Story Archives 2009

by Adrienne Aguirre/PNN

American hands pry into other nations, wagging their fingers at all colonization that isn't their own. In this transparent pretense of a post-imperialist world, the United States insists on preaching against the evils of non-democratic states when back home, true democracy is myth. As American resources are funneled out of our country to aid the United States' reconstruction of countries abroad that have been continually raped by American greed, closer to home, the 500 year old colonization of the indigenous people of North America goes overlooked and unaddressed.

Before Israel vs. Palestine, before the injustice in Gaza, the Indigenous peoples of North America were robbed of their homeland by white colonizers who decided that they had to commit mass, systematic murder instead of sharing the land peacefully with its rightful owners. Since then, the Indigenous people from North America have been forced to inhabit the 3rd world corners of the United States, perpetually constricted and relocated due to the ever-homeland-shrinking policies of the US government. The lands of their ancestors, the sacred sites where spirits once thrived, have fallen victim to libidinal greed. These sacred sites that once held the legacy of the culture and spirituality now lie in ruins as golf courses or made to bleed uranium for money hungry miners.

Today, new oppressors have joined forces with the old. These oppressors bear the same faces, have the same blood coursing through their bodies and face the same burdens as their victims but greed has infected their vision. Now, for the love of money, they have systematically been executing cultural genocide upon their own people. It is called disenrollment. With the Indian gaming industry raking in billions of dollars every year, it's disturbing that Indian universities lay in ruins. D-Q University, the only Indian university in California and the site of the Longest Walk”the historic event that basically paved the way for casino development in 1978, is direly underfunded while the Indian gaming industry in California alone generates billions in revenue each year. We've all seen the casino commercials, heard the claims that the money generated from these resorts goes towards helping the community ; what isn't stated is that the community mentioned doesn't seem to include indigenous people, doesn't care to invest in their education. On top of that, while the vast majority of Indian gaming occurs on either coast, all Indian universities, with the sole, extremely underfunded exception of D-Q University, lie between coasts. So where is all this supposed community funding going?

With rampant classism amongst the Indigenous people, resulting from the greed generated by the gaming industry, casino owners on tribal councils feel that it is necessary to strip the citizenship of certain tribal members, effectively deciding who is and who isn't Indian. One of the main reasons this is coming up now is because these leaders controlling our tribal nations today are sellouts, said Quanah Brightman, VP of United Native Americans. We have had illegal occupation over here [in the United States] for 500 years but no one cares because of these casinos. The people who control most of the money aren't even Native American!

As more and more tribe members are disenrolled and disenfranchised, the Indian movement to preserve what's left of Indian sacred sites is divided and ultimately weakened.

On February 5, 2009, United Native Americans will demonstrate in at the Capital in Sacramento, CA. We want to give platform to the Indian movement, for our demonstration to call to thousands of people nationwide who have been disenfranchised, disenrolled, and hurt by our leaders who have basically sold us out. We want to expose them for what they are and we want to put an end to disenrollment. We want to build our tribal colleges and invest in our healthcare education and our general well-being, Brightman said in closing.

by RWS

Uncle Anthony always said funny things. When he coughed he coughed up words, names, dates and visions, some of which were wrong but somehow always right. Uncle Ant is my father's younger brother. Dad named me after him. Uncle Anthony is fearless, never afraid to say what's on his mind aloud for anybody to hear. I wish I were fearless.

Uncle Ant, tell me that story

He had a thousand stories, some untold. He had a way of getting names wrong but in his unintentional wrongness made the names better, gave the mundane some spice, the murderer a shard of laughter. He once related to me a story about a man responsible for the deaths of millions of people in Southeast Asia. He was the top dog in the country's ruling party. What's his name? I asked my uncle.

"Pot Pie"

"Pot who?"

"Pot Pie. That cat slaughtered millions of folks, a real son of a bitch. They even did a movie about him. I think was called "A killing in the cane fields" or something like that".

I sit as my uncle described the torture, the suffering. His eyes dampened in the dark glow of his living room. He shook his head and poured a drink. I sat near his conga drum near the wall. He'd just gotten it out of the pawnshop. It ached for my uncle's touch. My uncle poured brandy into a glass, making the ice crackle and melt. As he spoke my internal voice started a monologue:

No Uncle Ant, the man's name wasn't Pot Pie, it was Pol Pot. And the movie was called, "The Killing Fields", there wasn't any reference to sugar cane in the title. You always get the names wrong--always. Oh no? Remember Saddam Hussein, when he got captured? You phoned me in the middle of the night, your voice wrought with urgency, as if a relative had just committed suicide. You said, "Man, they just caught Sadat! Found him in a rat hole under the ground. The Americans got his ass now". I thought to myself, there you go again, butchering the names; it's not Sadat, it's Saddam. Sadat was the president of Egypt who was assassinated, shot dead through 14 layers of security. He's been dead almost 30 years, remember?

