Story Archives 2009

by Staff Writer

Practice conscious consumption by purchasing POOR Press publications and art created by youth, adults and elder poverty scholars in residence at POOR Magazine for the holidaze!

POOR Press is a revolutionary art and access project of POOR MAGAZINE aimed at creating access for silenced voices on issues of poverty, racism, disability, child abuse, welfare reform, the Prison Industrial Complex, houselessness, border fascism, gender oppression and media Injustice.

POOR Press is also an economic development project beginning with digital arts, creative writing and design education through POOR's Digital Resistance Program and then aimed at providing a micro-business opportunity for all the very low and no-income youth, adults and elder writers and artists of POOR Magazine.

WHEN: November 11, 7pm

WHERE: MODERN TIMES BOOKSTORE

888 VALENICA STREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94110

by Thornton X/PNN Poverty Scholar in residence

I want to write like Studs Terkel did for over 40 years. He more-or-less practiced Poor Magazine’s "I"-focused journalism, and knew how to get out of the way and let the experience of the people he interviewed speak to readers of books like: Working: People Talk About What They Do All Day And How They Feel About What They Do, and Race: How Blacks and Whites Think and Feel About the American Obsession.

No one knows Terkel’s interview style for his books, but he made editing and writing look easy; the mark of a great writer it looks like any idiot can do it! I know better. Writing is a discipline demanding daily dues paid up front. It is all too easy to Not Write, while the pen and keyboard are there, always ready to put my thoughts where someone else might read them.

Terkel was also a television pioneer and a survivor of the McCarthy-dominated 50’s television and radio blacklists, running a variety/interview show called Stud’s Place from 1950-1952, canceled after NBC tried to get him to sign a paper stating he was duped into signing petitions for progressive causes. Late in 1952 Terkel heard Woodie Guthrie singing on WFMT radio station in Chicago, he called and began a 45-year career there, essentially inventing the radio talk show and honing the "invisible interviewer" mode of editing found in his books.

There are many practitioners of that style, including my favorite, the Oakland, CA-based science fiction/fantasy/horror/mystery author interview/book review magazine called Locus.

Terkel’s tombstone epitaph is Curiosity Didn’t Kill This Cat. True, it drove him to live 96 good years, listening to everyone who would talk to him.

by Adrienne Aguirre/PNN Race, Poverty Media Justice Intern

Mire al fondo para español

one of the first things we learn to do
is move
its what we do

movement is embedded in our existence
strung on the chords of our DNA songs of resilience

SO AS WE EXIST
WE MOVE
SO WE CAN EXIST...
an excerpt from Migrant Movement a poem by freddy gutierrez

There’s something exhilarating about Halloween. The air is different, charged with an electric current, and this breathable voltage makes anything seem possible. Taking a deep breath, I’m filled with the feeling an all-or-nothing gambler gets when victory is imminent, despite all the odds. It is a day of transformation, where the janitor strolls the Embarcadero in Super Mario overalls, a restaurant worker struts by in checkerboard mod, and where victimized youth don the skeletal, war-painted faces of their ancestors to fight for the safety and wholeness of their families.

For these youth, Halloween doesn’t mean candy and frivolous costume parties; today, dressed head-to-toe in black, they simultaneously mourn and fight against the abuse inflicted by ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the agency that has been terrorizing their mothers and fathers and destroying their families.

Two brown, white, and black faces meet mine.

"Excuse me, do you know where the ICE protest is?" "Yeah, two blocks down that way, to your left," one of the skeletons tells me, her brown hand pointing me in the right direction. Thanking her, I move briskly towards Ferry Park.

ICE, formally known as the INS, is the government titan responsible for the devastation of brown families, arrest of immigrant mothers and fathers, and unspeakable brutality against impoverished labor under the guise of "gang control." Approaching Ferry Park, a shifting black mass overtakes the green. An army of black bodied skeletons, an ocean of black, brown, and white, slapping palms and patting backs, hums in rhythmic solidarity.

