happen to anyone, regardless of skin color." (Which is very true) However, statistics, reports, surveys and especially history itself, has proven time and time again that black people are always the most watched than any other race in the world.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been immune to the problems, speaking from SO many experiences, as a young African-Descent man.

This is especially true if there are black shoplifters caught and subsequently, there becomes a red alert on many black shoppers because of that one or two that were caught stealing. Notwithstanding, what a person wears also gives off the wrong signals, judgments and assumptions. These are the attributes that lead up to "profiling" and "racial profiling" via "shopping while black."

You can tell if you're being "profiled" or "singled out" when as soon as you walk into any kind of merchandise store, along comes an employee who decides to follow you around, or asks "If they can help you" barely giving you a minute to even shop for an intended item.

Even singers, celebrities and performer have encountered "profiling" incidents committed by store employees and cop........................that is until the profiling perpetrators recognize who they are.

The manager wanted to see both receipts. While I kept asking her to go ask the cashier to get confirmation, she stared at me for a few seconds, indicating she still didn't believe me. The reasons the manager had for not believing me were evident in her eyes.

The manager finally asked the cashier and he did confirm that I had JUST paid for it, so she then gave it back to me. Then I thought to myself, "Evidently I must have just paid for it, else what do I look like having a bag full of groceries, with only ONE receipt for ONE purchase?"

I argued that their store security cameras could ultimately validate all my claims. I suggested that we both could view the cameras. The manager's eyes flashed, and she sternly refused. "There is no way I am going to have you go upstairs and look at the camera!" I said that was fine by me.

"But I wanted to lodge a complaint against this store. I know you guys have complaint forms, and I want one."

The manager said that they didn't have any complaint forms. She wrote down the number to the corporate office, "Ralph's Food 4 Less" and gave it to me. I took the number from her, rolled my eyes at her then I walked out the entrance/exit past the Latino woman employee that stopped me, who was now wearing a skinny smirk on her face.

I quickly walked past her with a dirty look, shaking my head at her, as I departed from my former favorite supermarket, narrowly missing and dodging the incoming customers pushing their shopping carts.

Total embarrassment and humiliation, I was nearly put in a position where security could’ve sided with the store employees, if they would've been called on me. Even if he would've recognized me as a frequent customer, there is no question in my mind that he would've sided with them for the safety of keeping his job.

There's also no telling what could've taken place. A mere "misunderstanding" could've elevated into an unnecessary chaotic scene, where security personnel and cops could've been called on me, and who knows what could've transpired?

Three f@##king years down the drain, caused by three people's foolishness, resulting in the birth of my disinterest to continue my business at their store, and maybe in any of other FOODS CO stores, for that matter. No r-e-s-p-e-c-t FOR me, no c-h-e-c-k FROM me. Unbelievably unfair!

I'm a living testimony of "misunderstandings" and the effects it can have on someone. They nearly cost me my very own life. It's strikingly ironic that after my October 7th, 2005 S.F.P.D encounter, I went down to this very store before closing time, after being "racial profiled" about thirty minutes before. Here I was years later being profiled at a store, just a few adequate walking distance from my home, by an employee that apparently lacks security experience.

From where I see it, FOODS CO needs more than an outside "face lift" to attract more customers. The real plastic surgery should begin with spiritual surgery, with accountability to the characters of some of its employees and management.

The Ralphs/Food 4 Less Foundation to Donate Over $60,000 to African American Organizations as Part of Black History Month Program.

In recognition of Black History Month, The Ralphs/Food 4 Less Foundation will accept donations from customers throughout the month of February in more than 450 Ralphs, Food 4 Less (Southern California, southern Nevada, Illinois and Indiana), Foods Co, Bell Markets and Cala Foods stores.

All funds collected will be donated directly to African-American organizations with a focus on education, culture and heritage. Customers can support the Black History Month fundraising program by donating their spare change in specially marked collection canisters located at the checkstands in their neighborhood Ralphs, Food 4 Less, Foods Co or Cala/Bell supermarket.

http://www.prnewswire.com/cgi-bin/stories.pl?ACCT=105&STORY=/www/story/02-02-2005/0002944982

by Thornton Kimes/PNN

Introduction

This a To-Do List and more thoughts on the “Who’s Budget? Our Budget!” Battle of San Francisco. This is my rant and rave about the San Francisco version of the Culture War, one or two of the ways it is fought here.