Uncle Ant sits next to me. He still looks young, like he did in the 70's. The dim light falls upon his skin, the color of sweet coffee. His eyes are small and see the smallest things. He never ran from a fight, or a mirror. I look around the room. Pictures of black and brown people blanket the walls. Everywhere you look there is a face in a picture. There is a picture of Jesus on the wall. He's black too.

"Come on Uncle Ant tell me that story again"

He puts down his glass.
"Ok, this is what happened. I was about 25 or 26. It was 1968 or 69. Anyway, I was in my prime, solid. I had 16-inch arms, narrow waist. I was in shape, weighed 135. I could move too. When I was a kid I used to knock dudes out twice my size. Bing! I'd lay 'em out with either hand, lay 'em flat out. One time I got into a hassle with this motorcycle dude, some kind of Hells Angel. He cuts ahead of me in the line at the liquor store. I was polite. I said, excuse me but I was here before you. The guy just smiled and put his beer on the counter."

"What did you do?"

"I lit him up. It was a beautiful right hand to the jaw. He flew across the counter. That was the way I was back then. I grew up with black and brown warriors--blacks and Filipinos back in the 50's and 60's. Anyway, after I knocked that guy out I went out to the park by the lake. I was never into drugs, you know, not heavily anyway. My friend Dave gave me some LSD, some acid you know. He told me it would give me wisdom if I took it, that it would open up my mind, some kind of bullshit like that. So, I dropped that acid, put it on my tongue. I'm sitting there looking out at the lake and all of is peaceful when things start breathing."

"Breathing?"

"Yeah man, the leaves were breathing. I could see the cells of the leaves and the liquid pulsating like blood. I said, damn what's this all about? I looked at the ground and it was covered in diamonds and gold. It was beautiful like some kind of palace. I was just looking at it all, going with it. Didn't feel like knocking anybody out either. I just felt love, you know, the way you're supposed to feel. The air was nice and cool like I could drink it. I got up and started walking."

"What happened then?"

"I felt like a king walking on golden streets heading home. I walked for a few minutes when I saw a black man and an Asian lady. They looked normal, the way a black man and an Asian lady should look. Then I saw a white man and I almost shit my pants."

"What did the white man look like?"

"He looked like a clown! He had a face that was red, white, yellow, blue. He had a rainbow colored wig on his head. I started laughing. I kept walking and I kept seeing more white people. They all looked like clowns out of the circus, their heads looked like balloons, one of the heads even popped! I'd stop and look at them and laugh. They looked at me like I was crazy. I even saw a cop. His face looked like one of those droopy clowns of the 1950's. I looked at him and I couldn't stop laughing. The cop looked at me hard. It's not a crime to laugh. He wanted to beat me, I could tell. I've survived that in the streets, you know. I keep walking and stop by the liquor store. There's this white dude who works at the register, a chickenshit kind of racist, always looking at me funny but he gives me credit so he ain't all bad. That dude looked like a clown too! I never laughed so hard in my life. The man just looked at me and asked me if I was high on drugs. I was high on life but I didn't bother telling him that."

"What happened after that?"

"I went home. I got to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I wasn't no clown, that's for damn sure. That was a long time ago, I can't believe how long it's been, thirty years? Clowns come in all colors. I've been around them all my life, the bosses especially. All clowns. I never touched LSD since. You don't need no LSD to see clowns all over. That was the last time I ever saw gold in the street."

Uncle Anthony and I sit in silence for a while looking at all the black and brown people on the wall. Finally he breaks his silence.

You know, I found God--I mean, he found me. He talks to me. It was never really about color, man. When you die do you think God's going to ask you what color you were down here on earth?

Uncle Anthony looks at the pictures on the wall then at me. The ice in my glass has melted. My uncle gets up and grabs his conga drum. He takes a sip of brandy. He tells another story. With his hands this time. And again I listen.

by Phil Adams/PNN

Up Against the Wall Motherfucker is the story of how a man made the transformation of privileged Jewish college student attending Columbia University to a civil rights attorney working in South Berkeley and all the birth pangs that go with it. Most of story is concentrated on Osha's days as a "MotherF*cker" living in slums of New York in the 60's fighting for ideals that nobody had a complete grasp of yet. The honesty with which Osha writes about his feelings and beliefs at that time is truly inspiring. It was obviously a confusing time not only for himself but for the country in general, as it seemed the whole nation was trying to figure out which way to go. I think Osha did a good job capturing the feeling and spirit of those days.

This book does have a lot to teach younger activists just stepping into the game. The whole reason people get involved with social justice and activism is because they sense some type of inequality in the social system that we live in. Those emotions that come with that can easily be morphed into anger and rage. What Osha did in Up Against the Wall Motherf**ker was he told his story on how he dealt with those feelings and how he matured and got over them. He also acknowledges how much all of those Motherfuckers who survived "sold out"and settled down. Over all the book is brilliant and how honest Osha is about conveying his emotions at the time is truly inspiring.