We form a circle on the green, a symbol of unity and wholeness. The emcee takes the mic, inviting stragglers to join the ranks of the resistance.

I hear a girl on the phone near me, "Yo, where my Frisco peeps at? They’re stuck on BART, they won’t let them through!"

Though outraged at the impediment of their youth allies, those present hardly seem surprised. Time freezes for a moment, faces searching other faces for a solution to this obstacle. The girl moves away from the circle, phone still perched on her ear.

The circle focuses.

"We didn’t cross the borders. The borders crossed us!"

"Abajo con ICE!"

"Que queremos? JUSTICIA! Cuando? AHORA!"

Five young men take center circle, carrying a large drum with them. A hundred fists thrust upward. The steady drumbeat lifts their voices into the autumn air. Listening, my mind drifts back, remembering the story of my father.

My father, a Political Science and Law professor in the Philippines, was stripped of his education upon arrival to the United States. Years of education and experience meant nothing in comparison to his brown skin, landing him a low-paying job as a paint carrier at a local mechanic shop. Recounting his experiences, he recalls not only his inadequate wages but also being the subject of psychological abuse.

"He pointed a loaded gun at you?!" I exclaimed.

The wealthy owner of the mechanic shop apparently felt the need to prove his manhood from time to time and, threatened by my father’s 6’1 presence, his dad became the target.

"My father’s brown skin proved a barrier throughout his search for employment, denying him access to the teaching jobs he loved; my dad was forced to adjust his resume, essentially dumbing himself down in order to obtain employment. He was always either overqualified or underqualified. His educational attainment and experience could not outweigh his immigrant status and brownness."

A cheer goes up from the crowd, bringing me out of my reverie.

"Who’s got the power? The youth have the power!"

"Who’s got the power? WE got the power!"

The youth have arrived, despite the efforts of law enforcement to detain them on BART. A new wave of energy washes over the resistance. The small park is overflowing now, generations strong against the injustices of ICE. The circle expands, welcoming the new additions to the movement. The mic travels from youth to youth, a common thread of justified anger and passionate dissent linking the beautiful words the youth offer their ancestors, mothers, and fathers. The mic listens intently, amplifying these sentiments for the rest of us to hear.

These words of power send us on our way, the march is beginning.

Faces press against the glass eyes of the concrete and steel giants looming over us on either side. Office workers point and whisper to each other as we wind down the streets of downtown San Francisco, a river of bodies rushing towards our final destination: the ICE building. This river teems with life, signs reading "MELT THE ICE!" held high, bobbing to the beat of the liberation.

"Ain’t no power like the power of the people ‘cause the power of the people don’t stop!"

Espanol Sigue:

una de las primeras cosas que aprendemos a hacer
es mover
es lo que hacemos

movimiento está incrustado en nuestra existencia
ensartado en los acordes de nuestra DNA

Canciones de la Resistencia

Existimos
Realizando movimientos
Para poder existir ...
……un extracto de Movimiento de Migrantes un poema por Freddy Gutiérrez

Hay algo emocionante acerca de Halloween. El aire es diferente, cargado con una corriente eléctrica, transpirable y esta tensión hace cualquier cosa parecer posible. Tomando una profunda respiración, estoy llena de la sensación que obtiene un jugador cuando la victoria es inminente, a pesar de todas las probabilidades. Es un día de transformación, donde se ven trabajadores caminando por Embarcadero en overoles Super Mario, mesera de restaurante vestida de tablero mod, y donde los jóvenes víctimas se visten en trajes esqueléticas, la pintura de guerra en sus rostros honrando sus antepasados para luchar por la seguridad y la integridad de sus familias.

Para estos jóvenes, Halloween no significa dulces y fiestas frívolas de disfrazes; hoy, vestidos de cabeza a los pies de negro, honran sus ancestros y luchan contra los malos tratos infligidos por ICE, la agencia que ha estado aterrorizando a las madres y los padres para la destrucción de familias migrantes.

Dos caras cafes, una blanca y una negra se enfrentan a mí.

"Perdone, ¿sabe usted dónde es la protesta de ICE?"

"Sí, dos cuadras abajo esa direccion, a su izquierda," uno de los esqueletos me dice, su mano de color cafe me apunta en la dirección correcta. Agradeciendo a ella, paso rápidamente hacia Ferry Park.

ICE, formalmente conocido como el INS, es el titan del gobierno responsable de la devastación de las familias migrantes, la detención de inmigrantes de las madres y los padres, y de inenarrable brutalidad contra la pobreza laboral con el pretexto de justificacion de "control de pandillas". Acerco a Ferry Park, una masa de negro supera el parque verde. Un ejército de esqueletos de cuerpos negros, un océano de negro, marrón y blanco, protestando en una forma rítmica en la solidaridad.

Formamos un círculo en el campo, símbolo de la unidad y la solaridad. El emcee toma el micrófono, invitando a los rezagados a unirse a las filas de la resistencia.

Oigo a una chica en el teléfono cerca de mí, "Yo, adonde estan mi gente de Frisco? Están atrapados en BART, no les permiten pasar"

A pesar de su indignación por el impedimento de la joven y sus aliados, los presentes apenas parecieron sorprendidos. Tiempo se congela durante un momento, se enfrenta a otro y se enfrenta a la búsqueda de una solución a este obstáculo. La niña se aleja del círculo, teléfono encaramado en su oreja.

El círculo se centra.

"Nosotros no cruzamos la frontera. Las frontera nos cruzo a nosotros!"

"Abajo con ICE!"

"Que queremos? JUSTICIA! Cuando? AHORA!"

Cinco hombres jóvenes tomaron el círculo central con un gran tambor. Un centenar de puños empujaron hacia arriba. El constante ritmo ascenso sus voces en el otoño de aire. Escucho, mi mente se deriva atrás, recordando la historia de mi padre.

Mi padre, un profesor de Ciencias Políticas y Leyes en las Filipinas, fue despojado de su educación a su llegada a los Estados Unidos. Años de educación y la experiencia significaba nada en comparación con su piel morena, dando le un trabajo de bajo pago como transportista de pintura en un taller mecánico local. Recuento de sus experiencias, el recuerda no sólo su insuficiencia de los salarios, sino también ser objeto de malos tratos psicológicos.

"Señaló una arma cargada a usted?" Yo exclame.

El rico propietario de la tienda mecánica aparentemente sintio la necesidad de probar su hombría de vez en cuando por que se sentia amenazado por la presencia mi padre que media 6'1, mi padre se convirtió en el objetivo.

"La piel morena de mi padre hizo una barrera a lo largo de su búsqueda de empleo, negándole el acceso a la enseñanza de puestos de trabajo que amaba, mi padre se vio obligado a ajustar su resume, esencialmente olvidando sí mismo en el fin de obtener un empleo. Fue siempre demasiado calificado o no calificado . Su nivel de estudios y la experiencia no puede pesar más que su condición de inmigrante y su piel".

Una alegría sube de la multitud, con lo que me forzo fuera de mi ensoñación.

"¿Quién tiene el poder? Nosotros tenemos el poder!"

"¿Quién tiene el poder? Nosotros tenemos el poder!"

Los jóvenes han llegado, a pesar de los esfuerzos de la policia para detenerlos en BART. Una nueva ola de energía se lava más en la resistencia. El pequeño parque es desbordante ahora, las generaciones fuerte contra las injusticias de la ICE. El círculo se expande, acoge con satisfacción las nuevas incorporaciones a la circulación. El micrófono de jóvenes viaja a la juventud. Un hilo común de la justificada ira y la pasión que une el disenso y las bellas palabras de los jóvenes que ofrecen a sus antepasados, sus madres y padres. El micrófono escucha intensamente, amplificando estos sentimientos para que el resto de nosotros escuchemos.

Estas palabras de poder nos envio en nuestro camino, la marcha á comenzado.