However, Osha does acknowledge the immaturity and naivety of the 60's revolutionary thought process. For all the wealth of knowledge and righteousness these young revolutionaries had the immaturity in the way they expressed it isolated them from the society they were trying to liberate, eventually causing the downfall of the Motherfuckers.

The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one
-William Stekel (Austrian Psychoanalyst 1868-1940)

I had problems with this myself. Originally when reading Up Against the Wall Motherfucker I felt like I identified a lot with Osha's younger days. I understand the rage at the injustice of our social system and the need to destroy fallacies that shackle the minds of people, whether physically or through language. In fact, he was about two years older than I am now. I think it's natural that young men who feel inequality want to attack and physically fight those who facilitate the injustice. The thing is the majority of the world is not young men; the world includes our elders, women, and children who don't identify as much with these feelings and who just want to live peacefully. So through acts of physical violence we are in fact exposing those who should be protected to danger. Violence may sometimes be necessary, just because you play fair doesn't mean others do, but trying to prove an intellectual argument through violence makes you a fascist yourself.

However Up Against the Wall Motherfucker was not about a bunch of violent hippies running around the lower east side. The Motherfuckers did a lot of valid revolutionary actions. Such as the take over of the Bill Graham's Fillmore East amphitheatre in response to the gentrification of the community:

Discarded sandwiches, cigarette butts, cans and bottles littered the carpets. Much wine was drunk, much dope was smoked. The program, such as it was, proceeded amidst a chorus of boasts, threats, brags and rambling fantasies shouted out from every corner of the auditorium. Bill Graham's green-shirted ushers stood by, attempting to make themselves inconspicuous, utterly powerless to control the magnificent chaos of the event.
-Osha Neumann "Up Against the Wall Motherfucker"

I don't think activism has changed much through the years. In the long view we are all people and we all have similar emotions and thought processes. Up Against the Wall Motherfucker is basically Osha's autobiography and how he dealt with the inequality he saw in the society we live in. It's the story of how a young hippie matured and became a civil rights attorney and true revolutionary

by Marlon Crump

"Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see."

"Sometimes your words just hypnotize me."

"And I just love your flashy ways."

"Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid."

(Lyrics from legendary rapper, Christopher Wallace a.k.a, The Notorious B.I.G in his hit single "Hypnotize" from his 1997 album, "Life After Death."

The mid-1990s, found the entire rap and hip hop world being divided between the fame, rivalry, and media exploitation(s) of two leading legendary rap artists on two different coasts, with two rap names, two death similarities, both with one youth group of proteges, with one goal in mind:

Making it big. (No pun intended.)

They accomplished this goal (even after their untimely deaths.) by using their vibrant verbal ability into the art of rap.

One of those legendary rap artists was Christopher Wallace, a.k.a "Notorious B.I.G" also known as "Biggie Smalls." On Friday January 16th, 2009 found hip hop fans (including myself) storming to movie theaters, nationwide to catch the motion picture film premiere of "Notorious."

Notorious is about the life of Christopher Wallace and his road to becoming the legendary rapper, "Notorious B.I.G" a.k.a "Biggie Smalls."

It briefly narrates his childhood experience, his dis-interest from having any further interests of high school, his open arms to the drug dealing, the life leisures that motivated him, running from the common cop on the block, brief incarcerations, bearing a daughter, marriage, his ultimate rise to the top of rap fame in the rap game (industry), until his fall from grace into unknown gunfire, are all wrapped up into this film.

Violetta Wallace, (mother of Biggie Smalls) and Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs (founder of Bad Boy Records.) helped produced "Notorious" during its October 2007 casting call for the movie production.

"Do or die Bedsty."

Bedford-Stuyvesant is the section of Brooklyn, New York where Christopher Wallace (played by Jamal Woolard, a real life Brooklyn based rapper.) was born and raised. My ears snatched these words, as they boomed into movie audience, alongside of the sound quality of "surround sound" that deafened people's ears, in addition.

The movie begins with Biggie's death, on March 9th, 1997. Biggie, his friends, and other artists of the record company called Bad Boy, are planning to attend an after-party hosted by Vibe Magazine and Qwest Records, in Los Angeles. While the sounds of their happiness could be heard distinctively as they drive along an intersection, the sound of a car pulling up to Biggie's, with a gun, a single shot, then Biggie's head jerking sideways were heard up close.

Woolard narrates throughout the entire film, of his character portrayal's life story, beginning with Wallace's childhood, and the cruel comments made by a couple of girls at him because of his large weight size and unattractive looks. Though saddened by these remarks, Young Christopher Wallace (played by the actual real Christopher Wallace Jr, Biggie Smalls son.) turns his attention toward writing rap lyrics on his notepad, and practices rapping the lyrics, aloud.

"$100, is that all he's worth to you?" scowls Violetta Wallace, in a scene (played by actress, Angela Basset) to the father of their son. After the father leaves, Miss Wallace comforts Christopher and assures him that she would take care of him, no matter what.