Rostros de prensa contra el vidrio, los ojos gigantes del hormigón y del acero se ciernan sobre nosotros. trabajadores de oficina susurran el uno al otro como el viento por las calles del centro de la ciudad de San Francisco, un río de cuerpos creados en virtud de prisa hacia nuestro destino final: el edificio de ICE. Este río lleno de vida, los signos de lectura "Derritimos el ICE!" en alto, al ritmo de la liberación.

"No es ningún poder como el poder del pueblo porque el poder de la gente no se detiene!"

by Adrienne Aguerrre/Race, Poverty, Media Justice Intern

It was the first cold Sunday the Mission had seen in weeks. The bilingual
language of resistance, unrest, and revolution drifted down the escalator
shaft at the 16th and Mission BART station, causing me to quicken my
step.

How little things have changed.

Emerging from the station, I see a few familiar faces amongst the modest crowd of people gathered in the small square, all listening attentively to the woman speaking at the microphone. Signs screaming "Affordable housing,living wages, and universal healthcare!" in black ink titter above the
heads in the crowd, jittery before beginning the short march to 24th and
Mission. The white paper of the signs is just barely discernable against
the dirty white of the San Francisco sky.

The weather reads my mood, chilled, tense. I don't know these people, I
have never shared their experiences, and yet here I am, picket sign in
tow, in solidarity with the exploited masses. I, who have had healthcare,
housing, and enough to eat all of my life, joined this fight for justice
at the baby fat age of 12.
As a 12 year old, knowing absolutely nothing about modern art, I really
had no business wandering around SF MOMA that day.

What I saw, however,
and the immeasurable pain it caused me, has been etched into my psyche
ever since. I remember the exhibit, the words of suffering and anguish
scrawled across blood red walls next to the photos of their authors. People forced from their homes into desperate poverty, prostitution, and drug use, sleeping next to dumpsters on makeshift cardboard mattresses. They all watched me with hollow eyes as I read their apologies, their pleas for help, and their disappointed dreams.

We're marching now, past doorways where indigenous voices unite with our own, where chants of "Si se puede!" ring proud from all sides. These eyes are not hollow but tired: tired of being unappreciated, of working for slave wages, of being cast aside as a subhuman source of cheap labor. I
can feel the restlessness, the desire to march with us overpowered because
these workers are simply too strapped for cash.

It's Sunday but for these people, there is no such thing as a day of rest. Some marchers pause to say hello to the friends and family they protest for, giving them quick handshakes and warm embraces. Though few, we are loud, a single united voice marching along on centipede legs. Approaching
our destination, more familiar faces greet us, more tired eyes meet our
own. As the speaker from United Healthcare for Workers takes the mic, I
remember the messages of hopelessness and despair on the walls of SF MOMA.

Not here.

This kind of despair demands to be addressed. Here, the power lies in the
hands of the victims, where those who can't afford to be housed, to have healthcare, or even to take a day off from work to march on a Sunday can educate the public about what's really been going down. Karl Kramer, a
member of the SF Living Wage Coalition, described the rally as a "beginning," a "movement to overturn the current conditions." Bob
Offer-Westort, from the Coalition of Homelessness, put emphasis on unity,
pointing out that those without access to jobs and low-wage laborers are
affected by a lot of the same conditions and need to join forces in order
to effect change.

Ten years later, the depression has lifted. I no longer see those in
poverty as weak or powerless. I realize now, the artist's depiction of
the poor and homeless did them no justice; the artist responsible for the
exhibition in SF MOMA ten years past neglected to reveal the strength and
will to survive so necessary to those in poverty. It is precisely this reason why my presence is necessary at this rally, precisely why I choose to help the resistance. I am a person of privilege, yes, but this
immeasurable strength, this consequence of injustice, cannot be ignored.

by Leroy Moore/illin n chillin-PNN

Blind musicians who were once good musicians during their young days established the South African Disabled Musicians Association (SADMA) in 1997. The main reason for the formation was to assist young disabled musicians who can not get record deals and were left out of the music industry and could not participate in opportunities which the country offered for musicians e.g. music talent searches by big companies like Coca Cola. The organization caters to all people with disabilities and different genres of music. This interview is with Sam Nooge representing SADMA.

Krip-Hop: Give us some background of why Musicians with disabilities are discriminated against in the industry?

SADMA: People see disability before listening to the artist's music. As a result, people come to unfair conclusions about the artist. People with disabilities are kept outside their communities at a very early age and are placed in educational institutes that are for children with disabilities. They then grow in the environment where people see very little of them and later in life they are introduced to the community as complete strangers and every thing they present is considered inferior and of no value. Some of them in the process develop inferiority complexes. Maybe it is different in your country. There they do have an opportunity to mix with able-bodied artists due to communication and mobility. Music today is about artists who do more dancing than the actual singing. Unfortunately, most disabled people are not into dancing. Commercial recording studios are not user-friendly for artists with disabilities either.

Krip-Hop: Tell us more about your future goals?

SADMA: Our future goals are to improve and expand our recording studio so that we can accommodate more artists. To establish a commercial recording studio for purposes of business. To establish a music training facility. We want to train people with disabilities as sound engineers. To offer training in business skills and the music industry. To promote our musicians locally and internationally. To promote music festivals and concerts for people with disabilities locally and internationally. To acquire a mobile recording studio so that we can reach disabled musicians in the far away rural and poor areas of our country. To establish a radio station and television station for people with disabilities.

Krip-Hop: Have big musicians in South Africa and in the US helped you at all in your work?

SADMA: No. Big musicians in South Africa and in the United States of America have not helped us. I hope you will assist in talking to Americans like Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles Foundation, Teddy Pendergrass, etc.

Krip-Hop: Give us a view of what happened to music during apartheid?

SADMA: South African music was confined to South Africa and blacks could not play with or for whites and vice versa. Blacks could not perform in the well-equipped venues that were for whites only.

Krip-Hop: How do you reach an international audience and the youth?

SADMA: We have not been exposed to international audiences. It was a first when our artist Coach Matlawe performed in Beijing. Once the documentary that includes our organization is finalized, Coach and other overseas people with disabilities will inform you. The youth we reach through our music talent search for more artists with disabilities.

Krip-Hop: Have any of your artists traveled to the US?

SADMA: NO.

Krip-Hop: Has the government supported your work?

SADMA: Government has assisted us by creating a conducive atmosphere for recording people with disabilities and supporting our programs somewhat financially, although not sufficiently. We were expecting the government to help in marketing our artists and launching them locally and internationally.

Krip-Hop: Do radio stations in South Africa play your artists?

SADMA: NO.Projects we intend embarking on need huge financial resources. To be able to achieve our goals financial resources are needed. People who have financial resources can partner with us by contributing funds that will serve as capital and those people will be shareholders who will receive dividends once the business starts making profit. We are also in the process of raising funds and things are looking promising. Should our sponsors keep to their promises we shall soon be having our own premises with an additional recording studio and a video studio. It will then be a matter of raising cash to be able to run the organization professionally.

by Phil Adams/Race, Poverty, Media Justice Intern

I know what it is to be used by the government for the profit of a few corporations. Since I have become a veteran I learned the planes I flew in were from Lockheed Martin, weapons I used were from Colt-Remington, and the computers I used and soda I drank were procured from Haliburton. I have learned that the blood shed in Iraq was for the purpose of buying items from these corporations. At this point I believe that private corporations play more of a part in decision making within the government than the citizens do. With this corporate bail out I believe our country has transferred public finances to private hands and private debt onto the public.