The movie accelerates into scenes where Christopher longs for the finer things in life, as he began to view the world around him. Young men like him were wearing expensive clothing, coats, jewelry, shoes, etc, immediately enticed him into wanting to make big dollars, which found him on the neighborhood block selling drugs.

He ignores the pleas/warnings/face slaps from his mother to stop his criminal activity in the streets. In school, Christopher solves a seemingly-difficult algebra math problem, at the surprise of his teacher, then clowns him when he does a math problem of his own, on the blackboard.

After Christopher does a comparison between the difference between what he, a professional worker and than the other would make on their salary; Christopher subtracts the problem and gave his sarcastic thought to the answer: "I'd be making $4,000 more than his dumbass!" The classroom erupts in laughter, while the teacher erupted with anger telling Christopher to leave.

When Christopher gets busted, his mother refuses to bail him out of jail. Along with administering "tough love" she asks him to recite the Bible verse, "Yay though I walk through the shadow of death......" Those words seemed to echo at Christopher, causing him to read more verses to the Bible, as well as commit to improvements towards writing down his lyric skills as he lay in his jail cell.

Christopher finds himself in a rap confrontation competition with a well-known neighborhood rapper. Proving that he was worthy of being the future "Greatest Rapper of all time" Christopher's words swiftly spit out like rapid ammo from an AK-47, resulting in his opponent's rap beat defeat much to the delight of the onlookers on the street.

After a second arrest occurrence for illegal possession of a firearm, Christopher is arrested along with his friend, D-Roc. D-Roc takes the blame for Christopher because he sees his ability to one day become successful. "If you make it, we ALL make it!"

Notorious shows the women in Biggie's life. Jan, mother of Christopher's first child, T'yanna his sexual relationship and verbal assaults to rapper and female vocal artist of Bad Boy Records, Lil Kim (played by Naturi Naughton), and his marriage to R&B singer Faith Evans.

"Don't chase the paper, chase the dream!"
(Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs to Biggie."

Notorious mildly shows the intimate relationship between Christopher Wallace and Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs (played by Derek Luke). Their first encounter begins with a bit of uncertainty because Combs is concerned about Christopher's "steady income", and how he gets it.

Despite the barriers that gets thrown in their face, such as Combs getting fired from Uptown Records A&R, Christopher's mom diagnosed with breast cancer, and his depression; they both finally make the big time after Combs establishes his own record label, which came to be Bad Boy Records, along with the big success of Biggie's "Ready to Die" album, where he quickly shot to the top of the music charts, and appeared on many big named magazines publications.

It is here where Christopher Wallace truly becomes the Notorious B.I.G, a.k.a Biggie Smalls to the world.

As I continued watching the film, the most anticipated scene I awaited in Notorious arrived: Biggie Smalls and his friendship-turned-rivalry with another legendary rapper, Tupac Shakur!

I think that it was here when I believe people's excitement began to rise onto movie theaters everywhere, and not just in the movie theater that I was in, in anticipation of this film's depiction of the feud between these legendary rap artists that fueled the"East Coast vs West Coast" rap war phenomenon.

Those that might have been sleeping, going back and forth to the bathroom, or making out with their girlfriend became immediately attentive in this scene and the ones that followed, throughout the film.

Even just from the film's depiction of Biggie and Pac's relationship and rivalries on the big screen, raised some emotions for survivors, members, and observers of the "East Coast vs West Coast" rap war, which died (or at least died) down down when its rap lyric leaders died.

Tupac Shakur a.k.a 2Pac (played by Anthony Mackie) is already well-known in the rap and movie industry. For a few short scenes, and occasions, Shakur and Biggie talk about how much admirations they have for each others success. It was almost hard to believe how these two rap titans would become mortal enemies.

Although Tupac believed and contended even to his death that Biggie and Puff Daddy had prior knowledge as to the information of the man that robbed and shot him, as he entered the lobby of Quad Recording Studios, in Manhattan, New York; Biggie and Puffy always denied Pac's accusations.

From the "Notorious" version of that event, Biggie questions Tupac of how well he knew of the man that was hanging around him, who wore army fatigue. Tupac said he was cool, but Biggie felt otherwise.

I felt the surround sound in the movie grow louder indicating something intense was getting ready to happen in the next scene, where Pac was shot in the 1994 New York robbery shooting.

Lil Cease, Biggie's cousin (member of Bad Boy's Junior M.A.F.I.A and Biggie's protege rap youth group.) happily greets Pac from the rooftops, and Pac returns the same love.

The scenes of Lil Cease going back downstairs via elevator, hearing shots ring out, having a gun and and an angry voice instructing him to get back on the elevator, Biggie being informed of the commotion by Lil Cease, Biggie grabbing his gun to investigate, N.Y.P.D Police members appear brandishing their own firearms, became the emotional embodiment for everyone worldwide that loved Tupac in what took place next.

"Which one of ya'll motherf@#%% shot me?! Ya'll motherf!@# set me up!!" Tupac screams, as he struggled from his bullet-wounds to get to his feet, and as he struggled to light his cigarette in front of a crowd of onlookers. Puffy comes to his aid, but Pac screams at him to get away from him.

It was at this moment where the rap war of "East Coast vs West Coast"is born. One thing that I noticed from this entire situation was that corporate mainstream media IMMEDIATELY seized the advantage to perpetuate the so-called "Black on Black." (A derogatory term by media in defining the homicidal deaths between young African Descent men.)

Rather than give exposure to the onetime friendship of these two talented rap artists and performers; corporate media hyped, elevated, and exploited the rivalry to further encourage even more violence in communities of color, by a way of competition.

Media furthermore blatantly refused to view and acknowledge them as two multi-talented artists with a feud, to justify its negative definition of rap/hip hop as being nothing more than "gangsta rap" in their campaign to destroy a cultural art.

From that time on, from the 1994 Tupac shooting, his release from jail on a sexual assault conviction after being bailed out by Death Row Records co-founder, Marian "Suge" Knight (played by Sean Ringgold), Pac and Biggie were verbally vicious at each other throats, by ways of hit song singles, music events, and even television onstage appearances. (One of those was the 1995 Source Awards.)

"So I f@#$$ your bitch
You fat mutha-@@#$ {Take Money}

West Side

Bad Boy Killers {Take Money}

You know who the realist is
Ni@@# we bring it to {Take Money}

[ha ha, that's alright]"

?

Lyrics from 2Pac's hit single, "Hit Em Up!" This song attacks Biggie, and Bad Boy. Pac boasts that he had a sexual intimate encounter with Biggie's wife, Faith Evans.

"Who shot ya?"

West coast mother@#$s...

West coast mother@#$%s... hah!

As we proceed, to give you what you need

As we proceed
to give you what you need

Get live mother@#$%s

9 to 5 mother!@#$#$s

Get money mother@#$%s"

Lyrics from hit single by Biggie Smalls, "Who shot ya?" from his 1994 album, "Ready to Die." 2Pac, Suge Knight, and many fans believe this was a subliminal diss (attack) by Biggie following the 1994 New York shooting, but Biggie and Puffy deny these allegations.

Notorious began to come to a close with the shooting deaths of 2Pac on September 7th, 1996 and the death of Biggie Smalls, six months later on March 9th, 1997. Biggie finds hardship in dealing with the shocking death of 2Pac, his dying relationship with his friend, Lil Kim and wife Faith Evans.

"I'm going, going.

Back, back

to Cali, Cali."

Lyrics From the Biggie Smalls hit single, "Going back to Cali" off of his 1997 album, "Life After Death."

Just the way "Notorious" started, is the way it ended. Though Biggie found himself in a car accident, life flashbacks, telling his daughter to never let a man disrespect her by calling her a "bitch" or his ignoring the constant death threats he received, or the pleas from his own mother to not to go to Los Angeles; Biggie was determined to move forward with his rap career.

Biggie says "We're in L.A, I want to give it all back, and "I felt that on this night, God was giving me a clean slate."All I could hear was that same surround sound level quality in the movie that alerted you when something bad was going to happened.

In the remarkable similar scenario as his hip hop rival 2Pac had encountered just six months before, Biggie is tragically felled by bullets, unknown, probably never even hearing the first shot.

All could be heard next, is the distinct yells, pleas, and cries for help as his friends of Bad Boy rush him to a nearby hospital, and the sound of his signature dark brimmed top hat hitting that dark deserted intersection of L.A.

After Puff Daddy asks Violetta Wallace if there was anything he could ever do for her during Biggie's funeral, her eyes met his, still clouded with her tears.

"I just want to take my son home."

In that, she returned his body to his birthplace where she and her son were quickly greeted with a hero's welcome. The sounds of "Hypnotize" could be heard among the deafening cheers of the massive fans that suffocated her and her son, Biggie Smalls.

Notorious is not only just a film about a legendary rapper, but it is also a film that exposes struggles for every young man of color everywhere to climb out of poverty, and many wanting to be rich.

It reveals their struggles to be seen and heard while trying to earn a shot in the hip hop spotlight, the extra-barriers and hurdles thrown their way, their combat against the coverages perpetuated by media's racist stereotypes, their engaging or resisting temptations that will corrupt their careers, and their prayer to Almighty God that they live to continue on with their work.

by tiny aka Lisa Gray-Garcia/PNN

Clap , snap, clap �the sound of batons clicking against skin � they surrounded us. three rows in back of us, three in front � one on either side. As far as the eyes could see, they were there, with swinging batons, thick boots on asphalt and helmuts down. They had no eyes, only weapons. Moving in formation, over 500 uniformed military po-lice entrapping mamaz, daddy�s, brothers and sons marching in honor of stolen lives, of their sons, brothers, fathers, mothers, lost to the guns and weapons of these very po�lice.