It was around Ten o'clock in the morning when I showed up at the Mortgage Bankers Association's annual conference. I walked into Moscone Center and immediately felt out of place. The hall was empty with high white ceilings and empty booths. Bland colored banners with lame catch phrases and stock photos urging me to invest in real estate, obviously designed by a drowsy office worker somewhere only to be tossed into the dumpster the next day. I knew I stood out, the only people in the room were pale fat sixty year olds with saggy faces and business suits, six uniformed police officers, the hazy eyed brow beaten convention staff and me, a twenty something year old from Richmond in a leather jacket. Eventually one gray-haired convention staffer mustered up enough courage to ask me if I needed assistance. I saw him eyeing me through his thin-rimmed glasses. I took a breath and looked at him for a second knowing he was making minimum wage and probably coming on retirement age, the placard on his chest reading event staff made me want to ask him the same question. I told him I was interested in learning about the Mortgage Bankers Association. I must have touched some type of robotic knee jerk reaction for his occupation because he pointed me to the information desk and went back to standing at the door with his walkie-talkie. At this point I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere and I knew I was about to be asked to leave.

About an hour later the protest started. It was organized by A.N.S.W.E.R. SF. The reason I was there was to find information and do a little venting of my frustration. I knew that there was a corporate bail-out and I knew it had something to do with the mortgage industry. The whole time I was asking myself, why should we give money to corporations. Don't they have enough already? It was fairly cold that day--on the sidewalk the protestors formed a semi-circle off to the side of Moscone Center barely enough to fill the sidewalk. That's when the chanting started. Natalie Hrize stepped up on the two crates she was using as stage and shouted "jail them don't bail them!" We were loud, we were charged but unfortunately it seemed like there just weren't enough of us. I think the problem is not enough people know exactly what happened with the corporate bail out plan.

I recently attended a lecture by Dr. Jack Rasmus. He enlightened me to a few of the facts on what's happening on Wall Street and how the elites are furthering their war on the poor and working class of this nation. There isn't one direct cause of this economic downturn but there is an explanation behind it. It's pure and simple greed.
Politicians have been in the process of deregulating the banking and lending industry since the mid-90s. Basically they are putting fewer rules on how these guys trade and go about business, pretty much letting them make it up as they go along. The real problem started in 2002 when our fearless leader George W. Bush got together with Allan Greenspan to lower the federal interest rate to 1%. That means that the banks could borrow money from the government at a 1% interest rate. I wish I could get a loan at 1% interest, I guess I have to have a huge banking corporation first.

The reason behind this rate decrease was that Greenspan was on his way out and didn't care and our fearless leader needed to win an election and keep the illusion that everything is fine. During this brief rate decrease between 2002 and 2004 mortgage companies wrote 4 trillion dollars in mortgages and half of them were bad loans that they would not have written under normal circumstances. This made their companies look so good on balance sheets that they would sell stocks in their companies around the world. Other countries were investing in our market because it looked really good even though there were bad predatory lenders giving people houses knowing that they wouldn't be able to make payments. Eventually the federal interest rate went back to normal and it came to light that the people they convinced to take these loans would not and could not pay them.
The problem with the bailout is that it's like throwing money in the closet hoping the monster will go away. The bailout is based on a strategy called liquidity. That means if you give the bank some money they will lower the interest rates on these mortgages and people can stay in their homes and pay off these debts. That or possibly lend to other people honestly at a fair rate. Instead what they are doing is hoarding the bailout for their balance sheets serving their shareholders and investors. This is the systemic root of the problem.

There is a way to solve this problem. These companies don't need or deserve a Bail Out; we the people deserve a Bail Out. We need to reset all the rates to the way they were before 2002. This would alleviate the strain that a lot of people are feeling right now with high rates that these companies have imposed trying to save their own asses by screwing over everybody. That and instead of using tax money, the government needs to repatriate all those offshore tax shelters in the Caribbean and in Europe that these CEOs and investors have hid their stolen money at. Force these cowards to bail themselves out instead of profiting off of conning honest workers.

by Freddy Gutierrez

one of the first things we learn to do
is move
its what we do

movement is embedded in our existence
strung on the chords of our DNA songs of resilience