Hundreds of us walked, to their thousands. Signs held up to the sky, eyes trained in front of us, in peace. Voices of pain and resistance, reached out in tandem with our lost ancestors to join the chants filling the Oakland streets, �Enough is Enough, The whole System is guilty, we are all Oscar Grant!� No more stolen lives�!�

� Our son was shot in the back 8 times,� Sony Wahnee, mother of Andrew Moody, testified to the crowd, �We are proud Native people��

It was a chilling afternoon in February. The edges of night lurked at each corner. The sound of our voices, our music, our drums, our spirits, threaded through the Frank Ogawa Plaza in Downtown Oakland. The stolen lives, our family, our ancestors, stood with us as the voices of Rashidah Grinage, whose son and husband was taken down by Oakland PD, Danny Garcia, whose brother Mark was stolen and the fierce Mesha Irizarry, mama of Idriss, also shot down 28 times by San Francisco Po�Lice Department, were just some of the voices that filled the air and gave us strength to remember the lives lost to Po�Lice terror. Gave us the strength to resist the foreboding sound of impending violence and omnipresent fear of the po�lice that surrounded us.

POOR Magazine�s multi-generational family of race and poverty scholars, most of us victims of po�lice brutality, po-lice profiling, and/or other forms of po-lice terror, were there to re-port and sup-port on the March for Stolen Lives in downtown Oakland. We joined hundreds of dedicated justice fighters, survivors, family members and advocates to walk in honor of Oscar Grant, Mark Garcia, Andrew Moppin, Annette Garcia, Idriss Stelly, Amadou DIallo and countless other fallen victims of po�lice terror. We were peaceful. We were tired, we were angry. We were surrounded.

�Our son was a father of three children that now we have to raise,� Sony Wahnee continued.

As our group started to march, the plaza filled up with literally thousands of armed guards, militia, army, agents of pain, at POOR Magazine we call them the Po� Lice, but whatever you do, don�t call them when you need help, feel danger, feel unsafe, because they are trained to kill .

Right before we marched we were informed that the po'lice perpetrator, Mehserle was released on 300,000 bail.Our collective hearts fell at the ongoing just-Us.Seemingly in response, thousands more po'lice filled the streets. They tried to block our path, we did not back down.

�Mama, why are there so many police? My five year old son walked along side me silently, refusing to stop, never scared.

� Because we live in a police state, because there is no justice, only Just-Us, which is why we march.� Clap, snap, clap.

�No more stolen lives!�

by Chloe Auletta-Young/PNN

On February 5th, 2009, I approached the State Capital in Sacramento for the first time in my life. I find it fitting that my reason was to witness a protest at its doorstep, California Native Americans uniting to charge certain tribal leaders with corruption, and to urge congress for more oversight and regulation. As the crowd trickled onto the north-side grounds of the building, those associated with the press started to make themselves known. As this was my first time working under this designation, I momentarily stepped into voyeurism to see how the others operated. At one point, a man obviously affiliated with some variation of corporate media stepped onto the scene with his large camera equipment and loudly asserted, “I need to get a statement from someone here, I don’t really care who,” only to get his brief interview and then promptly leave without gaining perspective on any of the happenings. I decided this was not the approach I wanted to take, so I went about my own way of piecing together the context for the event.

The crime is the unjustified disenrollment of Native Americans from their traditional tribe, not only stripping them of their ancestral right to belong, but also the educational, medical, and financial support provided by their governments. The root cause is an alarmingly inequitable distribution of casino earnings, triggering immense poverty on certain reservations, while others reap the benefits of an industry with annual revenue in the billions. “Reservations are essentially third-world countries here in the US, some operating with no running water, electricity, or stable education system,” said Quanah Brightman, Vice President of United Native Americans Inc., the hosts of the protest. He asks a very fair question, “Where is all the money going?”

The contention is that it is going to small clusters of families in league with these corrupt officials, a mob-like favoritism that is robbing the majority of their basic human rights. When tribe members speak out, they, and often their entire family, are disenrolled, denied their home, their lineage, and their voice. Coming from a culturally white family, with little to no connection with my heritage, I tried to imagine what this must feel like. All I could think of was my mom. My mother is my safety, my comfort; she is weaved into my structure, threaded through every nucleus of every cell. She an integral component of who I am as a woman, a being. If someone somehow denied that, told me that it was not true, that it has all been a lie, that my core, my community had been ripped away from me, I would deflate. I would implode. I would fight. I would challenge the notion with all the power I could muster from the tips of my toes to the top of my head to the head of the state.

Certain governments are operating under zero accountability for these rights infringements imposed upon constituents residing under their “jurisdiction”, while the US government claims a hands-off policy given the sovereignty terms dictated by the formation of the collective American Indian Tribes. However, congress can limit Native American Sovereignty with good reason; they can enforce civil rights upon violation. As one speaker so aptly put it, “we were born on American soil. We are citizens; we deserve all of the same protection under the law.” It is this protection and regulation that was called for during the protest, and the hope is that the State Government will wake up and take a more active role in attempting to understand the situation. “California is the guinea pig [for this battle],” said Albert Alto, a disenrolled San Pasqual member from the reservation near Riverside, “how this goes is going to effect the movement throughout the nation. All eyes are on California right now.”

However, it was the personal stories resounding throughout the State Capital that made this protest so powerful. Teary-eyed Carla Foreman Maslin spoke about her father, Bob Foreman, and how he fought for his tribe’s right to healthcare, only to be disenrolled before his death without ever seeing justice. Consuela Vargas told her story about her own disenrollment, and how after speaking out during trial the file department claimed that her records had been lost for good. Wounded Knee, a revered elder, spoke about participating in the historical longest walk and the gaming movement as it developed, ending his speech with the proclamation that you only lose when you give up, that he has never given up.

I walked away from the State Capital much differently than I had approached it. The excitement had turned into a distant admiration but as I slowly allowed myself to be taken with the sentiment I had begun to feel closer. I internalized the voices until I could match them with my own emotions. I called my mom. I felt the stamina, the action. Speakers urged the audience to remain vocal and visible, not to become disillusioned. So yeah corporate media man, I guess it didn’t matter who you interviewed, because everyone present on February 5th had a story to tell, has a story to tell, an amalgamation of narratives combining to create a single statement, we will keep fighting, fighting the battle to win back their birthright of living peacefully with their sacred heritage, without fear of losing their liberties or being denied their basic civil rights.

Further information on this complex issue can be found on the following websites and blogs:

Orginal Pechanga Blogspot
United Native Americans, Inc.
EldoradoIndian.org
ShingleSpringsReservation.org
Airro.org

by Malaika Parker/Justice Matters

The cold wet wind blew outside the West Contra Costa Unified School District (WCCUSD) Board hearing last Wednesday. The meeting was focused on the school closures proposed for Richmond, Pinole, El Cerrito and San Pablo.

As I sat in solidarity with hundreds of families, teachers and students from all over the (WCCUSD) district I was struck by the number of children, young children, pleading-crying that their communities not be torn apart. As I listened to story after story of what the closure of a community school would mean for families, I thought about my daughter. A beautiful vibrant preschooler who will soon enter the ranks of public elementary schools. I thought about what such a conversation would mean for her life.

For years the WCCUSD has been bitterly embattled in a monetary fight. This has resulted in a never-ending cry from students and families begging for schools to stay open in their communities.

As a community member, a mother, and a former
Student of WCCUSD caught in the midst of the constant threat of schools in this district, I wonder at what point will the financial failure of this district be dealt with in a proactive way so that we may move on to the conversation about what happens in the classroom of our schools. At what point does the conversation move from money, the fallacy that there is not enough in a country that spends trillions on war, bank rescue plans, and so many other
wasteful things, to what we are doing to ensure that the over 50% school pushout (of students from school) rate can be addressed. When will it be time to address the fact that we are failing our students. The fact that hundreds of thousands of Black
and Brown students who deserve an education that prepares them to live out their full potential are instead being pushed out of schools directly into prisons.

After an extremely heated meeting filled with the voices of teachers, advocates, students and families, many of whom, are parent leaders with the Real Schools Now Campaign of Justice Matters, which works on policy and action to achieve a racially just classroom for students and families of color, The city of Richmond, and Pinole stepped in to save schools in their respective cities, with other cities expected to follow.

This action by Cities in WCCUSD will spare many young
people from being shipped off to schools completely disconnected from the strong heritage and belonging of their communities, families will be spared the burden of paying an increased cost for transportation to and from school in these hard economic times.

Finally, It is not acceptable for a district to engage in a constant deficit approach to operating schools, our children deserve abundance!. A district without the wherewithal to balance a budget and keep schools open, is sending a message to all of us families that have hoped for something better, that we have a long way to go.

Malaika Parker, mother of Imani, is the Campaign Cooridinator of Real Schools Now- a project of Justice Matters. To get more involved in the Real Schools Now Campaign call 510-860-3002 or go on-line to www.justicematters.org

by Wendy M. Fong/Race, Poverty, Media Justice Intern

White smoke rises to the metal ceiling like lost ghosts from their
cement graves, the cleansing smell of burning sage, dancing to the
beat of three drums. Echo, echo, echo. It vibrates, calling the
ancestors in Re-union. I scanned a 180 around the shadowy, wide,
square room. I heard my heart beating with the heart beats of other
Xicanos/as from every generation as they filled the room-- elders,
teenagers, adults, children-- bowing their heads, raising their hands,
and absorbing the spirits of mother earth. Echo, echo, echo. My brown
eyes slowly began to swell with tears. This was a ceremony of apology
to the lands, as people of all ages danced in sync and rhythm. An
apology of lands stolen, it was an intoxication of the elements,
flowing like waterfalls flooding the room with lost stories.

I am Chinese-American and have never experienced this before, taking
my first baby steps into the history of California. I was born and
raised in California and was not aware of how deep the culture was
rooted here. I began to think about stories my mother and father used
to tell me when I was younger. I come from a family of migrants. My
grandparents migrated from China to Burma during WW2 for survival, as
the Japanese invaded their land. I remember my father telling me how
my grandparents and his two brothers swam across the river as they ran
away from raining bullets and the Japanese. They were not immigrants,
who have the luxury of moving from land to land, but migrants chased
out of their native homes in hopes to live and have a better life.