SO AS WE EXIST
WE MOVE
SO WE CAN EXIST

and the people moved
see how they liberated their bodies from structure
codifying migration techniques
in what can be identified
as stylistic individuality
creating their own language
bodyrock talk
mountain top vernacular
not speaking the king's GMO tongue

for their roots are grounded points of view
achievements of existence that branch out
stemming from philosophical shifts
moving in a way that moves us
so move out our way

move out the way
for we have always been a people of movement
since our pigment was one and the same
choreography the color of rubber and leather
on the tap dancing
huarachando
feet of a young child
bound on the balls that balance
bouncing crossing
an imaginary line in the sand
off the banks of El Rio Grande
or the West Bank
or the Mississippi

the people don’t dance for pennies,
never to reinforce borders
they dance they move
for movement is at the core of our universe
contracting
expansions of biological oratorio
the people move to dance personal expression
with a vocabulary of gestures
ushering urgency for an American dream beyond the currency

the people move
like barefoot tribes
with the names of our lineage lining
the souls of self sacrifice
the Rite of Spring

the people moved
before dance became acceptable in proper society
before they wanted our arms to pick their cotton
pull their weeds
and gather harvest that we planted

the people moved
presenting point of views
cultivating a world of hues
always reflecting the contemporary climate

the people moved
as an amalgam of who they descended from
with movement initiated with emotion
expressively from our own drive
and desire for a higher standard of living
for a safe place to make their children a true face

as sons and daughters
of marginalized migrant mothers and fathers
the adepts of motion,
this friday we'll move
with the moves they taught us
mobilizing the community

for this country has an ambivalent relationship to the body
motion sickness

but little do they know
that the only cure is to keep moving
and so
we MOVE
WE MOVE
WE MOVE

by Tony Robles/PNN

Ain't nothin' I can
say, nothin' I can do,

I feel so bad, yeah,
I feel so blue.

I got to make it right

for everyone concerned

Even if it's me, if it
means it's me what's
gettin' burned.

"So Very Hard to go"

Tower of Power

The faces glide across the pane glass window. They come into focus and just as quickly fade. I stand inside a department store on Market Street of which I am a security guard. It is 1990 and I am a man. I remember walking down this street with my Grandma. I remember Market Street bearing scars and pockmarks created by bulldozers and jackhammers. I didn’t know what was going on. I imagined riding the Muni bus and getting swallowed up by the ground. I’d ride the bus with my eyes closed until Market Street was in the distance. I was just a kid. I didn’t know that San Francisco was making way for the Bart system. I only knew that I didn’t want to be swallowed up.

I’m dressed in my polyester security guard uniform. I look out the window at the new shopping center that has risen out of the ground. It’s the new San Francisco Shopping Center and people flock to it as if it was a religious shrine. I look out the window. Shoppers come in and out and are being watched by the cameras on the ceiling—especially the black shoppers. I was in the loss prevention department. The plainclothes officers in the department carry badges and handcuffs. I carry the polyester on my back.

I was mad at the new shopping center across the street. I was mad at the engineers, the architects, the cement masons—all of them. I was mad at the entire structure and what it represented. I saw the big cars and the tourists and the business people and the young. I saw them walk through the swinging doors. I watched the houseless people watching the shoppers carrying bags as they left. I watched.

I remembered what was there before the mall. The Emporium Department Store stood there alongside smaller businesses. I used to go to the Emporium when I was a kid to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. On the roof were carnival rides. It was a magic place.

Even more magical was a place a few doors down. It was a Chinese cafeteria called Joe Jung’s. My grandmother used to eat there. We’d walk inside and grab a tray. I’d slide the orange tray across the rail, gliding past all kinds of delicious food; chow mein, fried rice, pork noodle soup, roast beef, turkey and my favorite, lime jello with fruit cocktail. Grandma wore colorful scarves and big sunglasses. She would pay for the food and we’d sit with other Filipino elders. Grandma would talk and laugh in Tagalog. I would listen and not listen at the same time. I was busy with my lime jello. The elders would laugh while I sat slurping at it.

I didn’t know it at the time but my grandmother’s friends were survivors. They were the manongs and manangs (Filipino word of respect for elders) who came to America in the early days. I watched them eat their rice. They would look at me and smile. I wondered what they were thinking. I imagined what they looked like when they were young. It would be years later that I would see their faces in black and white pictures in a book called Liwanag—a collection of Filipino-American writing whose pages talked about our resistance as Filipinos against those who would colonize our lands and our minds. The words were written by such writers as Al Robles, Oscar Penaranda, Serafin Syquia and Lou Syquia. I remember the laughter of my elders at Joe Jung’s.

I stood looking at the San Francisco Center. I refused to go there. People told me of the massive floors and the circular escalator but I couldn’t have cared less. I still heard the laughter of my elders and the smell of chow mein and the sound my plastic tray made as it slid along the rail. I wondered what became of the elders. I wondered if the shoppers knew what had once stood in its place. I wondered what the shoppers stood for. I wondered if they would care.

© 2008 Tony Robles

by RWS

Time Warp

He wears a white

T shirt with a

Gold chain dangling

From his neck

Calls everybody

Homey, even the

White guys

Carries a mini

Boom box

Radio

He’s 44 years old

And has never

Held a job

He had a bad

Car accident that

Left him disabled

He now works in a

Warehouse heat sealing

Cellophane packages
courtesy

Of a job training
program

It’s his first

Gig

but his real job

Is recording cassette

Tapes

He calls them

“mix tapes”

He has all

The slow jams

From 30 years ago

He sell ‘em for

2 dollars a pop,

sometimes 3 for

5 dollars

He talked me into

Buying 2 tapes

The other day

I didn’t have the

Heart to tell him that

I don’t listen to
cassettes

Anymore

I gave it up

About 10

Years ago

All my music

Is on CD’s now

But I keep it

To myself

Guys like him

Are just like

Good music

They never go

Out of

Style

© 2008 RWS

by Tony Robles

I was a kid when my father threatened to “ship my ass off to military school”--a threat that has been used by so many parents for so long that it is now cliché; even comical. But to my 10 year old mind, the idea of getting shipped to military school scared me. My father thought that scaring me with military school would make me disciplined. He wanted me to wake up early and eat all the food on my plate and get good grades. My grades were average and I had trouble getting out of bed. As for eating all the food on my plate, I did because—if I didn’t—he’d “knock me upside my head”. The military school threat was merely part of his disciplinary arsenal.

A few days before the election I saw you on the corner of Fulton and Funston Streets holding signs in favor of Prop V—which called for the reinstatement of JROTC to San Francisco high schools. I was riding my bike home from work. I saw your faces—all Asian, all young. I had seen your faces before in the faces that I had seen in JROTC when I was a student at George Washington High School nearly 30 years ago. We were full of energy and we wore our JROTC uniforms for various reasons—my reason was to get out of PE—I didn’t want to “mess up my hair”. Others were involved for various reasons—patriotism, to explore what the military might be like, etc. I too wore that uniform.

You probably thought I was yelling and I was. In these times it’s difficult to be heard—to get your point across when there’s so much misinformation out there. I looked at your faces knowing that you were doing what you thought was right. Your parents probably think that JROTC is a good thing—something that instills discipline and builds character. Perhaps your parents are immigrants, which make it even harder.

I stopped to talk (and yell) at you because you are our young people, not the military’s. When I told you that we need you, I truly meant it. We need you much more than the military. In this American culture of independence, we are taught to be separate from our elders, from our community. This is something we need to fight. I had said that you should have been standing on the corner with signs urging the passage of Prop B—which would have given millions of dollars to build affordable housing in San Francisco; housing that is needed for our elders, the disabled and low income people—many of whom are immigrants who work two and three jobs to just to survive. I told you we needed you—we still do.

We need your energy to fight for affordable housing for San Franciscans. We need you to walk with our elders and hear their stories. We need you to help our elders carry the rice and the fish to their rooms and guide them across the street in the blind madness of traffic that says that we must be concerned for only ourselves and not our elders and our commmunity. We need you to sit and laugh with our elders over a plate of rice that you’ve helped carry over that myth called the American dream. We need you to sit and listen to their dreams and see your dreams in their faces and stories. We need you to stand with us—on our side.

Prop V won and prop B lost. We need you.