Echo, echo, echo, they were dressed in the rainbow colors of mother
earth-- blue feathers, brown leather, red clay-- they danced to the
beats and the souls of the Rasa ancestors that once lived on this
land, Xicanos/as joined together in Re-union. Not only was there
Re-membrance, but there was celebration, celebrating their history and
the unity in their struggle. Delicious aromas of pollo taquitos,
Spanish rice, crisp vegetables, constant spoken word flows, laughter
and vibrating instruments filled the room in honor. Live Californian
history lessons unveiled before me like tulips opening to the warm
rays of the sun, hungry for more. "Mother, father, I whispered, "Tell
me more of your stories of China and Burma." I was curious to know
more about the heritage, the history, like those of my ancestors.

"Do you eat food from the Bay?" Jose Luis, an educator and activist,
asks at the "Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo Xicana Reunion" event at the
East Side Arts Alliance in Oakland, CA. It was an "education concert"
that took place on Saturday, February 7, 2009 at four o' clock in the
evening.

As Luis continues, he explains that contrary to general knowledge, for
hundreds of thousands of years; indigenous peoples sustained
themselves from the Bay and all its resources. The Spanish enslaved
the native peoples on plantains. They were military generals by the
names of Santa Cruz, San Jose, San Rafael, and San Francisco, to name
a few. The rich Spanish families like Castro and Valencia were offered
power by the U.S. in exchange for land. Even the famous General Santa
Ana purposely did not send enough troops to defend the land during the
Alamo of Texas to keep this exchange. In 1848, the U.S. government
violently occupied North Mexico, also known today as Sonoma County,
and they signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, turning over the land
to the U.S.

The treaty states that there shall be guaranteed citizenship in both
U.S. and Mexico, the freedom to move across borders between California
and Mexico, the retention of Spanish language and culture, and land
grants given to families that held land under their control.

But the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was soon to be broken: The land
was stolen. The land grants were disregarded. During the Gold Rush,
only Anglo Saxons were allowed to mine for gold, and people who lived
there for centuries were denied access to their own lands. "The 49ers
(aka gold miners) discriminated against them. It is like calling a
football team the KKK or the Nazis," says Luis.

by Staff Writer

SYSTEMBITCH (Old school rap) by Laure McElroy aka The System Bitch

My job dropped a dime to my worker
so my foodstamps got cut
we ate that month
didn't pay no rent
now we're kicked out on our butts
Now this joint's gone global
but only if you're rich
I'm caught on a catch
and scrilla's the scratch
this broke-ass birth can't itch
SYSTEMBITCH

I go no money!
What am I gonna do??!

Moved into my sister's
thought we'd save a dollar
her crackhead man went golden gloves
he beat her and she hollered
CPS said "bitch - the home you in ain't safe...
Move out or we'll jack those brats
They'll be wards of the state."
SYSTEMBITCH

I'm on the street again
They took my babies

Sinkin' fast, subprime disaster
the state is broke
our republican masters
tax the poor
too feed the rich
y'all think it's a joke / til you're the next
SYSTEMBITCH

SYSTEMBEEYOTCH!

Your Social Worker

By Vivian Hain aka The Social Worker (and welfareQUEEN)

2009
Welfare Reform? Hellfare Deform… Now time to conform!

Cuz’ I’m your social worker, your poverty pimp

Gatekeeper, grim reaper, employment specialist

Helligibility worker, case manager, cuz’ you are my bitch!

Want me to pay you?, no I’m gonna’ play you

So walk thru’, talk to, what the fuck do you want, you?

Broke down mama, your trauma, dramarama,

Of hoppin’ n’ poppin’ not stoppin’, n’ droppin’ n’ boppin’

with who you do to, the muthafuckas’ you screw

Makin’ n’ bakin’ a bunch of daddy-less kids again n’ again?

While stayin’ n playin’ with punk ass bull-shittin’ men?

But you keep me employed, yeeah, I’m getting fat bank roll,

though it makes me annoyed

But why should I care?, you ain’t gonna’ sit back,

In my plastic chair, bitch pull up your bootstraps

Broke down, spoke down, you want me to throw down?

Think your pathetic existence, managing on a subsistence?

Is a free meal ticket for you to get cash-aid assistance?

For welfare, hellfare, fill out that stack of forms there

The same o’, blame those, it’s all in the game so,

Ya’ say you’ve been used, abused, n’ feeling confused?

Now you want me to approve you?, I’d rather remove you

Outta’ that chair, as you sit there and stare

I deeply despise you, but do realize too

That superbabymama, I also do love you

For getting me paid for the mistakes that you’ve made

As you sit there before me beg, lie n’ cry-

Cuz’ I’m the determinator, perpetrator, terminator

Of who is undeserving and deserving of aid.